The envelope sat on my desk all morning like it was breathing. Cream-colored, thick, no return address—just my name, written in calligraphy so careful it might as well have been carved in ice. I'd left it there for hours, pretending it didn't matter. Pretending I wasn't thinking about it every five minutes.
By eleven, my patience had evaporated.
I shut my office door, lowered the blinds, and tore it open.
Inside was a neat stack of printed pages. The first one stopped me cold—a headline from some sleazy gossip blog: "Affair in the Boardroom: Archer Firm's Golden Boy and His Secret Mistress?"
My heart thudded, slow and heavy. Beneath the headline was a photo. Grainy, zoomed-in, clearly edited—but unmistakably me. Sitting in Julian's office. The lighting, the angle, even the tilt of my head matched a hundred ordinary moments. Only in this version, his hand rested on my thigh.
It was fake. Badly done, but effective.
I flipped the page. Another blog post. Another angle. Comments beneath it:
She's gorgeous though.
No wonder he's distracted—his wife should've seen this coming.
Promotion guaranteed when you're sleeping with the boss.
My fingers trembled, rage bubbling up like acid.
Then came the letter.
Typed, not handwritten, but signed in red ink.
Dear Amira,
You wanted attention. Consider this your spotlight.
They'll talk, they'll judge, and maybe you'll finally understand what it feels like to have your reputation dragged through the dirt.
Don't bother looking for proof. You'll never find the source.
Love always,
A woman scorned.
Cassandra. Of course. The phrasing was her. Precise, venomous, dripping with class and cruelty.
I crushed the letter in my hand, breathing hard. The paper crackled like fire between my fingers.
A knock on the door made me jump.
"Come in."
Tasha stepped inside, coffee in hand, expression shifting when she saw my face. "Uh oh. What happened? You look like you just found out rent went up again."
I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Just another day in paradise."
She frowned, unconvinced. "Spill it, girl. You're too calm, and that's scary."
I didn't answer right away. Instead, I handed her one of the printed screenshots.
Her gasp was sharp. "Oh my God. They didn't—"
"They did," I said flatly.
Tasha scanned the page, face twisting in fury. "This is fake as hell! They couldn't even Photoshop the shadows right. Who did this?"
I didn't need to say it. The look on my face was answer enough.
"Cassandra," she hissed. "Of course. The woman's got more pettiness than Prada."
I dropped into my chair, fingers pressed to my temple. "She's playing dirty now. I thought she'd lick her wounds and disappear, but no—she's out for blood."
"And she picked you."
I smiled thinly. "That was her first mistake."
Still, even as I said it, something inside me twisted. The whispers had already started. I could feel them—just like heat radiating off gossip. The way people's eyes lingered half a second too long, the way conversations dipped in volume when I passed.
When I stepped into the break room that afternoon, it was there waiting.
Two assistants huddled by the fridge, whispering. One looked up and froze when she saw me, then elbowed the other, who pretended to be fascinated by the vending machine.
"Morning," I said sweetly, brushing past them to grab a bottle of water. My reflection in the glass door smiled back, cool and perfect. But inside, my blood was on fire.
I caught a few words as I turned to leave. "Her? No way."
I smiled wider. "Believe it," I said over my shoulder. Their jaws dropped.
Back at my desk, Julian's door opened.
"Amira," his voice called, deep and steady.
I looked up, forcing calm. "Yes, Mr. Archer?"
"Close the door."
I obeyed, walking in with every ounce of poise I had left.
He studied me across his desk, arms folded. "Something's going around. Online."
I held his gaze. "I've seen it."
"Do you know who started it?"
I hesitated—just for a second—but that was all it took for him to read the truth in my face. His jaw flexed.
"Cassandra," he said quietly.
I didn't confirm, but the silence between us did it for me.
He exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his mouth. "She's lost her damn mind."
"She's angry," I said softly. "And smart. She won't come at us head-on again. She wants to bleed us slowly."
Julian's eyes lifted to mine—sharp, unreadable. "She won't win."
