Monday morning began badly.
The printer jammed, the coffee machine sputtered, and her email was full of messages she didn't remember sending — requests to clients she'd supposedly approved and figures she'd never seen before. The office was already too warm, the hum of conversation too sharp, the world slightly tilted, wrong somehow.
By the time Richard called her into his office, her heart was already hammering.
He was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, a faint frown line etched between his brows. The door shut softly behind her, and the silence that followed was heavy; not angry, not yet, but disappointed — the kind of silence that always felt like standing on a cliff edge, waiting to see which way the ground would give.
"Isabelle," he began, steepling his fingers. "I've had two emails this morning from partners questioning why the budget proposal hasn't been updated. The draft that went out was… well, frankly, a mess. Missing pages, errors in the financial summary. It doesn't look like your work."
She stood very still. "I didn't send that draft, Richard. I —"
"I know you said you've been having trouble lately, have you been able to get any evidence?" he interrupted, voice gentler now, though his eyes didn't soften. "Isabelle, this can't go on. You're one of the best assistants I've ever had, but I need you sharp, focused... Maybe…" He hesitated, looking genuinely torn. "Maybe you need a few days off. To rest. Sort out whatever's happening."
Her chest tightened. Days off. The polite corporate way of saying you're slipping, and we're noticing.
"I appreciate the concern," she said, forcing her tone steady. "But I don't need time off. I need to fix this."
He nodded slowly, as though he didn't quite believe her. "All right. But Isabelle — this is your reputation on the line as much as mine. Sort it."
She left his office on legs that felt too light and too heavy at once. The chatter of the open floor hit her like a wall — laughter by the coffee machine, the low clatter of keyboards, phones ringing. The world went on, oblivious.
Back at her desk, the words blurred on the screen. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. She lasted barely two minutes before she stood abruptly and fled down the corridor.
Inside the tiled quiet of the ladies' room, she gripped the sink and pressed her palms against the cool porcelain.
It wasn't fair. She'd done everything right; worked late, double-checked every figure, every report. She'd been careful, meticulous. And still, the cracks were widening.
Her reflection stared back: pale, tired, eyes rimmed red. The overhead light flickered slightly, making her look ghostlike, translucent. She blinked hard, swallowed the lump in her throat, and forced herself to breathe.
You don't cry here, she told herself. Not at work. Not where they can see.
But the tears came anyway; silent, traitorous, hot.
She caught one with the back of her hand, furious at herself. Somewhere down the corridor, a door opened and laughter spilled out — Sienna's voice, bright and lilting. Isabelle froze until it faded again, until the mirror steadied and her breathing evened.
She washed her face, straightened her blouse, and stepped back into the corridor like a soldier returning to battle.
He saw her the moment she returned; the quiet way she sat, her shoulders tighter than usual, her expression carefully composed.
The others didn't notice. Sienna was laughing too loudly by the photocopier, another assistant was complaining about train strikes. But Robert noticed. He couldn't help notice the faint pink beneath Isabelle's eyes, the slightly trembled breath as she reached for her mouse, the way her hand lingered on the desk, as though she were grounding herself.
He looked away before she caught him staring, his jaw tightening.
He'd heard Richard call her in earlier. He could guess the conversation.
He knew, better than most; how quickly a reputation could erode under pressure. How easily doubt became truth if it wasn't stopped early.
He'd told himself, over and over, that he was only looking into the sabotage for Richard's sake — to protect the company, to protect efficiency.
But watching her now — brittle, exhausted, and still forcing herself to stay upright — something twisted deep in his chest.
He'd seen ambition ruin people before. He'd watched colleagues tear each other apart for promotions, favour, a flicker of recognition. Isabelle wasn't built for that. She fought differently, quietly, with integrity. It was admirable. But dangerous. For her.
He turned back to his screen, but his mind was already moving faster than his fingers. Whoever was doing this had grown bolder. They weren't just trying to frustrate her anymore; they wanted her gone.
He could expose them easily if he wanted to. He had access, data, evidence. But that would make it his victory, not hers. And somehow, that didn't feel right.
If Isabelle didn't prove her innocence herself, Richard would always see her as the woman who'd almost broken under the pressure.
No. If this was going to end, it had to end in her favour — publicly, undeniably.
Robert leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly as Sienna walked past Isabelle's desk. She was smiling; too bright, too false. Her tone when she passed was sweetly poisonous.
"Rough morning?" she asked. "Happens to the best of us, Belle."
Robert's jaw clenched.
He'd seen women like her ruin people before; all charm and poison and plausible deniability. And he wasn't about to let it happen again.
Not to Isabelle.
That evening, after everyone had gone, he stayed behind, again.
The office was dim, half-lit by the glow of streetlights through the tall glass windows. The city outside shimmered with rain, soft, relentless, the skyline silvering.
He moved silently between desks, a shadow among shadows, pulling up access logs on his tablet, matching timestamps, cross-referencing entry cards with network activity.
The pattern was clear now.
Sienna had been returning to the office late, often logging in under shared terminals, hiding her tracks behind temporary profiles. She was clever, and she had help.
Robert straightened slowly, pocketing the tablet. He could take this straight to Richard. End it now.
But he didn't.
Instead, he turned toward Isabelle's desk, looked at the small plant she'd replanted after the last incident — a fragile sprig of green surviving under fluorescent light — and made his decision.
Tomorrow, he'd nudge things, just enough. Shift a few files, trigger a notification that would make Sienna overconfident.
He'd make sure Isabelle was the one to catch her in the act.
And when she did, Richard would see exactly who had been undermining his assistant all along.
Robert switched off the lights and left the office, rain tapping against the glass behind him.
For the first time in years, he felt something dangerously close to purpose — and something even more dangerous stirring alongside it.