Not to be paranoid or anything, but I couldn't shake the feeling that Lara—or someone who straight-up hated me—was sabotaging my work at the office. It started small, whispers of doubt in the back of my mind, but the hits kept coming, each one sharper than the last.
I remembered one incident clear as day. I'd gotten a meeting invite via email—standard stuff, since all notifications funneled through me as the boss's scheduler. I jotted it down quick: "Time: 8:00 a.m., meeting with Paolo Industries." Should've caught the red flag right then. When I mentioned it to Mr. Cassian during our morning rundown, his face twisted in confusion, brows furrowing like I'd just suggested a merger with a rival. Paolo Industries? We hadn't touched them in months—dead deal, buried under emails I'd archived myself.
The surprise hit us both when he strode into the conference room that morning, all crisp suit and polished shoes, expecting handshakes and projections. Empty chairs stared back—stark, silent, mocking. A frantic call to their rep confirmed it: fake invite, total ghost. Hell broke loose. Cassian's voice boomed through the halls, cheeks red as he tore into me for the "embarrassment." My salary took the hit—a 10% dock that stung like a slap, my direct deposit shrinking overnight. I swallowed it, head down, but the seed of suspicion took root.
Then came the gut punch: a summons to HR, the air in that stuffy office thick with recycled coffee breath and unspoken accusations. "Funds withdrawn in your name," they said, sliding printouts across the table—timestamps, account trails, all pointing to me like accusatory fingers. My heart slammed against my ribs as I stammered denials, fumbling through my phone for bank statements, transaction logs, anything to prove I hadn't touched a dime. Nothing. Clean as my untouched savings—nearly a million sitting pretty from salary and bonuses, gathering dust. Why steal pennies when I swam in gold? But their "conclusion" landed like a verdict: I'd done it unknowingly, some glitch in the system they pinned on my "oversight." Suspension loomed, job teetering on the edge. I walked out shaking, the fluorescent lights buzzing like angry hornets in my skull.
The inconsistencies piled up—mislabeled files vanishing from my desktop, client calls rerouted to dead lines, whispers in the break room that died when I entered. It crushed me, wave after wave, until I snapped. I fled to the cleaner's room on the third floor—a dim closet of mops and bleach fumes, the door clicking shut. There, on a rickety stool amid stacked towels, I broke. Tears poured hot and relentless, my hands clutching my chest as a real ache bloomed there, sharp as a knife twist. Heartache, literal and pounding, from the weight of it all. Whoever was pulling these strings? They hated my guts with a fire that burned clean through mine.
The blinds on the narrow window fluttered then, a soft rustle like fingers brushing fabric. I whipped my head up, eyes blurry, scanning the shadows—but nothing. Empty. Just the hum of the AC mocking my jumpiness. Then—knocks on the door, sharp and insistent. One, two. Before I could croak out a "who is it," the handle turned, and in she stepped.
Amelia Cesare, the marketing director—tall, poised in her tailored blazer and pencil skirt, hair pulled into a sleek knot that screamed boardroom boss. We'd traded nothing but hallway nods and polite "good mornings" before, her smile always quick and professional. Relief washed over me, cool as a balm. Thank God it was her—not the CEO with his icy stare, or Lila, that venomous snake who'd circle me like prey. Amelia catching me like this? I could breathe. Barely.
She closed the door soft behind her, the latch clicking like a seal on our secret. Pin-drop silence wrapped the tiny space, broken only by my sniffles echoing off the cinderblock walls. Her eyes—sharp hazel, reading me like an open file—held steady, no judgment, just quiet weight.
"You know the saying: it takes two to play a game?" she said, her voice low and even, slicing the quiet like a lifeline.
I nodded, wiping my cheeks with the heel of my hand, the salt stinging fresh. "Yes."
"You're being sabotaged," she continued, stepping closer, her heels muffled on the floor. "And we both know who's behind it."
Truth hit like a spark—I had suspected, circled the name in my head like a curse. But saying it out loud? That made it real. I swallowed, voice steadying. "Lila Voss."
"Exactly." Amelia's lips curved, not a smile, but a glint of steel.
"But how can we be sure it's her?"
"She pulls this crap all the time. I know because I was a secretary once too—right where you are, clawing up from the bottom."
I gasped, the pieces slotting in: her rise to director, the rumors of cutthroat climbs. She'd clawed through the same mud.
"Look," she said, leaning in, eyes locking mine with unshakeable calm. "The only way to deal with her is to rise above the stupidity. Show her you're not someone to mess with."
"But how? I mean..."
"By fighting fire with fire. Use her own sabotage against her." She extended her hand then, palm up, steady as an anchor in the storm—manicured nails, a simple gold band glinting under the dim bulb.
I stared at it, heart still thudding, tears drying to salty tracks. Wallow here, drowning in the mop water of self-pity? Or grab hold and claw back?
"Will you wallow in self-pity," she pressed, voice a quiet challenge, "or will you fight back?"
My fingers closed around hers—warm, firm—and I rose, legs shaky but sure. The reindeer games? They were on. Let them begin.