She thought she was clever.
The message came through subtly, almost elegant.
"Confidential files missing," it read.
"Someone is hiding critical information. We need answers immediately."
Her handwriting, or rather her digital signature, was obvious to anyone who knew her style.
I received it first thing in the morning.
Smiling faintly, I read it twice.
Then calmly forwarded it… with annotations.
Annotations that made the real culprit obvious.
By mid-morning, the board was buzzing.
Questions poured in, targeted and precise.
"Who accessed the files last?"
"Were the audit documents tampered with?"
"Why do the logs show multiple unauthorized attempts?"
And all eyes eventually landed on… her.
She came into my office later, trying to mask panic with composure.
"You're framing me," she whispered sharply.
I smiled sweetly. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of framing you."
Her hands shook. "Then… how is everyone accusing me?"
"Evidence," I said softly. "Paper doesn't lie. Emails, logs… timestamps. You did this, and it's traceable."
Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again.
The realization hit her fully—her own trap had ensnared her.
Meanwhile, my husband called frantically.
"She's blaming me!" he shouted into the phone.
"Actually," I replied calmly, "she's blaming herself. And I've forwarded all evidence to the board."
Silence.
Then a growl.
"Yes," he hissed. "But she won't get away with this."
"Perhaps," I said softly. "But the truth doesn't negotiate."
By evening, she had retreated to her office.
Her confidence shattered, replaced by quiet panic.
Every keystroke, every attempt to salvage her reputation was now visible—transparent.
The board noticed.
Whispers turned to discussion.
Discussion turned to action.
And all because she tried to frame me.
I poured myself a glass of wine by the window, the city lights reflecting softly in the glass.
"Sometimes," I murmured, "you have to let people fight themselves."
And this time, she had done it beautifully.