“Grandma, you belong in another department,” the fresh-faced staff smiled, eyeing the new recruit. They hadn’t yet realized I’d just bought the whole firm.
“Who are you talking to?” a young man snapped from behind the reception desk, his gaze glued to his smartphone.
His slick haircut and logo‑stamped hoodie shouted self‑importance, a blatant indifference to everything else.
Elizabeth Hartley adjusted the sturdy satchel on her shoulder. She had dressed deliberately to melt into the background: a modest blouse, a skirt that fell just below the knee, sensible flats without any heel.
The former director, Gregory, a silver‑haired man weary from office intrigue, had just sealed the sale with her. He gave a thin smile as she laid out her plan.
“A Trojan horse, Elizabeth,” he said with a hint of reverence. “They’ll swallow the bait without seeing the hook. They won’t crack you until it’s too late.”
“I’m your new colleague, in Documentation,” she replied, her voice calm, deliberately stripped of any authority.
At last the young man looked up. He scanned her from head to toe—worn shoes to neatly brushed grey hair—then a mischievous grin flickered across his face, unapologetically open.
“Ah, right. We were told there’d be a new hire. Got the security pass?”
“Yes, here.”
He lazily tapped a finger toward the turnstile, as if pointing a lost compass toward a distant shore.
“Your desk is somewhere over there, at the far end of the hall. Figure it out.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I will,” she thought, trudging toward the buzzing open‑plan space that hummed like a beehive.
She had been untitled for forty years of her life, untangling a near‑bankrupt enterprise after her husband’s sudden death, turning it into a profitable venture.
She had wrestled with tangled investments that eventually multiplied her capital. She had kept her sanity in 1965 while living alone in a vast empty house.
Buying this thriving yet, in her gut, rotting IT company was the most intriguing puzzle she’d faced in years.
Her desk sat at the very back, beside a door that led to the archives. An old, scratched‑surface workstation with a creaking chair, it seemed an island of the past amid a sea of gleaming technology.
“Settling in?” a sugary voice floated over her ear. It was Olivia, head of Marketing, dressed in a perfectly pressed ivory suit.
The scent of expensive perfume and success clung to her.
“I’m trying,” Elizabeth smiled softly.
“You’ll need to sort the contracts for Project Altair from last year. They’re in the archives. I don’t think it’ll be hard,” Olivia said, her tone patronising as if giving instructions to someone with limited ability.
Olivia gave her a look that one reserves for a rare fossil. As she stalked away, heels clicking, a quiet chuckle drifted off from behind Elizabeth’s shoulder:
“Our HR’s gone completely bonkers. Soon they’ll be hiring dinosaurs.”
Elizabeth pretended not to hear. She needed to look around.
She drifted toward Development, pausing by a glass meeting room where a few young men were heatedly debating.
“Miss, are you looking for something?” a tall bloke called out as he rose from his desk.
Stanley, the lead developer, was touted as the company’s future star—according to a self‑written profile.
“Yes, dear, I’m after the archives.”
Stanley smiled, turned to his colleagues who watched the scene like a free‑ticket audience.
“Grandma, you seem to belong in a different department altogether. The archives are over there,” he waved vaguely toward her desk. “We’re doing real work here. Work you’ve never even dreamed of.”
A hush fell over the cluster behind him. Elizabeth felt a cold, steady anger rise in her chest.
She stared at their smug faces, at the expensive watch on Stanley’s wrist—all bought with her money.
“Thank you,” she replied evenly. “Now I know exactly where to go.”
The archives turned out to be a cramped, windowless room. Elizabeth set to work. The “Altair,” folder appeared quickly.
She flipped through contracts, annexes, deeds. At first glance everything seemed perfect, but her seasoned eyes snagged on the details. Figures in the subcontractor “Cyber‑Systems” invoices were rounded to the nearest thousand—a sign of laziness or an attempt to mask real numbers.
The descriptions of services were vague: “consultancy,” “analytical support,” “process optimisation.” Classic money‑laundering patterns she’d known since the nineties.
A few hours later the door creaked and a trembling girl stepped in.
“Good morning. I’m Eleanor from Accounts. Olivia said you were here… You must be struggling without access to the electronic database? I can show you.”
There was not a hint of superiority in her voice.
