CHAPTER 14 （SARAH）
Headlines label me a “fraudulent temptress,” mocking Redwood’s meltdown in bold print.
I stare at my phone on the subway ride, tears threatening as I read the articles twisting Redwood’s crisis into my personal scandal.
Each sentence sears, painting me as the cunning instigator who manipulated data for private gain.
Commuters shuffle by, indifferent, but my cheeks burn.
They have no clue how close to ruin I feel.
Arriving at Chen Technologies, I march through the lobby, ignoring every whisper.
Yet the tension crackles. Coworkers avert their gaze, some in pity, some in contempt.
My chest tightens with a dull ache. The Redwood fiasco roars louder each day, fueled by tabloids hungry for a scapegoat.
I slip into the elevator, the hush pressing in.
My face feels hot. I question how I let it get this far—why Redwood must hinge on my tarnished name.
Doors slide open on my floor. Heads turn.
They think I’m toxic. Shame bites at my gut.
I gather Redwood’s files from my desk, ignoring the gossip.
If Redwood collapses, I collapse with it.
My mother’s medical bills lurk in my mind, a cold reminder that I can’t just run.
The swirl of condemnation scrapes me raw, but I square my shoulders, determined to find a way out of this nightmare.
HR demands my immediate solution, yanking me into Ms. Patel’s office the second I drop my coat.
She gestures for me to sit in a cramped chair, arms folding.
The fluorescent overhead stings my eyes.
She cites Redwood’s brand, hammered daily by headlines about my “embezzlement.” She says Redwood can’t move forward under such a cloud.
My tongue feels thick as I protest my innocence.
No point rehashing sabotage if no one believes me.
Ms. Patel’s expression never softens. She references shareholders anxious for Redwood’s stability, staff morale plummeting under negative press.
She points to Redwood’s top-level frustration, the board hungry for a scapegoat.
My pulse hammers. She wonders aloud if my departure might help Redwood’s image, or if I can conjure an immediate fix.
I clench my jaw, stating I’m working to prove sabotage.
She remains unmoved, reminding me Redwood’s meltdown only accelerates with each rumor.
I stand, face hot, feeling her disappointment.
They see me as Redwood’s biggest liability.
In the hallway, I pause, hand trembling on the doorknob, mind spinning for a miracle that can clear my name. Redwood demands success or else.
Michael paces the corridor, eyes flashing with anger so fierce I almost flinch.
He’s livid the board won’t consider my innocence without a miracle in hand.
He sees me, slows. A hush hangs. We exchange stiff words about Redwood’s meltdown, the tabloids painting me as the villain.
His voice tightens. He hates feeling powerless.
Redwood is his vision, and my alleged scandal poisons it daily.
His posture crackles with tension, fists clenching at his sides.
I can’t look away from the flicker of fury in his eyes.
He says the board’s patience is gone, that they might make an example of me.
I swallow. He curses the rumor mill that devours Redwood’s credibility faster than we can salvage it.
My stomach churns. Each moment, Redwood’s meltdown deepens, and I’m pinned at the center.
He steps closer, gaze burning. I fight the urge to reach out.
Not here, not now. Instead, I nod. He exhales hard, reminding me Redwood needs me strong, but there’s no comfort in his voice.
We stand for a beat, his eyes reflecting a tumult of rage and desperation, then we part.
Redwood calls. We bury our fear and march on.
In a tiny side office, Michael and I share a moment of despair, the door shut behind us.
I can’t hold tears at bay any longer. He runs a hand over his face, slump-shouldered like I’ve never seen.
Redwood’s meltdown weighs on both of us.
I stammer out how the tabloids dub me a manipulative fraud, how Redwood’s brand is disintegrating.
My tears glisten, unstoppable. I hate crying at work.
He steps near, voice ragged as he admits Redwood can’t absorb more scandal, that the board’s ultimatum is lethal.
We’re trapped. His gaze flicks to my trembling hands.
I sense he wants to offer comfort, but Redwood stands between us like a fortress.
I whisper that I’m terrified of losing my job, failing my mother, letting Redwood die.
He exhales, eyes reflecting my own panic.
We hover, hearts pounding, no solution in sight.
The overhead fluorescent buzzes. Then footsteps pass outside, reminding us Redwood needs us moving, not crumpled by fear.
We leave the office, shoulders heavy, no words for the quiet devastation.
Anonymous threats intensify. My phone dings with new messages urging me to vanish or see Redwood destroyed.
Another day, another digital knife twist. Each text claims Redwood’s meltdown won’t end unless I step down, that I am the scandal Redwood can’t survive.
They hammer my last shred of hope. I read them in a supply closet, chest tight.
The messages drip with malice, referencing how Redwood totters on the edge, how my removal might be the only path to redemption.
My heart clenches at the possibility they might be right.
If I leave, Redwood might breathe. But I recall Michael’s fury at the idea, the board’s cynicism, my mother’s bills.