The words were meant to reassure me, but the look in his eyes said more. Fury. Guilt. Maybe even fear.
"Keep your head down for now," he said finally. "Let me handle this."
I nodded, but inside, something snapped. Let him handle it? I'd handled everything. The fights. The sabotage. The humiliation. I wasn't about to sit still now.
"Of course," I said sweetly, turning toward the door. But my smile was thin as glass.
In the restroom, I finally let the mask slip.
The fluorescent light was cruel, bright enough to show every crack. I braced my hands on the counter, staring into the mirror. My pulse hammered against my throat.
Cassandra had humiliated me before, but this? This was public. Viral. She'd twisted perception itself. And no matter how fake it was, people loved a scandal more than truth.
For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to despair flicker through the armor.
Then I crushed it.
I straightened my shoulders, fixed my hair, and met my reflection's eyes.
"You picked the wrong woman to play with," I whispered.
And when I smiled, it was sharp enough to draw blood.
Chapter Sixteen – Part Two: The Fallout
The silence in the elevator was the loudest thing I'd ever heard.
I could feel it—how they all looked at me without looking at me. The young intern pretending to check her phone, the HR assistant standing too still, the subtle cough that wasn't a cough. They'd all seen it by now. The article.
By the time I reached the executive floor, my phone was already vibrating like it was alive. Five missed calls. Eleven notifications. A text from Tasha: Girl, don't freak out, but—
Too late.
When I stepped out, it was like walking into a different office. Conversations clipped short, stares darted away just a second too late. The air was heavy with judgment and curiosity. It was the same energy people had when they passed a wreck on the highway—they couldn't look away.
I didn't slow my stride. I held my head high, every click of my heel saying: Try me.
Tasha appeared from the corner, eyes wide. "You've seen it?"
"Which one?" I asked, even though I knew exactly what she meant.
"The post, Amira. It's everywhere. Somebody's blasting it around like it's breaking news. I tried to flag it, but girl…" She trailed off, lowering her voice. "It's bad."
"Show me."
She hesitated, then handed me her phone.
There it was. A gossip account I'd never heard of—"Urban Business Buzz." Thousands of followers. The post was pinned to the top:
Inside Source Confirms Affair Between Archer Firm's CEO and His Personal Secretary.
Anonymous staff claim the two have been seen behind closed doors after hours. An "undeniable chemistry" caught the office's attention weeks ago…
And then came the photos—those same fake images Cassandra had mailed me, now online. Sharpened. Cropped. Captioned. My face, my name, my workplace.
The comments burned.
Classic secretary move.
She's gorgeous, but girl, you're not that smart if you get caught.
How does his wife feel?
The room spun for a second, but I forced my breath steady. My fingers tightened around Tasha's phone until my knuckles ached.
Tasha bit her lip. "You want me to tell HR?"
"No," I said, handing it back. "They already know."
As if on cue, an email notification popped up on my screen. Mandatory meeting – Executive Leadership. Confidential. 11:00 AM.
I wasn't invited.
By ten-thirty, HR was in crisis mode. I could see them scurrying through the glass partitions, clutching folders like shields. Someone had pulled PR into the mix; one of the partners paced by the elevators, whispering heatedly into his phone.
Julian's office door was closed. That never happened.
Every few minutes, someone's phone buzzed, followed by the quiet, guilty glance in my direction. The office felt smaller. Tighter. My throat too.
When the meeting finally broke, I saw Julian emerge. He looked immaculate, but the muscle in his jaw twitched like a warning. His eyes swept the floor, landed on me, and froze there.
"Amira," he said, voice clipped. "My office."
I followed, closing the door behind me.
He didn't sit. Neither did I.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked, pacing. "HR's talking damage control, PR's spinning, and your face is on half the gossip feeds in the city."
My chest tightened. "Mine? You mean ours."
He turned, eyes flashing. "You think this helps either of us?"
"I didn't post it."
"I know that." His voice softened, but only slightly. "But perception doesn't care about facts. You know that."
