The office feels colder today. Maybe it's the AC blasting too high, maybe it's the way Cassandra's perfume lingers down the hallway like a taunt. Either way, I step inside with my chin high, heels deliberate, like I own the place. Because that's what rattles them most—confidence they can't crack.
I settle at my desk and boot up my computer. The inbox blinks with messages, some real, some doctored, I already know. My eyes sweep the room: Elaine is parked two rows down, pretending to be buried in a spreadsheet. Cassandra is perched again in Julian's doorway, flipping through her phone like the building is her runway. Their little alliance thinks today's the day they bury me.
Fine. Let them dig the hole. I'll be the one handing them the shovel.
I slide my phone from my bag and angle it low. Snap. A photo of a report in my inbox with altered figures—numbers I remember reviewing late last night, numbers that don't match my own draft. I switch tabs, pull up the original file from my hidden USB, and line them side by side. Snap. Another photo, this time catching the discrepancy clear as glass.
The sound is barely audible, but my pulse races anyway. I tuck the phone away, heart pounding, lips curving. They think they're clever. They don't realize every move they make leaves a trail.
My own trail, though, is cleaner.
A vibration buzzes at my hip. I glance down. A text.
Diego (IT):Found what you asked. Login from Elaine's account—5:52 a.m., same file you uploaded at midnight. I'll dig deeper.
A smile tugs my mouth. Diego owes me; I once helped him cover a missed deadline with a partner by spinning a flawless excuse. And unlike Cassandra or Elaine, he knows how to keep his mouth shut.
I type back quick. Good. Keep everything. Copies, logs, timestamps. I want it airtight.
His reply comes fast. Already working on it. Oh—and I found versions of your drafts stored in backup. Clean. No tampering.
The weight pressing on my chest lightens just enough to let me breathe easier. Originals, untouched, sitting quietly like my own alibi. Cassandra and Elaine don't know they've already lost the second they touched my work.
"Girl."
Tasha's voice jolts me. She leans against my cubicle wall, eyes narrowed, watching me slip my phone face down. "What are you doing? You look like you're about to rob this place."
I laugh under my breath. "Handling my business."
Her brows shoot up. "Handling your business? Again with the mystery. You've been moving like some undercover spy all week."
I give her a sly glance. "Maybe I am."
Tasha groans. "Don't play with me. You know I hate being left out."
"You'll thank me later," I murmur, turning back to my screen. Because if she knew what I was building, she'd either worry or celebrate too loud. And right now I need silence.
Still, I catch her smirking as she walks off, muttering something about "secret agent Amira." Let her think it's a joke.
I spend the rest of the morning creating my own quiet arsenal. Blind BCCs to my personal email. Printed copies tucked inside a fresh folder I hide in the bottom drawer beneath a stack of stale HR memos no one touches. Every altered file, every strange timestamp, every client call mysteriously rescheduled without my consent—I keep them all.
By lunch, I have enough to prove tampering. Not everything, not the full story yet. But enough to hint at smoke before I show the fire.
Across the hall, Cassandra strolls by, Elaine shadowing her like a loyal dog. Cassandra's hand grazes Julian's shoulder as she laughs at something he says. He doesn't even glance at me, but I don't need him to. I catch Elaine's smirk aimed my way, smug and sharp.
I cross one leg over the other slowly, smooth my skirt with deliberate care, and lean back like their little show barely registers. Then I tap my pen twice against the desk—just loud enough that Elaine's eyes flick over. I smile, the kind of smile that says I know something she doesn't.
Because I do.
The trap is theirs, but the evidence? The evidence is mine.
And when the right moment comes, when they're smug enough to think they've won, I'll be the one slamming down the proof. Watching their faces crumble will be worth every second of restraint.
Until then, I'll keep collecting, keep smiling, keep letting them think I'm cornered.
Because prey only looks cornered until it bares its teeth.
The air in the partners' boardroom felt sharp enough to cut skin. I walked in and felt it immediately — the judgment, the whispers, the way Cassandra's mouth curved into a smug, practiced smile like she'd been waiting all week for this moment. Elaine sat two seats down from her, spine straight, eyes darting, as if she couldn't believe she was finally playing in the big leagues.