My pulse thrums with conflicting dread. I delete the messages, inhaling shaky breaths in the stale closet air.
Redwood has 48 hours. I can’t give up. Yet the threats swirl in my mind, painting a bleak picture: Redwood or me.
I exit the closet, shoulders squared, forcing an outward calm, each step reminding me I won’t surrender Redwood to sabotage or fearmongers.
Late that night, Michael finds me sifting Redwood logs.
My eyes blur over countless spreadsheets.
The lamp overhead flickers. He steps in, tie undone, posture slumped with exhaustion.
His voice trembles as he confesses Redwood’s financial bleeding is worse than he admitted.
My stomach drops. We’re sinking faster than I knew.
He outlines hidden deficits, investors spooked by daily hits in the press.
Redwood’s meltdown might become total if we don’t land new backing soon.
The file in my hands trembles. So this is it.
Redwood’s final meltdown. He says we have to keep searching for sabotage, praying for a shred of proof that can turn the tide.
I rub my burning eyes, tears threatening.
Despite everything, he’s still fighting.
I sense the guilt etched in his face, wishing he’d sheltered me from Redwood’s meltdown.
We exchange an unspoken vow: we’ll push on, even if time is near gone.
The hush envelops us, broken only by the whir of the AC.
Then he crosses the room, gently pressing a reassuring hand to my shoulder.
We can’t let Redwood die. I nod, swallowing a sob, and resume scanning the logs.
Guilt gnaws at me, suspecting my resignation could buy Redwood a reprieve.
The thought stabs deeper as I linger alone after Michael leaves.
Redwood’s meltdown surges under my name, the tabloids painting me as a cunning saboteur.
If I vanish, maybe Redwood’s brand recovers a fraction, enough to quell investor panic.
Yet leaving means no income, my mother’s treatments halting, and an eternal rumor that I was guilty.
My conscience roils. Is Redwood’s survival worth my entire future?
Michael would hate it, but the board might relish it.
I pace the dim office, heart pounding. Each scenario ends in heartbreak.
Stepping away could spare Redwood a chunk of negative press.
But how do I live with that shame? Confusion and faint hope wrestle inside me.
Then I remember Michael’s vow that Redwood needs me.
I gather Redwood files, forcing back tears. Tomorrow, I might have to decide.
His furious refusal to let me quit stirs confusion and raw hope.
He hunts me down in a deserted break room near midnight, breath ragged, face lined with worry.
I barely speak before he demands to know why I’m contemplating resignation.
My eyes fill. I whisper Redwood might heal if I’m gone, but he snaps that Redwood can’t lose me now, not when each day counts.
Tears threaten again. He’s determined, yet it confounds me.
He rattles off how Redwood depends on my data expertise, how we’re close to pinning sabotage to Damien.
I mumble that maybe Redwood recovers faster without scandal attached to me.
He slams a fist on the table, a short, furious motion, then softens, voice cracking as he begs me not to give in.
My heart wavers, reading the desperation in his gaze.
He believes in me. Or Redwood. Maybe both.
My chest tightens with something akin to hope.
We stand in tense silence, the hum of the vending machine our only witness, each breath loaded with conflict.
We cling to each other in a dim hallway, my tears painting his blazer.
The day’s strain breaks me. Fresh rumors swirl that Redwood is finished, that I’ve milked Redwood’s finances.
He pulls me into a shadowed recess, arms enveloping me as sobs shudder through my body.
This meltdown won’t end. My tears soak his lapel, mind battered by tabloids, blackmail, sabotage.
He just holds me, face buried in my hair.
The hush around us feels raw, intimate. My heart thumps with both comfort and sorrow.
We’re near a crossroads: Redwood’s meltdown or Redwood’s last chance.
He murmurs that I’m not alone. I cling tighter, letting his warmth shield me from the swirling rumors for one precious minute.
Our breathing steadies. Then a distant door slams. We separate, eyes glassy, reminded Redwood demands we keep moving.
My knees tremble, but his hand on my arm steadies me.
We exchange no words, just an anguished look that says everything.
Stepping away, I brace for the next two days, Redwood’s final verdict.
The gravity of James Chen’s ultimatum looms: 48 hours for Redwood to prove its worth.
My phone buzzes with more Redwood tasks.
The hush in the corridor is deafening. Will these be my last hours as Redwood’s staffer?
My mother’s bills flicker in my mind, the reason I risk everything.
My gut twists at the possibility Redwood might cast me aside if we fail.
Or worse, Redwood might fold entirely, leaving me jobless and disgraced.
I stand still, inhaling a shaky breath, recalling the feel of Michael’s arms around me.
The meltdown circles us, sabotage closing in, tabloids picking at every rumor.
I can’t run. I walk off, Redwood files tucked under my arm, heart battered but set on fighting.
Our final push begins now. If Redwood sinks, I sink with it, but I’ll do everything to keep it afloat.
Each step resonates with grim resolve. Tomorrow or the next day, Redwood’s fate is decided—and my fate with it.