I crossed my arms. "So what now? You distance yourself? Pretend you've never looked at me twice?"
He looked at me for a long moment—too long. Then, quietly, "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Make me choose between defending you and protecting this firm."
The words hit like a slap. Not because he meant them cruelly, but because they were true.
For a heartbeat, the room felt suffocating.
"You think I wanted this?" I said, voice low but steady. "You think I enjoy being the punchline? The homewrecker? I built my career, Julian. I clawed for every inch of ground I stand on. And now she's trying to burn it all down."
His expression cracked—guilt flickering under the hard veneer. "I'm trying to keep it from getting worse."
I smiled bitterly. "You can't fix this with a statement."
We stared at each other across the space between us. Tension hummed. Not the old kind—the charged, hungry kind—but something new. Raw. Tired. Real.
He finally exhaled and sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples. "HR's investigating. Officially. They'll interview people, audit the server. They'll clear your name eventually."
"Eventually," I repeated, turning to the window. "By then, everyone will have already decided who I am."
He didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
I left his office and walked straight to the restroom again.
For the second time in two days, I faced my reflection and barely recognized the woman staring back. The power I'd felt yesterday had evaporated. My name—my image—was everywhere. The thrill of being daring had turned into the ache of being exposed.
Outside, I could still hear faint laughter from the hallway.
I splashed water on my face, let the cold sting bring me back. Then I straightened, blotting the droplets away with a paper towel.
"No tears," I whispered. "Not for her."
I walked out, calm mask restored, and went back to my desk. I typed for a while, pretending to work, until the anger turned to clarity.
Cassandra thought she'd hit me where it hurt most—my pride. But she'd forgotten something. Pride and vengeance share the same pulse.
I pulled up an old contact in my phone. A name saved under Eli (Tech Guy). The kind of man who owed me favors and liked earning new ones. He helped me before and he'll help me again now.
Text:
Need a trace. Something online. Discreet.
Find me the source of a story.
You'll know it when you see it.
He responded in under two minutes:
On it. Give me a day.
I leaned back, exhaled, and let the heat fade into something colder, sharper.
They wanted to drag me through the mud? Fine. I'd learn to walk on it like marble.
I clicked off my phone, eyes lifting to the skyline through the window's reflection.
"They want me down," I whispered to myself, my reflection's smile returning, dark and steady. "They should've aimed higher."
The day moved in strange, stretched minutes—like time itself was mocking me.
By nine a.m., I'd already checked my phone seven times. By eleven, fourteen.
Still nothing from Eli.
I stared at the last message I'd sent: If it's invisible, find it anyway.
The three dots never appeared.
When I finally called, he answered on the second ring, voice low and tense.
"Amira, whoever did this… they knew what they were doing. They masked the trail through proxies. Server hops, disposable domains, even wiped the upload history. It's like the post was born out of smoke."
"Smoke leaves ash," I said.
"Not this kind. This was surgical."
A pause, then quieter, "Remember you told me she said it couldn't be traced? Maybe she wasn't bluffing."
I ended the call before the silence swallowed me.
The office felt colder today.
Even the light spilling through the windows looked different—too sharp, too white. Every whispered voice sliced through me like paper.
I'd become the headline. The curiosity. The scandal everyone couldn't stop refreshing.
At 10:47 a.m., a new email landed: HR FOLLOW-UP — CONFIDENTIAL STATEMENTS.
I clicked it open and froze.
Attached were PDFs, signed statements from three employees.
Margaret Ellis's name sat at the top. Of course.
Then Helen Fray.
And Ruth Porter.
The trio of moral judges, freshly risen from their cubicles like self-appointed angels of order.
I opened Margaret's first.
"It is my observation that Ms. Amira Rivera has repeatedly engaged in behavior unbefitting of our firm's professional environment, including overt flirtation with Mr. Archer, suggestive attire, and prolonged presence in his office after business hours."
Suggestive attire.
I almost laughed. Apparently, silk was a crime now.
