(Elara POV)
The email hits my inbox at 10:14 a.m.
At first, it looks ordinary. Another approval notice. Another routine decision I don't remember making.
Then I see my name. Approved by: E. Moore
My fingers go cold.
I open the email. Read it once. Then again.
I didn't send this
I know that with the same certainty I know my own handwriting.
I stand up so abruptly my chair scrapes the floor.
"Elara."
Vivienne's voice reaches me before I can take a step.
She's already there, tablet in hand, expression calm, almost pleased.
"You should be more careful," she says lightly, turning the screen toward me. The same email. Highlighted. Annotated.
"I didn't send that," I say.
Vivienne tilts her head. "Then who did?"
"I don't know," I reply. "But the numbers don't align. I would never approve this!"
"Intent doesn't change impact," she says smoothly. "And Alex hates mistakes."
That lands hard.
"I want IT logs," I say. "They'll show…"
"Later," she interrupts. "For now, your system access is suspended."
My breath catches. "You can't do that."
"I already have."
My screen refreshes. Access denied.
Something inside me drops.
Around us, keyboards keep tapping. Conversations continue. Everyone pretends not to listen.
I sit down because my legs won't hold me. I don't cry.
I document everything instead. Times. Screenshots. File versions. My hands shake as I type.
An hour later, my phone vibrates.
Unknown Number
This doesn't concern you. Let it go.
My chest tightens.
I stare at the screen, pulse pounding.
I don't reply.
"Elara." I look up.
Alex stands at the end of the corridor, eyes unreadable.
"Come," he says.
Inside his office, he doesn't offer me a seat.
"Explain," he says.
I draw in a breath.
"I didn't approve the budget revision," I say. "The cost allocation was shifted forward without adjusting the revenue base. It inflates the margin temporarily, but it collapses in Q3."
He doesn't interrupt.
"I would never sign off on numbers like that," I continue. "Not without recalculating risk exposure. And I didn't access the system at the time the email was sent."
I pause, then add quietly, "Whoever did this knew just enough to make it look like me but not enough to do it right."
His gaze sharpens slightly.
"If I wanted to hide a mistake," I say, meeting his eyes, "I wouldn't have used my own credentials."
More Silence.
He walks to the window, hands clasped behind his back. That silence is worse than anger.
"You understand how this looks," he says finally.
"Yes."
"You understand why I can't take your word for it."
"Yes."
He turns back to me.
"If you're lying, this ends your career."
"I know."
Something flickers in his expression, not sure what it is.
"You're off financial access," he says. "Until I decide otherwise."
My heart sinks.
"But," he continues, "you'll report directly to me. No one else touches your work."
That isn't mercy. That's surveillance.
"I'll find out what happened," he adds. "Quietly."
"And Vivienne?" I ask.
His mouth curves—not into a smile.
"She doesn't make mistakes," he says. "She makes moves."
At the door, he stops me.
"If you're innocent," he says, "this will expose someone who isn't."
"And if I'm not?"
"Then you were never worth the risk."
I walk back to my desk shaken.
I don't know whether I want him to believe me—or whether his doubt is what's keeping me safe.