CHAPTER 5 （SARAH）
Istep into the boardroom, heart pounding at the sight of Damien perched by the tall windows. He stands as if he owns the entire floor, shoulders relaxed, mouth curved in a smug half-smile that sets warning bells off in my chest. Air sticks in my throat. My pulse skitters.
Michael sits across the sleek table, arms folded tight, gaze locked on Damien’s every move.
The tension grips my rib cage. This is the moment when Redwood either gains another enemy or confirms the one we already fear.
Damien tosses an empty compliment about Redwood’s “ambition,” then swiftly cuts me down for being untested. My spine stiffens. My stomach clenches.
Michael interrupts with clipped words that defend my role and Redwood’s viability.
His voice is precise, but there’s a sharper edge that nearly vibrates in my ears.
I grip a pen to keep my hands steady. He’s protective, whether he admits it or not.
Damien arches a brow and pretends interest in the project’s spreadsheets, flipping through them with bored fingers.
Everyone in the room senses the underlying hostility. My lungs hitch.
The meeting ends. I all but rush for the door.
My cheeks burn under the fluorescent lights outside.
Coworkers glance my way. Most avert their eyes before I can decipher their expressions.
Are they pitying me? Do they already suspect Damien’s next attack?
A cold swirl in my stomach says yes. Shadows stretch along the corridor.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I flinch.
Every ping sets my teeth on edge now, because Redwood stands on shaky ground.
A message from an unknown number tells me to drop Redwood or face “consequences.” My cheeks go hot. My throat closes.
Michael appears behind me, voice low, breath still ragged from that confrontation with Damien.
He stands too close, the faint smell of his cologne pressing into my senses.
“Damien hunts for weaknesses,” he says. “He’ll aim right at you.
” No pity in his tone. Only a direct warning.
My heart stutters. I nod and murmur that I understand.
This job’s vital. I won’t let fear cost me everything.
Michael’s gaze lingers on my face, just for a second, and I glimpse concern that threatens to unsteady me more than Damien’s threats.
Then Michael walks off, posture straight, shoulders tense.
I hurry back to my small desk, pushing my chair in too hard.
It squeaks. The Redwood files feel heavier today, loaded with budgets, cost projections, and the edgy awareness that sabotage creeps at every corner.
No illusions that Damien’s mild grin earlier was anything but a snake’s invitation.
My pulse won’t slow. My mother needs every cent from this paycheck.
I can’t risk her treatment by running. A coworker stops by, awkwardly mentions “boardroom drama.” I force a tight smile and say Redwood is still on track.
He leaves, unconvinced. I cling to my phone, reading the cryptic threat again and again, mind whirling. A headache throbs behind my eyes.
That afternoon, I lock myself in a bathroom stall just to breathe.
My chest pinches. He’s aiming to scare me away.
The thought sends a rush of burning determination through my veins.
My eyes close. Another wave of dizziness.
I press my hands to the cold stall door, focusing on steady inhales.
Silence in here, just the hum of the overhead light.
Then the sink faucet squeaks outside. I straighten and swallow my dread.
When I emerge, Ms. Patel from HR is washing her hands, giving me a brisk nod.
She’s all business. I dry my hands and slip out.
No one can save me from this. I have to protect Redwood and myself.
My pulse hammers with a mix of terror and stubborn pride.
Late in the afternoon, an email surfaces from an “investor liaison” claiming Redwood’s budget forecasts are flawed.
People forward it around, whispering that I messed up the calculations.
My chest tightens. Not flawed. They’ve been tampered with.
But I can’t prove it yet. I suspect Damien’s behind it.
My temples throb. Pressure builds like a vise clamped around my skull.
My eyes burn. Michael’s door is half-open, and I hear muffled curses as he argues on the phone.
I catch phrases like “fabricated numbers” and “baseless allegations.” The frustration in his tone matches the tight coil in my stomach.
He slams the phone down. Everything in me wants to check on him, but I hesitate in the hallway, heart drumming an anxious beat.
