CHAPTER 2 （SARAH）
Iarrive at dawn, eyes gritty with too few hours of sleep. My inbox explodes with urgent investor emails, each subject line screaming for Redwood updates. My heart slams against my ribs, reminding me that one slip could cost me everything.
Colleagues shoot me wary glances as I pass their desks. It’s like they can’t believe how fast I’ve wedged myself into Redwood’s core. Whispers of “overnight expert” reach my ears, half mocking, half curious.
I drop my bag, log in, and skim Redwood’s spreadsheets at double speed. Each row blurs with numbers worth millions. My fingers shake on the keyboard, but I bite down on panic.
A single error could unravel Redwood’s fragile image. Investors are skittish, and Michael’s demands grow harsher by the hour. My mother’s latest bill sits in my purse, a glaring reminder that failing isn’t an option.
I chug stale coffee, ignoring a coworker’s open-mouthed stare. They probably think I’m some oddity, too deep in Redwood’s files before normal business hours. Let them think what they want.
By mid-morning, I’ve answered six crisis emails and flagged two potential budget holes. My nerves crackle with every urgent phone ring. Chaos is my new normal.
I exhale, steeling myself. Redwood can’t break now, and neither can I. If the cost of survival is an early start and raw nerves, I’m paying it in full.
Michael pulls me aside with a clipped command for a polished Redwood summary. He wants it in half the usual time. My pulse jumps, that old mix of anxiety and strange excitement churning in my gut.
He sets a tight deadline that leaves no room for mistakes. “Deliver perfection,” he says. No gentle encouragement, no safety net.
I lock myself in a side office, sifting through Redwood’s cost analyses. Each figure taunts me. One misplaced digit could ignite scandal.
My hands tremble, but I keep my face neutral. Redwood’s reputation hangs by a thread. My own job does, too.
Outside, phones ring and laptops hum, everyone busy. None of them juggle Redwood’s reputation the way I do. The weight feels crushing.
I gather data into crisp slides, heart thumping every time an email pings with new demands. Investors want clarity, want reassurance. Michael wants perfection.
By noon, I’m behind schedule. My stomach knots with dread, but I push harder. If Redwood sinks, my mother’s medical bills sink me, too.
Finally, I polish the summary’s last line. I attach it to an email, reading it twice. My chest tightens, braced for his reaction.
I hit send, swallowing a prayer that my best is enough.
A hush falls when I step into the break room. People freeze mid-sip, glancing at me over coffee cups. My cheeks flare, but I refuse to retreat.
“Special privileges,” someone mutters, too low for me to identify. I set my mug under the coffee machine, ignoring the burn in my chest. They can gossip all they want.
Ms. Patel slips in, posture stiff. Her eyes flick between me and the onlookers, as though hoping to catch something scandalous. “Remember confidentiality,” she says, voice pointed.
I nod, forcing a polite smile. She leaves, and whispers swirl again, fueling the rumor that I’m cozy with Michael Hastings. My pulse stings with anger.
No one asks if I’ve earned my Redwood responsibilities. They assume I’m riding special treatment. They don’t see the panic clawing at me each morning.
I sip my coffee, bitterness spreading across my tongue. The rumor mill bites harder than I expected, but I won’t let it derail me. Redwood matters more.
Returning to my desk, I bury myself in spreadsheets. If I focus on Redwood’s numbers, maybe I can block out every snide remark. Maybe I can endure the storm.
My phone buzzes with a Redwood alert. Another investor meeting awaits. No time for gossip.
Investors cram into a glass-walled conference room, their eyes dissecting Redwood’s budget line by line. I stand at the front, sweat gathering at my collar. Michael glances my way, silent but expectant.
I begin my presentation, voice wavering on the first word. Numbers and charts flick across the screen. Each question stings, forcing me to prove Redwood’s viability.
They grill me on cost assumptions. I exhale, referencing page after page of projections. My pulse hammers, certain they can smell my nerves.
A stray glance at Michael reveals his intent stare. He’s letting me sink or swim. My pride rages.
I grit my teeth and push past the shaky start. Redwood’s data is strong, if I present it right. I block out the swirling doubt.
One investor narrows her eyes, demanding to know Redwood’s plan for a possible budget shortfall. I flip slides, voice solidifying. Yes, Redwood has risks. Yes, we have solutions.
Minutes feel like hours. At the end, there’s cautious nodding. Not enthusiastic applause, but acceptance that Redwood isn’t doomed.
I step away, thighs trembling. Michael keeps his face impassive. But something shifts in his eyes.
Outside the conference room, I slump against a wall, trying to calm my pulse. Footsteps click behind me. I brace for more demands.
Michael appears, scanning the corridor. His expression is unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low. “Good work.”
My chest tightens, a strange relief unfolding. It’s not effusive praise. Not a friendly pat on the back.
Still, my heart flutters. I hate that I crave his recognition. I resent how his words hit me like a warm gust after a bitter chill.
He’s already moving, posture stiff. I watch him stride away, that slight nod replaying in my mind. Annoyed at myself, I push off the wall.
I dive back to my desk, ignoring the swirl of curious eyes. People probably saw him talking to me. Fuel for more gossip.
