Monday bled into Tuesday in a haze of half-slept nights and bitter coffee.
Outside, London was the colour of ash. Rain traced crooked paths down the glass, pooling on the pavements in dull silver mirrors.
She arrived earlier than usual, the first sound in the corridor her steady footsteps on the carpet. Her coat was still damp from the rain, the scent of wet wool clinging faintly to her as she hung it over her chair. Her hair was twisted into a neat knot that didn't quite disguise the fatigue beneath her eyes. She never bothered wearing mascara — there was no point when the mornings blurred into nights and everything felt like a test she hadn't studied for.
The office was unnervingly still. The air had that stage-set quiet, as if everyone were waiting for an invisible cue. The hum of the lights, the distant whir of the copier — all too loud against the hush of expectation.
She logged in, her fingers steady, even as her stomach churned. The inbox looked fine. The reports were in order. No new accusations, no flagged errors. It looked normal — which was almost worse.
She wasn't naïve enough to think the silence meant safety. Whoever had started this — whoever wanted her gone — would be patient. They always were.
Her pen camera sat where it always did, hidden among the other pens in her holder. A secret, silver-tipped witness that had recorded nothing for a week. Each day she checked it, and each day she found the same: nothing. Still, she couldn't bring herself to remove it. It felt like armour now — invisible, but necessary.
She took a breath and began her day the only way she knew how: with control. Every email was double-checked. Every attachment verified. Every sentence read aloud in her head before sending. Her world had narrowed to lines of reports and precision.
And yet, under it all, the prickle of unease refused to fade.
Sienna breezed in, late, of course, the sharp rhythm of her footsteps cutting through the quiet. Her perfume arrived first, expensive and faintly floral, the kind of scent that lingered like a signature. Her lipstick was perfect, her hair glossy and deliberate.
"Morning, Belle," she sang out, dropping her bag onto her chair with theatrical ease. The nickname landed like grit in a wound. "Hope today's calmer for you. Don't want Richard thinking poor Isabelle's overworked."
"Morning," Isabelle replied, keeping her eyes on the screen. Her tone was neutral, polished from practice.
Sienna lingered, glancing at the monitor with feigned interest, her head tilted just enough to suggest curiosity rather than intrusion.
Then, with a hum, she drifted away, her laughter trailing toward the copier where two junior analysts were comparing notes. Her voice was sugar-sweet, bright enough to draw glances.
Isabelle's jaw ached from how tightly she was clenching it. She counted to ten before exhaling. Reaction was what Sienna wanted — a spark she could later fan into rumour. Isabelle had learned that lesson the hard way. Still, the pulse beneath her ribs throbbed with quiet anger.
She needed proof. Not suspicions, not instincts — something undeniable. And soon.
He'd been in since six.
No one noticed — that was part of his skill. Consultants were ghosts when they wanted to be. People greeted him politely, nodded in corridors, but rarely asked where he'd been or what he was doing. He liked it that way.
From the glass-walled meeting room overlooking the open floor, Robert watched the day unfold like a slow-moving play. Sienna's movements, Isabelle's stillness, the ebb and flow of conversations — all data points, all clues.
She didn't know it, but the stage had already been set.
The night before, he'd worked late, methodically building the trap. A duplicate folder, hidden in plain sight on the shared drive — an exact copy of Isabelle's approved reports, save for one small but critical difference: the version number. If someone altered or replaced the files, the system would flag it automatically. But only he would see the alert.
It was elegant. Clean. And damning.
Now, he only had to wait.
He hated this part. The waiting made him feel complicit, like a bystander at a slow-motion accident. But this had to be hers — Isabelle's victory, not his. If he stepped in too early, it would look like rescue, not justice.
He leaned back in his chair, pretending to skim a financial report while his eyes remained on the reflection in the glass.
Sienna was on the move again. A coffee cup in one hand, her phone in the other, she meandered toward Isabelle's desk, pausing mid-conversation with another assistant. Her smile never faltered.
Then — a subtle tilt of her wrist. The phone hovered, angled just slightly toward Isabelle's papers.
Robert froze, pulse tightening.
He could intervene now. Walk out there, take the phone, end this charade in ten seconds. But that wasn't the plan. Not yet.
He sat perfectly still, jaw hard, watching the faint reflection of Sienna's movements in the glass.
When she finally drifted back to her desk, satisfaction flickering at the corner of her smile, Robert looked down at his screen.
The system had logged an access.
She'd taken the bait.
By late afternoon, the air in the office felt stale, thick with recycled air and stale perfume. Isabelle's head throbbed behind her temples. She'd read the same paragraph three times without absorbing it.
She needed air. Space. Something that wasn't this.
Outside, the sky hung low and colourless. The city was a blur of umbrellas and traffic lights smeared by drizzle. She walked two blocks, bought a bottle of water she didn't really want, then stood beneath an awning watching buses hiss by.
When she returned, the office was quieter — lights dimmed, most desks empty. But not Sienna's.
Sienna was still there, typing with performative focus, though her screen was clearly dimmed to idle. She looked up as Isabelle passed.
"Oh, still here?" she said lightly. "You work too hard, Belle. No wonder you look exhausted."
Isabelle paused only a fraction of a second. "I'd rather look tired than lazy." Her tone was calm, even. Controlled.
Sienna blinked, a flicker of irritation cracking her composure before she smoothed it over with a tight smile. "Suit yourself," she murmured, returning to her pretend work.
Isabelle kept walking, but her pulse was racing. Something in the air felt wrong — the faintest shift, like a scent of smoke before the fire.
At her desk, everything looked untouched. Her pens, her notes, her plant. But the order felt too precise.
She sat down slowly, waking her screen. Checked her inbox. Normal. Sent folder. Fine.
Then, on instinct, she opened the shared drive.
One of the folders — the one she'd updated that morning — showed an access timestamp from less than five minutes ago.
Her breath caught.
She clicked it open. Everything appeared the same. But she knew her files, every layout, every column. The date stamp didn't lie.
Someone had been in her work while she was gone.
Her eyes lifted across the room. Sienna was packing her bag, humming softly to herself, her phone in hand.
It was almost elegant, Isabelle thought, the casual choreography of guilt disguised as routine. Almost.
She stared at her screen, expression carefully blank. But inside, something aligned — cold, sharp, decisive.
She was done waiting.
Whoever wanted to push her out of this job was about to regret it.
Robert didn't even need to check the server log to know.
Sienna had taken the bait.
He closed the report in front of him, powered down his computer. The last of the daylight had faded, leaving the office washed in lamplight and shadows.
He stood, slipped his coat on, and lingered just long enough to glance toward Isabelle's desk.
She was focused, typing rapidly, her expression calm but intent — the quiet determination of someone who'd finally stopped surviving and decided to fight back.
He let the faintest smile touch his mouth.
It wouldn't be long now.
Down on the street, the city glowed — wet pavements reflecting the gold of the lamps, the red of taillights. He didn't look back. He didn't need to.
For the first time in weeks, he felt certain of something:
the truth was finally on its way to the surface.
And when it broke, he hoped she'd see — not that he'd helped her, but that he'd believed in her all along.