CHAPTER 8 （SARAH） #2
Chaos breaks loose in the lobby when I try to leave for a quick lunch.
Reporters flood the reception area, cameras flashing.
Each question slices the air: “Is Redwood collapsing?” “Are you forging data?” “Is Michael Hastings protecting you?” My throat constricts.
Anxiety claws at me as I shield my face, pushing past them.
Their accusations swirl around Redwood’s rumored downfall.
The security guard tries to hold them back, but they press in, desperate for a quote.
My arms tremble. This is a horror show. One microphone jabs near my chin.
Another camera lens nearly collides with my cheek.
A question about my supposed affair with Michael triggers a fresh wave of mortification.
My lungs falter, chest pounding as I dart into a side stairwell.
The door clangs shut behind me. Darkness closes in, only a single overhead bulb flickering.
Sweat beads along my temples. My mind spins.
Redwood’s brand is under public assault.
My name is tied to scandal, and I can’t even step out for a sandwich without a hail of invasive questions.
This is bigger than I can handle alone. But there’s no time to break down.
Redwood’s next crucial steps loom. I press a hand to my chest, counting each shaky breath, then slip upstairs to the office floors, praying no one else corners me.
Later, I slump at my desk, body drained from fending off rumors all day.
My phone vibrates nonstop with Redwood updates—investors panicked, colleagues asking me to confirm or deny new gossip.
My head throbs. We can’t breathe without scandal fueling some new wave of speculation.
The aftermath of this morning’s pitch lingers like a sour taste.
Redwood’s name is on every blog, half praising our changes, half damning us as a sinking ship.
I sift through spreadsheets, searching for any error that might feed the rumor that I “messed with the data.” My focus blurs.
Fear gnaws at my gut. A swirl of guilt pricks me.
Maybe if I were more experienced, Redwood wouldn’t look this shaky.
Each new rumor unravels Redwood’s credibility a little more.
My phone pings with a direct message from a coworker, a link to an article speculating Redwood’s imminent collapse.
I close it in disgust, reminding myself that solid facts trump rumor.
Yet a heaviness weighs on my shoulders. My mother’s bills wait for no one.
This job stands between her care and disaster.
Redwood must survive, or we both drown. I exhale, burying myself in data, ignoring the quake in my hands.
Night descends on the tower, long past typical quitting time.
Most staffers are gone, except for a handful of Redwood team members working late.
I gather my things in a haze of fatigue, stepping into the corridor.
My heels click on the polished floor. A flicker of movement at the far end draws my gaze—Michael leaning against the wall, tie undone.
Exhaustion carves lines around his eyes.
He straightens when our gazes lock, tension spilling into the space between us.
My heart twists with a longing to comfort him, to accept comfort myself, but I remember Ms. Patel’s warnings, the cameras, the blackmail.
One slip, and Redwood’s tarnished further.
We hover there, silent. His posture suggests he wants to say something.
My chest tightens. I drift closer, every nerve on edge.
If we had no rumors, I’d step forward and brush that worry from his face.
Instead, I remain frozen, locked by fear that any warmth will fuel the gossip inferno.
Finally, he murmurs a quiet goodnight, voice rough with strain.
My insides clench as I nod, forcing a polite reply.
There’s a flicker of disappointment in his eyes before he turns away, footsteps echoing.
I stand alone in the dim corridor, pulse unsteady, torn between Redwood’s peril and the part of me that craves any closeness we can find.
I exit the building, the city lights harsh against the night sky.
My chest aches with frustration, anger, confusion.
Redwood survived the pitch but remains precarious.
My role sits on a fault line, one tremor away from collapse.
I replay the day’s chaos: the blackmail threat, the humiliating HR grilling, the tabloids clamoring in the lobby.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
I brace for more vitriol. It’s a single sentence: Resign or Redwood is doomed.
My blood chills. They won’t stop. Fear tangles with fury.
Michael’s grim face resurfaces in my mind.
He’s taking the brunt of Redwood’s pressure.
I want to fling my arms around him, share a shred of solace.
But we’re trapped in the crosshairs of scandal.
The power imbalance cuts deep—he’s the billionaire visionary, I’m the assistant pinned to survival by my mother’s health bills.
Another wave of exhaustion slams into me.
My footsteps drag toward the curb, hailing a taxi.
Each bump in the ride rattles my nerves.
Redwood’s war against sabotage rages on, and I’m a pawn in that fight, my every move scrutinized.
I can’t abandon Redwood or Michael. My chest tightens with devotion and dread.
The night’s hush offers no reprieve, only the echo of my own heartbeat, reminding me that tomorrow brings another test—and I’m nowhere near ready to face it alone.