But a piece of me glows, whether I like it or not. Maybe I did something right. Redwood might not implode today.
I open a new spreadsheet with renewed focus. Let them whisper. I’ll use every drop of his grudging approval to keep going.
At midday, I tuck into an empty cubicle for a quick breather. Doubt seeps in, uninvited and relentless. Redwood is a monster of a project, and my life is on the line.
I press my phone to my ear, wincing at another hospital invoice for my mother. The total climbs higher each week. I can’t afford to quit.
Tears threaten, but I blink them back. Quitting Redwood means forfeiting stable income. I’ve pinned my hopes on a job that devours my energy, but it’s all I have.
My heart aches with longing for simpler days. Days before medical crises and corporate gauntlets. Yet life doesn’t cater to longing.
I inhale, forcing composure. Redwood demands my full attention, and so does my family’s survival. This isn’t about feeling valued or safe. It’s about making money to keep my mother alive.
My phone chirps with Redwood emails. I grit my teeth, slip the invoice into my bag, and return to the office grind. One foot in front of the other.
Doubt or not, I have a choice—survive Redwood’s pressure or watch everything crumble. I choose survival.
The clock reads five, but the day’s chaos refuses to end. Coworkers shuffle out, yawning goodbyes while I remain tethered to Redwood’s data. My eyes burn under fluorescent lights.
I cross-reference timelines, ignoring the hum of the cleaning staff. The budget’s complexity looms like a fortress of numbers. It feels never-ending.
Hunger gnaws at me, but so does Redwood’s urgency. If I stop now, tomorrow’s workload doubles. That’s a gamble I won’t take.
A coworker peeks in, eyes full of pity. “Heading home?” she asks gently. I just shake my head, not trusting my voice. Her sympathy prickles more than if she’d sneered.
Alone in the hush, I print out Redwood’s expense reports. The printer whirrs, spitting page after page. My chest tightens, realizing how monstrous this project is.
Doubts needle me—am I truly capable, or am I just riding luck? I clamp down on that thought, focusing on each row of figures until they blur.
Hours pass like minutes. My neck stiffens, eyes ache, but Redwood’s demands don’t relent. Finally, I find a stopping point.
I lean back, heart pounding with exhaustion. This is my battlefield. I plan to win.
I slip away for a quick stretch, nearly colliding with Michael in the hallway. He stops short, gaze flicking to the papers in my arms. A hint of surprise softens his features.
“You’re still here,” he remarks, voice quieter than usual. I see something like concern flicker, gone almost instantly. Then he clears his throat.
“Keep going,” he says, stepping aside. My chest tightens, uncertain if that was an order or a nod of approval. Probably both.
I notice the faint circles under his eyes, the stiffness in his stance. We’re both trapped in Redwood’s current. Neither of us can bail out.
He walks off, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. I exhale, tension coiled in my shoulders. A tiny part of me warms at the idea he might care.
I remind myself not to read too much into fleeting moments. He’s my boss, Redwood’s driving force, and he doesn’t do personal. But the memory of his quick concern lingers.
I shuffle back to my desk, renewed by that subtle shift in his tone. A single spark that maybe I’m not alone in this grind.
I discover a data discrepancy hidden in Redwood’s cost structure. It’s small, but it could save us a tidy sum. Excitement flutters in my stomach.
Eager to share, I march to Michael’s office. He’s buried in a mountain of papers. I clear my throat softly.
His gaze snaps up. “What is it?” he asks, tense. I hold out my findings, pointing to the culprit. My voice trembles with a blend of nerves and pride.
He scans the page, brow furrowing. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll dismiss me. Then he nods, crisp approval in that single motion.
“Good catch,” he says. His tone is clipped, but the words validate my effort. Relief washes over me.
I stand there, glowing in the aftermath of acceptance. For days, rumors painted me as a fluke or worse. Now, I’ve contributed something tangible.
He hands back the paper, returning to Redwood’s files. No further praise. But that small nod is enough. My heart feels lighter.
I retreat to my desk, re-energized. A sliver of success fights off the negativity swirling around me. Maybe I’m more than Redwood’s rumor magnet.
Midnight finds me leaving the building, Redwood folders hugging my side like a lifeline. My eyes ache, and my muscles protest every step. Still, I’m strangely satisfied.
I survived another day of Redwood’s relentless pace. Investor calls, budget rewrites, office gossip—I faced them all. The end of the day feels like crossing a finish line.
I step outside into the cool night air. The streetlights shimmer on damp pavement, casting long shadows. I inhale, savoring the quiet.
My mind whirs with Redwood figures, but there’s a spark of pride flickering beneath the exhaustion. I’m still here. Still fighting.
I hail a cab, phone buzzing with a final Redwood email. I let it wait. Even I need a few minutes of peace.
Sinking into the seat, I recall Michael’s subdued nod, the faint shift in his eyes. Maybe tomorrow brings more hurdles. But tonight, I hold onto a crumb of accomplishment.
As the driver pulls away, my thoughts drift to my mother. She deserves better than fear and debt. Redwood is my path to giving her that better life.
Exhaustion weighs on me, but so does determination. I’ll keep pushing until Redwood’s success becomes my own.