“Grandma, you belong in another department,” the junior staff snickered as the new hire walked in. They had no clue I was the one who’d bought the company.
“What’s your business here?” the boy behind the reception desk asked, eyes never leaving his smartphone.
Her sleek bob and a branded jumper announced her importance from a distance, while her indifferent stare suggested she cared little for the world outside.
Eleanor Whitfield adjusted the strap of her modest, high‑quality tote. She’d dressed deliberately to stay unnoticed: a plain blouse, a knee‑length skirt, sensible flat shoes.
The former managing director, the weary, silver‑haired Gregory, who’d handled the sale, smiled as he heard her plan.
“A Trojan horse, Eleanor,” he said admiringly. “They’ll take the hook, never seeing the bait. They won’t realise who’s really pulling the strings until it’s too late.”
“I’m the new employee, here for documentation,” Eleanor replied calmly, deliberately avoiding any commanding tone.
At last the boy looked up, scanning her from head to toe: the worn shoes, the neatly brushed silver hair, and then a thin, un‑filtered smirk flared across his face. He didn’t even try to hide it.
“Ah, right. They said someone new was arriving. Did you collect your access card from security?”
“Yes, here it is.”
He waved it lazily toward the turnstile as if directing a lost insect.
“It should be somewhere at the back. You’ll find your workstation soon enough.”
Eleanor nodded. “I’ll find my way,” she repeated silently, stepping into the buzzing open‑plan office.
She’d been navigating life’s labyrinth for forty years. After her husband’s sudden death she rescued a near‑bankrupt family business, steered complex investments that multiplied her wealth, and learned how not to go mad in a vast, empty house at sixty‑five.
Now this once‑thriving but internally rotting IT firm—at least that’s how she saw it—was her newest challenge.
Her desk sat in the furthest corner, right next to the archives door. It was old, with a scratched tabletop and a squeaky chair—a tiny island from the past in a sea of glittering technology.
“Settling in?” a honeyed voice asked from behind. It was Olivia, head of marketing, dressed in a perfectly tailored ivory suit, the scent of expensive perfume and success surrounding her.
“I’m trying,” Eleanor answered with a gentle smile.
“You’ll need to review last year’s contracts for the ‘Altair’ project. They’re in the archive.”
“I don’t think that’ll be difficult,” Olivia replied, a hint of condescension slipping through as if she were giving a simple task to someone with limited ability.
Olivia regarded her like a strange fossil. She stalked away, and Eleanor heard a muffled giggle from behind her.
“The HR department’s gone bonkers. They’re about to hire dinosaurs next.”
Eleanor pretended not to hear and turned toward the development wing, stopping at a glass‑walled meeting room where a few young men were arguing fiercely.
“Excuse me, miss, are you looking for something?” a tall junior asked, stepping out from behind his desk.
It was Simon, the lead developer, the company’s supposed future star—at least according to the glossy bio he seemed to have written himself.
“Yes, I’m after the archive.”
Simon smiled, then turned back to his colleagues, who watched the scene as if it were free circus entertainment.
“Grandma, I think you’re in the wrong department. The archive is over there,” he gestured vaguely toward a desk.
“This is serious work,” Eleanor said. “The sort of thing you wouldn’t even dare to dream about.”
The group behind Simon chuckled softly. A cold, steady anger rose inside Eleanor as she surveyed the smug faces and the pricey watch on Simon’s wrist—money she herself had spent.
“Thank you,” she said evenly. “Now I know exactly which way to go.”
The archive was a cramped, windowless room. Eleanor set to work, pulling out the ‘Altair’ folder. She sifted through contracts, annexes, performance certificates. On paper everything looked spotless, but her practiced eyes spotted oddities.
In the agreements with a subcontractor called “Cyber‑Systems,” the amounts were rounded to the nearest thousand. That could be careless, but it might also be a deliberate effort to hide the true figures. The descriptions of work were vague: “consultancy services,” “analysis support,” “process optimisation.” Classic tricks for siphoning money, familiar from the nineties.
A few minutes later the door creaked open and a young woman with wary eyes stepped in.
