The first thing I notice when I walk in that morning is how light my steps feel. After weeks of dodging Cassandra's theatrics and Elaine's antics, I feel untouchable. Julian's eyes on me yesterday were enough to seal that. Power clings to me like perfume.
Then Tasha slides up to my desk, wide-eyed and dramatic as always, clutching her coffee like she's about to deliver the morning news broadcast.
"Girl," she hisses, leaning in so close I can smell her vanilla creamer. "You are not going to believe who I just caught sneaking around this building whispering like two villains on a daytime soap."
I raise a brow, half amused, half distracted as I log into my computer. "Let me guess. Margaret and her bingo squad plotting to ban short skirts in the dress code again?"
Tasha's grin flashes, but her eyes stay sharp. "Even juicier. Cassandra. And Elaine."
That makes me pause mid-keystroke. "Together?"
"Together-together." She wiggles her fingers like she's summoning a ghost. "Cassandra walked in with her fancy handbag, caught Elaine in the hallway, and then the two of them ducked into that little side corridor near the boardroom. I swear, the way Elaine was nodding, she looked like a kid being told Santa's real. Whispering, all sneaky-sneaky."
I laugh, even though a flicker of unease tries to crawl up my spine. "Two clowns whispering in a hallway. Sounds like the setup to a bad joke."
Tasha leans against my desk, lowering her voice. "I'm not saying you need to freak out. But Cassandra's not the type to waste time on office furniture unless she's plotting to burn it. And Elaine? You already know she's desperate to be noticed."
I smirk, tilting my head at her. "And you, my nosy friend, already know I don't scare easy."
"Yeah," she says, sipping her coffee slow. "But even lions get shot at when they strut too loud in the wrong jungle."
I roll my eyes at her dramatic warning, though I can't quite shake the image of Cassandra's cold smile paired with Elaine's eager nods. Still, I wave her off with a flick of my manicured nails. "Let them whisper. The louder they plot, the harder they'll fall."
But by lunchtime, I start to notice the cracks.
It begins small.
A file I left neatly stacked on my desk is gone, only to "turn up" in the wrong cabinet hours later.
A client call comes in — one I'd scheduled for Julian — but the time in his calendar is missing.
An email gets forwarded with the wrong attachment, and suddenly I'm being CC'd on corrective notes.
All roads point to me.
And all roads have Elaine conveniently lingering nearby, playing innocent. "Oh no, was that supposed to go through you first? I thought you'd already filed it." Or, "Weird, maybe you didn't hit save?"
By mid-afternoon, the whispers are louder than the clacking keyboards. I can feel eyes on me when I walk past. Little glances, sly smirks. It's not admiration this time — it's doubt.
When I catch my reflection in the glass wall of the conference room, I almost don't recognize it. My usual confidence is still there in the sway of my hips, but behind my eyes, something else flickers: They're aiming higher this time.
"Amira?"
I glance up to see one of the senior partners standing at my desk. His smile is polite, but his tone is clipped. "Could I have a word with you in my office?"
The way he says it makes my stomach dip, though I keep my face smooth. I rise, every movement precise, controlled, like armor. As I walk past Elaine, I catch the faintest smirk tugging her lips before she pretends to shuffle papers.
Inside the partner's office, the conversation is vague but heavy. "There have been… concerns," he says. "A few repeated errors. We just want to make sure everything's in order."
I nod, professional, calm, but inside I'm seething. Errors? Mine? No. This is a setup, a polished little trap designed to make me look sloppy in the one arena where I pride myself on being flawless.
When I leave, my heels sound sharper than usual on the polished floor. Every click echoes like a challenge. But the whispers haven't stopped — if anything, they've grown thicker in the air.
By late afternoon, Julian calls me into his office.
The second I close the door, I know he's heard something. He sits behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, that usual air of control wrapped around him like a tailored suit. But his eyes… they're stormier than usual.
"Sit," he says, voice low.
I do, smoothing my skirt, raising my chin.
He doesn't look at me right away. His fingers drum the desk. Finally, he meets my gaze, and for once, I can't read him fully — not the way I usually can.
"There are rumors," he says quietly. "Mistakes being pinned on you. I need to know if any of it's true."
That sting — sharper than Cassandra's glares, harsher than Elaine's pettiness. Because Julian asking me feels different than anyone else doubting me.
I lock my eyes on his, steady, unflinching. "You know me better than that."
His jaw ticks. He leans back, exhaling slow. "I do. But Cassandra has friends on the board. And Elaine…" His lips curl faintly, like he knows she's a problem. "They're stirring something. This isn't the kind of storm I can just wave away."