He steps into view, tie loosened, expression hard.
He spots me and gestures me in. Inside, blinds drawn, desk littered with Redwood files.
The air hums. We work through cost breakdowns line by line, searching for irregularities.
Our shoulders nearly touch as we lean over the same spreadsheets.
My throat goes dry each time I feel the warmth of his arm near mine.
Then I catch the slight tremor in his fingers.
He’s as shaken as I am. That realization rattles me.
He’s not bulletproof, no matter how he acts.
We confirm a pattern of suspicious changes, subtle enough that it could be chalked up to simple mistakes.
But we know better. He scrawls furious notes.
I add data to a new file. The hush of the empty office wraps around us like a taut band. I fight the trembling in my legs.
Midnight arrives without warning. The building is silent except for distant hums of air conditioning.
Michael orders takeout, but neither of us touches the food.
My stomach churns too much to eat. Eyes grit with fatigue.
The fluorescent lamp overhead buzzes in the quiet.
We gather everything we’ve found and realize it all points to systematic sabotage.
Redwood’s viability is being eroded from within, or at least manipulated to appear that way.
My chest aches with tension. He exhales and looks at me, something raw in his stare.
For a moment, we just stand there, breathing.
Everything depends on Redwood not collapsing.
Everything depends on me not giving up. He nods, like he hears that thought.
Then he drops his gaze and says I should get home.
I slip out, heart thrashing like a fish on land.
Next morning, paparazzi wait outside the glass doors.
Cameras flash as I shove through, bag clutched to my side.
My pulse spikes. They yell questions about Redwood’s rumored meltdown, about Michael’s frigid response to reporters, about board members who doubt my competence.
I push past, ignoring the dryness in my mouth.
My phone buzzes again, a new text urging me to “walk away before it’s too late.
” My muscles tighten. Cowardly threats. This must be Damien’s tactic.
Adrenaline sparks. I hustle to the elevator, nearly drop my badge.
The ride up feels endless. Each floor ding thrums through my skull.
Michael corners me near the coffee station.
Low voice. Rigid posture. He updates me about the rumor that Redwood’s finances are “incomplete” and “not properly audited.” We know it’s a lie, but investors are skittish, and the board is growing paranoid.
The floor beneath my feet tilts. I can’t let them blame me.
But they will. A wave of nausea hits. I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
Michael’s gaze softens for a second, then he straightens and says we have a meeting with James Chen in an hour.
My stomach knots. James wants real answers.
Redwood is his brainchild, and if we fail, he won’t hesitate to cut away anything he deems a liability.
During the meeting, James listens stiffly.
Damien is there, leaning back with arms crossed, a lazy smirk.
I outline the data. Michael chimes in with the potential sabotage angle.
Damien keeps glancing at me like I’m a clueless child.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I sense the boards under my feet trembling.
Don’t flinch. James sets his jaw. Says Redwood stands on a precarious ledge, that he expects documented proof of wrongdoing soon, or we risk losing critical investment. The meeting disbands. My nerves throb.
Damien slides up beside me as I leave. He murmurs that Redwood is too large a project for a novice, his breath brushing my ear.
I freeze. Then he’s gone, footsteps echoing off polished floors.
My hands feel cold. He’s toying with me.
Blood pounds in my ears. I rush to the ladies’ room again, chest fluttering.
The same swirl of anxiety from yesterday threatens to spin me under.
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, pressing damp palms to my thighs.
A single tear sneaks out, but I wipe it fast. This is not over.
Redwood can’t die because of a smug manipulator.
Determination rises, a clench in my ribs that staves off the panic. One foot in front of the other.
The rest of the day passes in a tense haze.
Emails flooding with urgent subject lines.
A handful of coworkers watch me with distrust. Others pity me.
Gossip crackles through corridors, implying I might have fudged Redwood’s numbers to look good for Michael.
My cheeks burn. They want a scapegoat. I bury myself in spreadsheets, verifying each line.
If Damien tries forging more documents, I’ll catch him.