CHAPTER 18 （SARAH）
Another batch of forged documents explodes across every Redwood channel this morning, painting me as a criminal so convincingly that I almost feel the ground tilt beneath my feet.
My phone buzzes nonstop with urgent pings about these new files, each message loaded with panic from Redwood staffers and ominous speculation that I’ve siphoned funds for personal gain.
Fear blooms in my chest. I swallow back rising hysteria, reminding myself that Damien lurks behind this sabotage.
But the specifics of these forgeries—my alleged signatures, the artificially inflated numbers—chill me.
This has escalated beyond rumor or blackmail; now Redwood’s meltdown is pinned on me in official form.
I skim the fake documents in wide-eyed disbelief, horror twisting my stomach.
No matter how many times I repeat I’m innocent, Redwood’s meltdown speeds up with each new wave of falsified data.
Police inquiries escalate quickly, dragging Redwood deeper into chaos.
My phone rings with a detective requesting that I come in for questioning.
At first, I stammer that Redwood is under sabotage, that these documents are forged.
But suspicion sizzles on the detective’s end, subtle but persistent.
The near-arrest scenario throbs in my mind, imagining headlines about me in handcuffs, Redwood tarnished beyond saving.
My palms sweat. Damien is playing for keeps.
Redwood totters on a ledge, and I’m singled out as the saboteur.
Fear pulses in my throat. I can’t blame the authorities for wanting answers, but the injustice of it clenches my jaw.
I can’t let Redwood see me cower. I hastily arrange for Redwood’s legal team to get involved, mind spinning with how little time remains before Redwood topples, or I face charges.
The board demands I vanish or prove beyond doubt I’m not the saboteur—an ultimatum that leaves me reeling.
In a tense meeting, they hammer me with stony glares, referencing the police interest and Redwood’s meltdown.
Each board member exudes impatience, tired of scandal overshadowing Redwood’s potential.
My breath catches as they outline my two choices: produce irrefutable evidence clearing my name, or be removed from Redwood’s environment entirely.
The cynicism in their voices stings. After everything I’ve poured into Redwood, they see me as dead weight.
My heart pounds, cheeks heating as I stand in silence.
I can’t easily conjure that bulletproof proof.
I recall all the sabotage leads, the partial data, how close we might be to exposing Damien.
But the board only wants immediate certainty.
My pulse thuds. Redwood’s meltdown has ground their patience into dust. I nod stiffly, chest hollow.
If I fail, Redwood scapegoats me for good.
HR piles on next, citing old fraternization violations with fresh allegations, cornering me as a repeated policy offender.
The moment I exit the boardroom, Ms. Patel whisks me into her office, each step heavier than the last. She breathes out official statements about Redwood’s code of conduct, rattling off how my rumored closeness to Michael reemerged in half-hidden photos, each new violation adding weight to my supposed unprofessional streak.
My nails dig into my palms. I force myself not to shout that Redwood needed me more than I needed Redwood.
She references the tension-laden elevator moment, or older suspicious glimpses that staff circulated in hush.
My stomach roils. This meltdown has clawed open every private corner of my life.
Ms. Patel’s voice remains chilly as she warns me Redwood can’t overlook repeated fraternization issues, especially now that the law might get involved.
Tears prick my eyes, shame entangled with fury.
Redwood lumps every rumored misstep into a tidy narrative of me as the cunning saboteur.
I exit Ms. Patel’s office numb, uncertain how much more Redwood or I can take.
Michael storms in, brandishing partial whistleblower files that highlight Damien’s guilt, but the board won’t buy it without irrefutable proof.
A hush envelops the hallway as he marches with a folder clutched tight, eyes blazing.
My chest lurches with a flicker of hope.
He corners the board’s main representatives, laying out gleaned data: incriminating logs, suspicious vendor patterns.
My pulse races. For a moment, I think Redwood might finally see the truth.
But the board flips through the pages, unimpressed.
One member sniffs that these logs are inconclusive, easily faked, given Redwood’s swirling accusations.
Michael’s jaw clenches so hard I fear he might lash out.
My heart aches. He tries to explain how each line connects to Damien, how Redwood’s meltdown is orchestrated sabotage.
They remain unmoved. A few stare at me with cold doubt.
Redwood craves an undeniable smoking gun, not half-baked leads.
Michael curses under his breath as the board dismisses him.
My throat tightens. Redwood is slipping further away, and no one in power believes the sabotage story.
A foreboding text hits my phone, telling me to “walk away or else,” adding to my crushing sense Redwood might be finished if I stay.
It dings as I slump at my desk, mind hazy from the onslaught of allegations.
The text references Redwood’s meltdown, claiming it intensifies each day I refuse to exit.
My fists clench. This wave of intimidation hasn’t stopped since Redwood’s meltdown first pinned me as the villain.
Leave, or Redwood bleeds out. The phone vibrates again, same number, a short threat that warns me not to push my luck.
My spine tingles, sweat prickling behind my neck.
Another swirl of fear. Another wave of fury.
Redwood stands on a knife’s edge, and the saboteur keeps pressing me toward resignation.
I flick my gaze around the open-plan area.