For the first time in weeks, I feel the floor shift beneath me.
Cassandra and Elaine aren't just whispering anymore. They're pulling strings I can't cut in one bold comeback.
And as I sit there, staring at Julian's storm-colored eyes, one thought anchors itself in my mind like lead:
They're not just playing petty games anymore. They're coming for my future.
Chapter Twelve – Part Two: The Net Tightens
The next morning, I dress like I'm walking into war.
A fitted navy sheath dress that hugs every curve without apology. Heels sharp enough to kill. Hair pulled back in a sleek twist. Makeup immaculate, not a smudge out of place. If Cassandra and her little sidekick think they can shake me, they're about to learn I don't rattle that easy.
But the moment I stride into the office, I can feel it. The air is different. Eyes flick to me, then away too quickly. The whispers that used to sting with jealousy now hum with suspicion.
"Amira?"
It's the HR rep standing at my desk with a polite smile so fake it makes my teeth hurt. "Could we have a quick chat this morning?"
Of course. Cassandra moves fast.
I smooth my skirt and rise, acting like this is nothing more than a coffee break. Inside, I feel my pulse tighten. Outside, I'm all poise.
In the HR office, the language is vague but heavy.
"There've been some concerns," the rep says, flipping through a thin folder. "A few repeated errors. A missing file. A client call scheduled incorrectly."
Her tone drips with the kind of false sympathy that makes me want to laugh in her face. Instead, I tilt my head, lips curving into the faintest smile. "Funny. I thought part of HR's job was to investigate where errors come from — not assume blame before facts line up."
The woman blinks, shuffles papers. "Of course, of course. This is just… an early check-in. Nothing formal."
I leave that office with my chin high, but I know what this is: Cassandra planting seeds. A paper trail. If they water it long enough, it'll grow into grounds to push me out.
Back at my desk, Elaine is there like a bad perfume that won't fade. She leans over the partition, voice soft and faux-sweet.
"Rough morning?" she asks, eyes glinting with delight she doesn't bother hiding. "Don't worry, mistakes happen to everyone."
I look at her like she's background noise, not worth my breath. "You'd know," I murmur, flipping open a file.
Her smile falters just enough to satisfy me.
Tasha pops up not ten minutes later, crouching by my chair like we're kids whispering in church. "I swear, if that girl grins one more time like she's the Joker's apprentice, I'm gonna throw my coffee at her."
Her eyes dart toward Elaine's desk, then back at me. "She's enjoying this like it's free popcorn at the movies. Cassandra must've promised her a front-row seat."
I smirk, but it's tighter than usual. "Let her watch. I'll give her a show she won't forget."
The real blow lands in the strategy meeting that afternoon.
It's supposed to be routine — a check-in with senior partners, Julian, a handful of associates. Normally, I'd breeze in, deliver my notes, have half the room nodding along before I finish my first sentence.
Today, the temperature is different.
I slide into my chair beside Julian, placing my notepad down with deliberate calm. Across the table, the senior partners avoid my gaze, their smiles brittle. Elaine, of course, has found a seat within earshot, pretending to shuffle papers she doesn't need.
The meeting begins. I speak up with my usual confidence, laying out a streamlined plan for client follow-up.
Before I even finish, one of the partners clears his throat. "Actually, wasn't there a miscommunication on that account just last week?"
The words land like a slap. I glance at Julian — but his jaw is tight, his gaze fixed on the papers in front of him.
"I corrected that issue myself," I say evenly. "The miscommunication didn't originate from me."
Elaine pipes up softly, oh-so-helpful. "I think it was just a simple mix-up. Could happen to anyone."
The partner nods, already half-convinced.
Every point I make after that feels like wading through mud. Each suggestion I offer is met with polite interruptions, side glances, or thinly veiled skepticism. Elaine slips in a "correction" here and there, small enough to sound harmless, pointed enough to undercut me.
And Julian… Julian says nothing.
He doesn't defend me. Doesn't look at me. He sits in his tailored silence, and for the first time, I feel the cut of it.
After the meeting, as everyone files out, Julian's voice stops me.
"Amira. Stay a moment."
The room empties, leaving just us. I turn, chin up, refusing to let him see any crack.
He leans against the table, arms crossed, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The storm is back in his eyes.
"There's talk," he says quietly. "A lot of it."
I fold my arms, mirroring his stance. "Talk is cheap."
"This isn't gossip anymore. They're building something." His voice drops lower. "And Cassandra's behind it. With Elaine feeding her every crumb."
My throat burns, but I keep my smile sharp. "Then maybe you should tell your wife to get a hobby."
His jaw clenches, and for a heartbeat, I see the conflict — desire, frustration, maybe even regret.