Helen's note was worse. Passive-aggressive scripture masquerading as concern.
"There's a culture of permissiveness forming around certain staff members. I worry about the example being set for our younger employees."
Younger employees. Translation: jealous interns should stay in their lane.
By the time I reached Ruth's, my pulse had settled into something colder.
"Her behavior creates unnecessary tension and distracts from productivity."
Distracts from productivity.
Meaning Julian couldn't keep his eyes off me.
I put my laptop on sleep mode. My reflection stared back in the black screen—composed, immaculate, unreadable.
Inside, my heart was pounding hard enough to crack glass.
When HR called me in that afternoon, I already knew the questions.
They always smile too much when they're about to gut you.
"Thanks for coming in, Amira," one of them said, voice honeyed. "We just wanted to get some clarity for our records."
Clarity. That word always hides a blade.
I sat down, crossing my legs slowly, pretending calm. "Of course."
The other rep clicked her pen. "We're just looking to understand your… working relationship with Mr. Archer."
"Professional," I said flatly.
"And… outside of work hours?"
"Still professional."
They shared a look. I didn't blink.
"Would you say you've ever been… alone with him?"
I tilted my head, smiling faintly. "We're executives in the same building. It's hard not to be alone sometimes. Unless there's a rule against that now?"
The pen stopped clicking.
They shifted tactics, trying warmth. "You've been an asset to the firm, Amira. This situation—these perceptions—can be damaging to your career. We just want to help you navigate it."
There it was. The pity.
The slow burial dressed as concern.
I smiled wider. "Then navigate better."
Their expressions froze.
I stood up before they dismissed me, smoothing my dress, giving them one last dazzling grin. "Let me know if you find whoever's spreading fairy tales. I'm curious how creative they are."
Back at my desk, the whispers felt louder.
Margaret stood by the coffee station with her two shadows, speaking in the stage whisper everyone could hear.
"Some people think they can sleep their way to the top," she said. "But the top always spits them back out."
I walked past without slowing, pretending her words were perfume—something I'd outgrown the need to smell.
But when I reached the end of the hall, I stopped. My hands were shaking.
I ducked into the empty break room, gripping the counter until my nails pressed crescents into my palms.
The world had gone still except for the faint hum of the fridge.
They're winning, a voice inside whispered. They're finally getting to you.
No.
I straightened, breathing through the panic. Out there, I was still the woman in heels who ruled the hallway.
In here, for just a second, I let the fear pulse through my chest like thunder.
Eli couldn't find anything.
The evidence was stacking.
The vultures were circling.
I stared at my reflection in the microwave door, forcing a smile back onto my lips. "You wanted a war, Cassandra," I murmured. "Fine. But you better pray you finish it before I do."
At 4:52 p.m., my phone buzzed. No name. Just a message.
"They'll be calling another meeting tomorrow. HR + Legal."
"Word is, they're recommending suspension pending review."
For a moment, everything inside me went silent.
Then came the adrenaline—cold, electric, unstoppable.
I grabbed my bag and walked out of the break room like I'd already planned this.
The heels. The swing of my hips. The deliberate calm that made people clear a path when they saw me coming.
But by the time I reached Julian's door, the calm was cracking.
The blinds were half-closed. His silhouette was at the desk, phone pressed to his ear.
I didn't knock. I opened the door and stepped inside.
He looked up—confused, tense. "Amira?"
I didn't answer. My throat felt tight, my eyes hot. I'd held it together all day, and now it was unraveling.
He hung up instantly, rising from his chair. "What happened?"
I opened my mouth—but no sound came.
Just a single tear slipping down, fast, betraying everything I'd been holding.
He crossed the room, hands half-raised like he wasn't sure whether to touch me or keep distance.
"Amira, talk to me."
I finally met his eyes—those hazel-green eyes that had started this whole fire—and whispered, "They're coming for me, Julian."
The line between us blurred. He took a step closer, voice low. "Then let me—"
The door handle clicked.
Both of us froze.