Colleagues pretend they aren’t eavesdropping, though some watch me from the corner of their eyes.
My chest constricts. Redwood is my livelihood, but each day sees me pummeled deeper into scandal.
In a hallway confrontation, I break down sobbing, feeling Michael’s arms wrap around me, both of us consumed by anger and anguish.
It happens after a scathing remark from an investor who storms past, spitting about Redwood’s fiasco.
My composure cracks. Tears blur my vision, and I slump against a wall, gulping shaky breaths.
Before I can push him away, Michael’s presence is there, pulling me into a fierce hold.
My tears soak his blazer as I tremble with hopelessness.
Redwood is so close to collapse, the board distrusts me, and the police eye me as a suspect.
My shoulders shake uncontrollably, the meltdown’s weight suffocating.
He strokes my hair, voice catching, repeating we’ll find a way, that I’m not alone.
I sense his own heartbreak, that Redwood’s meltdown forced him to watch me suffer.
Guilt and anger coil in me, but in this moment, I cling to his warmth.
The hush around us intensifies the vulnerability.
Sobs wrack my chest. Redwood staff pass by, uncertain whether to intervene.
Michael’s arms remain steady, embodying a desperation that matches mine.
For a moment, nothing else matters but the agony we both share over Redwood’s meltdown.
We decide to put everything on the line at Redwood’s final city hearing, planning to reveal any evidence we can muster against Damien.
Once I’ve stopped sobbing, we slip into a disused conference room, hush thick around us.
Our breath mingles in short gasps. He outlines the city hearing Redwood must attend soon, originally to finalize certain building permits, but now overshadowed by scandal.
Redwood stands on a precipice, the meltdown fueling rumors that the project can’t proceed.
We realize if we don’t produce bulletproof evidence, Redwood fails.
My chest quivers as I recall all the partial leads, the whistleblower files, the blackmail messages.
We must piece them together. The hearing is the last public platform Redwood might use to unmask Damien.
If Redwood is discredited there, it’s over.
My heart pounds, a new sense of purpose melding with fear.
We vow to risk it all, gather each scrap of sabotage, brandish them at the hearing.
Redwood might still die, but at least we won’t fade without a final stand.
Each phone vibration makes my heart skip—it could be cops, or board orders, or something worse from Damien’s side.
I set my phone on the table, watching it jitter with fresh notifications.
My mouth tastes bitter from stress. Redwood’s meltdown intensifies every hour, each buzz a possible new threat.
Or a new chance to turn the tide. Anxiety coils tight in my chest. Michael rubs his eyes, scanning the whistleblower docs we do have, muttering that we need more direct ties to Damien.
Another buzz. My stomach clenches. Could be the detective demanding a statement, or Redwood’s legal counsel telling me the board convened again.
The swirl of tension erodes my last nerve.
This meltdown devours everything. I flick open the phone: only Redwood’s staff group chat, frantic about more sabotage rumors.
Relief and dread swirl. We can’t rest. Redwood’s meltdown marches on, unstoppable, unless we intercept it now.
Forced calm haunts the office as Ms. Patel tries to keep morale afloat, and I step outside for air, Michael quietly offering a comforting glance.
The hush on Redwood’s floor borders on eerie.
Staffers shuffle about with wide eyes, aware the meltdown is near critical mass.
Ms. Patel hovers, giving short pep talks, but everyone senses Redwood might not see another month if we fail.
I can’t breathe in that tension. I slip out a side door, heart pounding.
The city’s chilled breeze hits my face. My lungs gulp fresh air.
Footsteps approach, and I glance back to see Michael lingering by the threshold, concern in his gaze.
He doesn’t speak, just nods, letting me know he’s there if I need him.
My chest twists with conflicting gratitude and heartbreak.
Redwood’s meltdown battered us both. Maybe it forged a deeper bond too.
I blink away tears, turning to stare at the city lights.
The hush out here feels marginally kinder.
Redwood is at war inside those glass walls, but for a fleeting second I can pretend we still have a chance.
Dawn creeps in, the hearing only hours away.
My insides twist with fear, but I cling to Michael’s resolving presence, determined to face this once and for all.
We gather Redwood’s final files in a conference room that looks ghostly under early morning light, the floor deserted except for a few security guards.
My nerves crackle. We spent the night connecting dots, building a timeline that shows Damien’s sabotage forging Redwood’s meltdown.
Each piece of data might be our last shot to prove my innocence.
The hearing is set for later this morning at city hall, Redwood’s entire future on display.
Michael stands across the table, phone pressed to his ear, barking last-minute instructions to Redwood’s legal counsel.
My heart knocks. If we fail today, Redwood is done.
The meltdown goes official. And I might be indicted for fraud.
My mouth is dry, but I have no space for panic.
I seal a large envelope containing every file we can muster.
Michael meets my eyes, a grim smile. Then we gather our coats, stepping into the hallway.
The city calls, Redwood’s meltdown culminating in this final stand, and we’re too tired to be anything but determined.
A hush grips me as we leave. If Redwood collapses, or if the meltdown overshadowing me can’t be dispelled, we lose everything.
But we walk side by side anyway, hearts pounding, ready to confront city hall with the truth.