The office was oddly peaceful without Richard's booming voice or Robert's measured, dispassionate presence.
For the first time in weeks, Isabelle arrived to find the corridors still and the air almost pleasant. No urgent emails waiting. No last-minute meeting requests. Just the faint hum of the heating and the gentle tap of rain against the glass.
Richard and Robert were out all day at a corporate event — a charity luncheon followed by some networking dinner at the Dorchester. It meant the senior floor was hers, for once.
Freedom.
Or at least, the illusion of it.
She hung up her coat, set her bag down, and took a deep breath. The tension in her shoulders eased fractionally. For the first time in days, she didn't feel watched.
She intended to make good use of it.
The first half of the morning she spent methodically catching up on reports, clearing her inbox, and deleting redundant files. Every task felt like clearing clutter from her mind.
By midday, the quiet had become almost soothing.
Until she opened the file access logs again.
The timestamp from last night still sat there, mocking her. Someone had opened her decoy document at 8:46 p.m.
She traced the timeline mentally. She'd left at half eight. The cleaners had been done before that. The only people who had access after hours were department heads, IT, and security.
Her fingers tapped the desk restlessly. She couldn't afford to accuse anyone without proof.
Which meant she needed another camera. A better one.
She opened a search browser tab on her phone and searched "Covert office camera pen UK."
Dozens of results appeared; spy gadgets, security suppliers, amateur tech sites. She clicked through until she found one that looked convincing.
The device was simple: a working pen with a removable lid containing a hidden micro-lens. Motion-activated. USB chargeable. The reviews were full of giddy praise from suspicious partners and would-be detectives.
Small, discreet, reliable.
Exactly what she needed.
Within minutes, she found a shop in Holborn that stocked them.
She slipped out during her lunch hour, taking her umbrella and blending into the tide of city workers rushing through drizzle-streaked pavements.
The road was slick with rain, the air smelling faintly of wet asphalt and Pret coffee cups. She found the shop — a narrow electronics store squeezed between a dry cleaner and a phone repair place.
Inside, shelves overflowed with cables, adapters, and small boxes labelled with phrases like "discreet protection" and "personal surveillance."
The young man behind the counter looked up as she entered.
"Can I help you, miss?"
"Yes," Isabelle said, lowering her voice. "I'm looking for one of those pen cameras. Something small, motion-sensitive."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't ask questions.
"Ah, popular item. We've just got a new batch. Records in HD, battery lasts several hours. You can charge it straight from your computer."
"Perfect. I'll take two"
He wrapped two in brown paper, tucked them into a plain carrier bag, and handed them over with a smile that was all curiosity and no judgment. "Where would we be without James Bond, yeah?"
She forced a polite smile and a nod.
Back at the office, she looked around to ensure nobody was looking at her and unpacked one of the pens. It looked completely ordinary — glossy black, gold trim, weighty enough to pass as an executive pen.
She followed the instructions carefully, connecting it to her computer to set the date and time, then testing it by writing a few lines on her notepad. The hidden light blinked once, then went dark.
Perfect.
She slipped it into her pen holder among several others. Nothing suspicious. Just another elegant tool on an organised desk.
The second camera she kept in her locked drawer, a spare. She felt calmer just knowing it was there.
She'd set it to activate whenever there was movement near her desk after hours.
This time, there'd be no broken pots, nobody would find it.
Later that afternoon, she typed a short, polite email to facilities:
Dear Facilities,
Could you please send me a copy of the after-hours access log for the executive floor for the past week? There's been an issue with a missing file, and I'd like to cross-check timings for staff presence.
Many thanks,
Isabelle Cole.
The reply was almost immediate.
Of course, Isabelle. I'll compile the data and send it across ASAP.
She sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
She was getting closer.
Around three o'clock, the office was humming with noise — staff coming and going, phones ringing, the usual low-level tones of conversation. Sienna strolled past her desk with her usual saccharine smile.
"Quiet day without the big boss, eh?"
"Peaceful," Isabelle said evenly, without looking up.
"Must be nice not having Robert hovering over everything."
"Robert doesn't hover," Isabelle said coolly. "He delegates."
Sienna smirked. "Oh, is that what he calls it?"
Isabelle ignored her and returned to her work. But as soon as Sienna walked off, she noticed the woman's reflection in the glass partition — pausing just long enough to glance back at Isabelle's desk.
Noted.
By the time six o'clock came, the sky outside had turned the bruised colour of wet slate. The rain hadn't stopped, only softened to a mist.
She tidied her papers, double-checked her pen's position, and shut down her computer.
For the first time in a long while, she felt almost composed. In control.
Let them try again, she thought.
She was ready.
The next morning, Richard and Robert were both back; Richard full of stories and self-satisfaction, Robert his usual unreadable self.
Isabelle kept her distance, offering only the briefest of greetings.
Her inbox pinged at 9:03 a.m.
Subject:
Requested Access Logs – Executive Floor
Her heart leapt.
She opened the message. Attached was a spreadsheet listing names, dates, and entry times for every keycard used on the floor after hours.
She scrolled quickly, eyes scanning the list.
Cleaners. IT staff. Maintenance.
Then —
08:46 p.m. – Robert Blake – Executive Access – Level 12
Her fingers stilled on the trackpad.
The timestamp.
The same one from the file access log.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She stared at the screen, disbelief curdling into dread.
Robert.
It couldn't be a coincidence.
Could it?
Her mind raced. He'd been the one to find her broken plant. The one who'd "warned" her about playing detective. The one who seemed to know too much, too soon.
And now this.
Her vision blurred slightly as adrenaline surged.
She forced herself to breathe, to stay still.
She couldn't react. Not yet.
Not until she was absolutely sure and had irrefutable evidence.
Her eyes flicked up from the screen.
Across the open-plan office, through the glass wall of his corner room, Robert was standing at his desk, phone in hand — and looking directly at her.
Their eyes met.
And he smiled.
Just a small, knowing smile.
The kind that could mean everything.
Or nothing at all.