The long glass table reflected all of it: Cassandra's expensive pearls gleaming, Elaine's nervous hand clenching her pen, the partners' stiff gazes flickering with curiosity. And at the far end, Julian Archer himself — calm, composed, unreadable… but I knew that face too well. Behind the stern exterior, his jaw was locked, his eyes tracking me like he was daring me to survive this.
I took my seat, crossed my legs, and smoothed my skirt with deliberate slowness. "Gentlemen," I said, letting my eyes drag lazily across the partners before settling on Cassandra, "and of course… ladies."
The meeting started stiffly enough. One of the senior partners cleared his throat and gestured. "It's been brought to our attention there have been repeated errors on Ms. Amira's accounts. Files misplaced. Wrong client data sent. Some serious lapses." His eyes flicked toward Cassandra, who nodded gravely, as though she was reluctantly stepping into the role of savior.
Cassandra laid out her folder, neat little stacks of "evidence," sliding them across the table like poker chips. Elaine added her eager commentary, voice trembling with self-importance: "Yes, it's a pattern. Emails sent late, appointments rescheduled incorrectly. It's unprofessional, and… well, some might call it dangerous for the firm."
I let them have their performance. Let them spin their little tale. I folded my hands in my lap and tilted my head, watching Cassandra speak like she was starring in a courtroom drama.
When the partner finally turned to me, his brow heavy, "Amira, do you have a response?" I smiled, slow and sweet.
"Of course I do."
I reached into my leather folder, slid a thin laptop forward, and tapped the trackpad. The screen at the head of the table flickered alive.
A slideshow.
Elaine blinked. Cassandra's lips parted.
"Oh, I do love a visual aid," I said, my voice dripping honey and venom all at once. "Helps us keep things… clear."
First slide: a timestamped IT log with Elaine's username, caught accessing my files at ungodly hours.
Gasps fluttered around the table.
"Now, Elaine," I said, turning my gaze on her, "you are ambitious, I'll give you that. But logging into my account at 5:52 a.m. to change meeting times? That's not exactly… dedication. That's desperation. And sloppy desperation, at that."
Her face went pale.
Second slide: the "mis-sent" client email, only this time blown up on the screen with metadata showing who forwarded it first. Cassandra's name highlighted.
I looked at her and widened my eyes innocently. "Oh, Cassandra. You forwarded the wrong files? Silly mistake. I'm sure the partners will forgive you — after all, charity work takes so much of your attention, doesn't it? Though perhaps next time you try to destroy someone's career, double-check that IT keeps records."
A partner coughed to hide a laugh. Elaine shrank into her seat. Cassandra's nostrils flared.
I wasn't done. I slid a few envelopes across the table, each one landing with a satisfying little thud. "Printed logs, in case anyone here enjoys their evidence old school. And screenshots. And hard copies of the originals before they were altered. Because unlike some people, I plan for rainy days."
My voice sharpened, silk turning into steel. "And ladies — it is raining."
The silence was exquisite.
Elaine stared down at her lap like the table might swallow her. Cassandra sat ramrod stiff, her pearls practically strangling her neck. The partners exchanged looks, half-shocked, half-entertained.
And then, from the far end, Julian shifted in his chair. His mouth curved — not a smile, not quite — but a dangerous smirk. Approval glinted in his eyes, stern but alive. He was impressed, and I could feel it.
I leaned back in my seat, crossing one leg over the other with languid arrogance. "So, unless there are more… fabricated stories you'd like to share, I suggest we move on to real business. My clients don't like being kept waiting."
The senior partner cleared his throat. "Well. That seems… conclusive. Thank you, Amira."
Conclusive. I almost laughed. Try damning.
The meeting adjourned in awkward silence. Cassandra gathered her things stiffly, face tight, Elaine nearly tripping over herself in her scramble to leave. They were gutted, and everyone knew it.
I lingered a beat, savoring the wreckage. Then I stood, gathering my laptop and folders with a flick of my hair. As I passed Julian's chair, his eyes lifted to mine. The smirk was still there — restrained, stern, but full of fire.
He didn't need to say a word. I'd won.
And Cassandra knew it too. Which meant this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
The second the partners' meeting broke, I could already feel the hum in the building — the electric buzz of whispers weaving their way out of that boardroom like smoke from a fire. Cassandra's pearls hadn't even left the floor before the assistants and secretaries who'd been "taking notes" were hustling back to their desks, wide-eyed and grinning. Nothing spreads faster than humiliation, especially when it's seasoned with proof.