"All I'm saying," he murmurs, gaze pinning me, "is be careful. They want blood."
I step closer, heels clicking against the polished floor, until I'm just near enough to make him inhale sharply.
"Then they'll choke on mine," I whisper. "Because I don't bleed easy."
And I walk out before he can say another word, my pulse pounding, my smile glued in place.
I can feel it — the net tightening, the storm gathering. Cassandra and Elaine think they've cornered me. Maybe they even believe I'll fold.
But they've forgotten one thing.
I wasn't built to survive their world. I was built to conquer it.
And they're about to learn exactly how dangerous I am when someone tries to take my crown.
The first red flag comes in the form of an email that doesn't belong to me.
My name is stamped at the bottom, my login in the header, but the message itself? I never sent it. The tone is clumsy, the dates off. Worse—attached is a file with numbers I would never have let through.
When I open it, my stomach twists. It's the kind of mistake that could cost clients serious money. And now it has my digital fingerprints on it.
I close the laptop and glance around the office. Elaine is hovering by the copier with her usual faux-innocent smile, whispering something to Cassandra, who just so happens to be "visiting" again in her cream silk blouse. They both glance my way, and Cassandra's smile curves—smug, like she's already watching me pack up my desk.
I don't flinch. Not outwardly. My heels click sharp as glass when I stand, as if my body is reminding me: power isn't in proof, it's in performance.
But inside? My blood runs hot. They've escalated. This isn't petty sabotage anymore. This is war.
I keep my face cool for the rest of the day, but every move I make is deliberate. When I pass Elaine in the hallway, I catch her perfume—sweet, too sweet—and I make sure to bump her shoulder lightly, just enough to remind her I don't cower. When Cassandra calls out a goodbye to Julian loud enough for the entire floor to hear, I slide my eyes toward her and let the faintest smile curl across my lips.
Let her wonder why I'm smiling.
By late afternoon, I've made a decision. If they want to paint me into a corner, then fine. But I'm going to build a corner of my own.
I start my shadow file.
Every email that comes in, I duplicate into a hidden folder. Every physical document I touch, I photocopy twice—one copy for them, one quietly for me. I begin dating sticky notes with little coded marks, tucking them into places only I'll notice. Elaine might think she's clever, but she's leaving fingerprints. And I'm going to collect every single one.
The office is mostly empty by the time I slip my bag over my shoulder and head downstairs. Not to the lobby. Not to the parking garage.
To IT.
The fluorescent lights buzz faintly in the deserted department. Only one cubicle glows—three monitors stacked, code cascading across them in endless green and white. The wiry man in the chair doesn't look up when I step in, but I hear the clack of keys pause.
"Well, well," he murmurs. "Didn't think you'd cash in that favor."
I lean on the partition, lowering my voice. "I said one day I'd need it. That day is today."
His eyes flick to mine, sharp behind his glasses. Then he nods once, already clicking through windows. "What do you need?"
"Just eyes. Discreet ones."
Minutes later, I leave with a slim folder tucked inside my blazer. I don't even open it. Not yet. Knowing I have it is enough—for now.
I don't expect to run into Tasha in the hallway. She appears out of nowhere, hair pulled back, a grin wide as ever.
"Girl, what are you doing down here?" Her eyes drop to the folder pressed against my side. "And why are you sneaking out of IT like some kind of corporate spy?"
I can't help the laugh that slips out. It feels good, like pressure easing.
"Handling my business," I tell her simply, brushing past.
Tasha jogs a few steps to keep up. "Handling your business? That sounds shady as hell. What kind of business?"
"The kind I don't need written in the company newsletter."
She narrows her eyes, but I just wink and keep walking. Let her stew in curiosity. The less she knows now, the sweeter the reveal will be later.
Back at my desk, Cassandra and Elaine are waiting—not literally, but close enough. Cassandra is perched against Julian's office door like she owns it, crossing her legs in slow, deliberate grace. Elaine lingers at her side, carrying files she doesn't even bother to pretend are important.
Their eyes land on me at the same time. Twin predators.
Cassandra's smile is soft, poisonous. Elaine's is sharper, mocking.
I settle into my chair, sliding the hidden folder into my drawer without breaking eye contact. Then I cross one leg over the other, smoothing my skirt with slow precision.
And I smile.
Because while they're busy celebrating the damage they think they've done, I've already taken my first step toward undoing it.
They want me to be the hunted? Fine. Let them think so.
But I've always been better at flipping roles.
And soon enough, they're going to learn what it feels like when the prey sets the trap.
I lean back in my chair, smiling daring Cassandra and Elaine to blink first.