“ Good morning. I’m Lucy from accounts. Olivia said you were here… It must be tough without electronic access, right? I can help.”
Lucy’s tone held no condescension.
“Thank you, Lucy, that would be lovely.”
“Honestly, it’s nothing. They just don’t always realise not everyone was born with a tablet in hand,” Lucy replied, blushing slightly.
While Lucy patiently explained the software interface, Eleanor thought of a clear spring hidden even in the deepest swamp. As soon as Lucy left, Simon re‑entered.
“I need a copy of the ‘Cyber‑Systems’ contract, urgently.”
He spoke as if ordering a servant.
“Good morning,” Eleanor replied calmly. “I’m just reviewing those documents now. Give me a minute.”
“A minute? I have no time. I have a call in five. Why isn’t this digitised yet? What are you even doing here?”
His arrogance was his weak point. He was convinced no one—least of all an elderly woman—could challenge his work.
“This is my first day,” Eleanor said evenly. “I’m trying to fix what others left undone.”
“I don’t care!” he snapped, lunging for the file, snatching it from her hand. “You lot are always a mess!”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Eleanor didn’t look back. She had already seen everything she needed.
She dialled her private solicitor.
“Arthur, good morning. Could you look into a company called ‘Cyber‑Systems’? I suspect something odd about their ownership.”
The next morning her phone rang.
“Eleanor, you’re right. ‘Cyber‑Systems’ is a shell company registered to a man named Peter Hawkswell. Simon’s cousin, actually. Classic ploy.”
“Thank you, Arthur. That’s exactly what I needed.”
After lunch, the whole office was summoned for the weekly briefing. Olivia beamed as she talked about recent successes.
“Oops, I forgot to print the conversion report. Eleanor—could you fetch the Q4 folder from the archive? And try not to get lost this time,” she said through the microphone, her voice sugary sweet.
A low chuckle rippled through the room. Eleanor stood up silently, walked past the point where the door had closed, and returned a few minutes later with the folder in hand, accompanied by Simon and Olivia whispering to each other.
“And here comes our saviour!” Simon announced loudly. “Time is money—especially our money.”
That single word—“our”—was the last drop in the glass.
Eleanor straightened, her earlier slump gone, her gaze hardening.
“You’re right, Simon. Time is indeed money. Especially the cash we’re cleaning out through ‘Cyber‑Systems.’ Don’t you think this project is more profitable for you personally than for the company?”
Simon’s face fell. The smile drained away.
“I… I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“Really? Then perhaps you can explain to everyone here how you’re related to Mr. Hawkswell.”
A stunned silence fell. Olivia tried to salvage the situation.
“Excuse me, but on what grounds is this colleague interfering with our finances?”
Eleanor didn’t look at her. She slipped past the table and stood at the head.
“My right is clear. Allow me to introduce myself: Eleanor Whitfield, new owner of the firm.”
If a bomb had gone off in the room, the shock would have been smaller.
“Simon, you’re dismissed. My lawyers will be in touch with you and your brother. I advise you, stay out of town.”
Simon collapsed into a chair, speechless.
“Olivia, you’re also dismissed—for professional incompetence and fostering a toxic environment.”
Olivia’s face flushed. “How dare you!”
“I’ll measure it,” Eleanor shot back sharply. “You have one hour to pack. Security will escort you out.”
The warning applied to anyone who thought age gave them licence to mock. The young receptionist and a few developers from that department were also asked to leave.
A wave of fear swept the room.
“In the coming days we’ll conduct a full audit,” Eleanor announced. She turned to the trembling Lucy in the corner.
“Lucy, please come here.”
Lucy approached, shaking.
“In two days you’ll be the only employee who has shown both competence and basic humanity. I’m setting up a new internal controls team, and I’d like you to join.”
Lucy opened her mouth, stunned, but said nothing.
“It will work out,” Eleanor said firmly. “Now everyone, return to your work. The only exceptions are those who have been let go. The day continues.”
She turned and walked out, leaving behind a crumbling world built on steam and arrogance.
She felt a cold, quiet satisfaction—the feeling after a job well done.
Because to build a house on solid foundations, you first have to clear the rot away. And Eleanor had only just begun the great clean‑up.