By the time I reached my desk, Tasha was waiting like she'd been rehearsing. "Spill. Now."
I smirked, slipping into my chair and crossing my legs, drawing the moment out. "Patience, darling. Word's already out. But since you're my favorite…"
Her eyes were dancing. "You really pulled out a slideshow?"
"Projector and all." I let the sarcasm drip. "Turns out Elaine's a little night owl with sticky fingers, and Cassandra's a bit too fond of forwarding files she shouldn't. IT timestamps are a cruel mistress."
Tasha covered her mouth, muffling a laugh. "Oh my God, you humiliated them in front of the partners?"
"Correction." I leaned back, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "I buried them. With receipts. Slides, hard copies, envelopes, the whole show."
She gasped, clutching her chest like I'd told her I just robbed a bank and walked away smiling. "Girl, you're evil."
"Evil gets results."
We both knew the office was alive with it — you could feel the ripple of conversations at the copy machine, the heads bent together over monitors, the quick glances toward Cassandra's closed office door. Assistants always doubled as couriers of information. Today, they were my heralds.
Tasha leaned in, eyes sharp. "So what do you want me to do?"
I let my lips curl. "What you do best. Spread it. Not just that they got caught, but how. Make sure every last detail circulates. The slideshow. The logs. Elaine shrinking in her seat. Cassandra choking on her pearls."
She grinned wickedly. "Consider it done."
I tilted my head, watching her with lazy satisfaction. "And don't even exaggerate. The truth's good enough to ruin them."
We shared a look, an understanding. Within the hour, Tasha would have the story polished and spinning in every corner of the building. And she wouldn't be the only one. Those assistants who'd sat in on the meeting were already doing their part, trading details like currency. By lunch, Cassandra and Elaine's little coup would be common legend — with me cast as the executioner.
I opened my inbox, pretending to work, while the whispers kept moving like wildfire. Every so often, someone passed my desk with a glance — some envious, some impressed, some just curious. I let them look.
Let them all look.
Because today, I'd reminded them: I wasn't prey. I was the storm.
And the best part? Julian Archer, the king himself, had watched me do it… and smirked.
The day dragged after the meeting, but the air never cooled. Every glance from the partners, every smirk from an assistant who'd already heard the gossip, all of it was fuel. And through it all, I caught Julian's eyes flicking toward me whenever he thought I wasn't looking. Stern. Studying. Burning.
By the time the office thinned and the lights dimmed, I knew. He hadn't called me in, but I didn't wait for an invitation. I slipped into his office, closed the door behind me, and leaned against it until it clicked shut.
He was still at his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, papers scattered like he'd been trying to drown himself in work. But his gaze snapped up the second I entered.
I didn't smile. I stalked toward him, slow, deliberate, my heels sharp against the floor.
"You doubted me," I said, voice low, silk over steel.
His jaw tightened. "Amira—"
I reached him before he could finish. My hand snapped across his cheek — not hard enough to wound, but enough to sting, enough to shock. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
For a moment, silence. His eyes darkened, wide, a flicker of rage — then something else. Something hotter.
"You doubted me," I repeated, softer this time, my breath grazing his face. "Don't ever again."
His hand caught my wrist — firm, possessive, but not pulling me away. I could feel the tremor under his control, the heat rolling off him. His lips parted like he wanted to argue, but I didn't give him the chance.
I kissed him. Hard. Fierce. My mouth pressing the truth into his, swallowing whatever resistance he thought he had. He groaned against me, the sound low, dragged from his chest, and then he was kissing me back, rough and hungry.
The chair creaked as he yanked me into his lap, papers scattering to the floor. His hand slid up my thigh, gripping, claiming, but I broke the kiss just long enough to smirk down at him, breathless.
"See?" I whispered, running my nails lightly against his neck. "This is what happens when you watch me burn the world and forget whose fire it was."
He growled, pulling me closer, his mouth on mine again, hot and consuming. The desk lamp flickered, shadows leaping across the walls, as we pressed together in that dangerous rhythm — dominance and surrender tangled in every kiss, every gasp, every grip.
And in the back of my mind, one truth lit me up brighter than his touch: Julian Archer wasn't just mine tonight. He was impressed. He was addicted. And he was breaking, one kiss at a time.