“Thank you, Eleanor. That would be very kind.”
“No trouble at all. It’s just that… well… not everyone was born with a tablet in their hands,” Eleanor blushed, trying to explain the software interface.
While Eleanor was demonstrating, Elizabeth thought even a swamp could hide a clear spring.
Before Eleanor could leave, Stanley burst back in.
“I need the Cyber‑Systems contract—now.”
He spoke as if issuing a command to a servant.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth replied, calm. “I’m just reviewing those documents. Give me a minute.”
“A minute? I have no minute. I have a call in five. Why isn’t this digitised yet? What on earth are you doing here?”
His arrogance was his Achilles heel. He was convinced no one, especially an old woman, could audit his work.
“I’m on my first day,” she answered flatly. “And I’m trying to fix what wasn’t done before I arrived.”
“I don’t care!” he snapped, snatching the folder from her desk. “You old folks are always a problem.”
He stormed out, slamming the door. Elizabeth didn’t watch him go; she had seen enough.
She pulled out her phone and dialed her personal solicitor.
“Archie, good morning. Could you check a company for me? ‘Cyber‑Systems.’ I have a feeling the owners are… interesting.”
The next morning her phone buzzed.
“Elizabeth, you were right. ‘Cyber‑Systems’ is a shell. It’s registered to a certain Mr. Peters, who happens to be the cousin of your lead developer Stanley. Classic scheme.”
“Thanks, Archie. That’s all I needed to know.”
The climax arrived after lunch. All staff‑room staff were summoned for the weekly meeting. Olivia beamed, announcing the latest achievements.
“Oh dear, I forgot to print the conversion report. Elizabeth,” her microphone‑amplified voice dripped with cold sarcasm, “please fetch the Q4 folder from the archives. And don’t get lost.”
A low chuckle rippled through the room. Elizabeth rose calmly. The point of no return lay behind her. She returned a few minutes later. Stanley stood beside Olivia, whispering conspiratorially.
“And here’s our saviour!” Stanley exclaimed with feigned warmth. “We need to work faster. Time is money. Especially our money.”
The word “our” was the last drop.
Elizabeth straightened, shedding her slouch. Her gaze hardened, unflinching.
“You’re right, Stanley. Time really is money—especially the money funneled through ‘Cyber‑Systems.’ Doesn’t it seem this project benefits you personally more than the company?”
Stanley’s face twisted, his smile vanished.
“I… I don’t quite follow,” he stammered.
“Really? Then perhaps you could explain to everyone here who this Mr. Peters fellow is?”
A heavy silence fell. Olivia tried to intervene.
“Excuse me, what does this… lady have to do with the company’s finances?”
Elizabeth didn’t even glance at her. She circled the table, taking the head of the meeting.
“I have a direct connection. Allow me to introduce myself. Elizabeth Hartley, the new owner of this firm.”
If a grenade had detonated in the room, the impact would have seemed milder.
“Stanley,” she continued in an icy tone, “you are dismissed. My lawyers will contact you and your relative. I suggest you don’t leave the city for now.”
Stanley sank into his chair as if the air had been sucked out of him.
“You, Olivia, are also terminated—for professional incompetence and for creating a toxic atmosphere.”
Olivia flared.
“How dare you?!”
“I have every right,” Elizabeth replied succinctly. “You have an hour to collect your things. Security will escort you out.”
The same applied to anyone who thought age was an excuse for disrespect. The receptionist and two junior developers were also shown the door.
A genuine shock rippled through the office.
“In the coming days we’ll undergo a full audit,” she announced.
Her eyes lingered on Eleanor, standing at the far end of the room.
“Eleanor, please come forward.”
The girl, trembling, stepped to the table.
“In just two days you’ve shown the only blend of professionalism and plain humanity.”
“I’m forming a new internal‑controls department and I’d like you to join my team. We’ll discuss your new role and training tomorrow.”
Eleanor’s mouth fell open, speechless.
“You’ll manage,” Elizabeth said confidently. “And now, everyone else—back to work. The day is still young.”
She turned and left, leaving the shattered façade of hierarchy behind.
She felt no triumph, only a cold satisfaction, like the calm after a job well done. To rebuild a sturdy house, you first have to clear the rotten foundations.
And that, she thought, was just the beginning of her thorough overhaul.
