CHAPTER 3 （SARAH）
They say I slept my way into Redwood’s spotlight. The bite in their voices carries through narrow hallways, stirring my stomach until it twists. I hold my head high, feigning calm despite the heat crawling up my neck.
At the break room, a pair of assistants glance away too late, guilt flickering in their eyes. I pretend I don’t see their smirks. Rumors flow like poison, cheapening every late night and weekend I’ve poured into Redwood.
I focus on Redwood’s spreadsheets, letting the lines of numbers anchor me. Each cost figure is a reminder: my work speaks louder than cruel chatter. My heart still lurches each time someone drops their voice when I pass.
Part of me wants to scream that I’ve earned every inch of this chance. Another part begs me to stay composed, to not feed the gossip vultures. I breathe in, forcing my shoulders back.
Ms. Patel sends me a curt email advising “professional distance.” I delete it with a tight frown, too exhausted to engage. My mother’s bills pile up, and Redwood is my only life raft.
Let them talk. My job is to keep Redwood on track. My job is to survive.
Michael appears beside my desk, setting down a thick folder labeled “Board Pitch.” His jaw is tense, like he anticipates pushback. But I only nod, determined to prove myself once more.
He outlines the section he wants me to handle—financial projections for Redwood’s next phase. A task that seasoned analysts dread. My heart thrums at the gravity of the assignment.
Ms. Patel lingers near a file cabinet, arms crossed. Her stare warns me not to overstep. It’s clear she’s counting potential fraternization strikes. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
I open the folder, scanning pages of daunting figures. My pulse ticks faster, but there’s also a thrill in the challenge. If I nail this, I silence at least some rumors.
The meeting is in two days. Hardly any time to refine such a crucial piece of Redwood’s strategy. My hands tremble as I imagine standing before the board, forced to defend each line item.
Michael locks eyes with me. “Don’t let them see fear,” he murmurs. I swallow hard, ignoring the flutter in my gut. I vow to turn these data points into a bulletproof pitch.
James Chen’s gaze sweeps the gleaming table, commanding instant silence. I stand at the far end, Redwood slides clutched against my chest. Damien Crawford lingers in the corner, his smirk a reminder that someone hopes I fail.
My stomach flips as I step forward. Sweat pricks my palms, making the papers slippery. I force my shoulders back, channeling what little poise I can muster.
When I speak, my voice wavers at first. Redwood’s cost-savings data lines the screen, bold and demanding belief. Damien raises a brow, feigning interest, but I sense his expectation: I’ll crumble.
Each question from the board strikes like a test of my worthiness. Are Redwood’s cost margins sustainable? Will the city council sign off? I answer with as much clarity as my thrumming nerves allow.
Michael remains seated, offering no safety net. His impassive stare dares me to stand on my own. I push back the rising knot in my throat.
Minutes crawl like hours, but I find a rhythm, my confidence slowly building. Damien’s smirk twitches when I deliver Redwood’s contingency plan without stumbling. Relief sparks in my chest, fueling my final statements.
I step back, heart hammering. The board decides Redwood’s fate, and possibly mine.
A tense hush grips the room. James Chen flips through the final page of my slides, eyes sharp. Then two board members exchange nods, murmuring approval about Redwood’s cost projections. My chest tightens with relief.
Michael inclines his head, almost imperceptibly, in my direction. I catch that subtle acknowledgment like a lifeline. Just enough to tell me I didn’t fail.
Damien’s pen taps against the table in sharp, impatient clicks. His gaze skims over me as if I’m a trivial annoyance. My stomach seizes, but I refuse to let his disdain erase my small success.
I gather my notes, fingers trembling with a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion. The tension in the air is electric, each breath laced with Redwood’s precarious balance. Still, I survived the hardest part.
Michael’s phone buzzes. He stands abruptly, dismissing the meeting. I’m left with the echoes of whispered side conversations as people file out. Some glance at me with mild respect, others with thinly veiled skepticism.
I linger by the door, letting the weight of the moment sink in. Damien’s footsteps fade, leaving only the faint hum of overhead lighting. I exhale a shaky breath, clutching my small victory to my heart.
I’m halfway down the corridor when Michael steps into my path. His posture is rigid, voice low. “You did well,” he says, barely above a murmur.
My heart flutters at the unexpected praise. Then his tone darkens. “But this place is full of sharks. They smell blood.” A warning, pitched somewhere between concern and strategy.
Heat crawls up my neck. I glance around, worried someone might overhear. His words hang in the sterile air, thick with unspoken truths. Jealous colleagues, suspicious board members, and a rumor mill eager to devour me.
He shifts closer, gaze flicking to Ms. Patel’s empty desk. “Stay sharp,” he continues, expression carefully neutral. My pulse spikes, uncertain if he’s referencing Redwood’s cutthroat environment or the swirling gossip tying us together.
“Thanks,” I manage, voice barely steady. Part of me wants to demand clarity: Is he worried about me, or Redwood’s reputation, or both? But I bite back the question.
I watch his eyes, searching for any sign of personal concern beneath that polished exterior. A flicker, maybe. Then he nods once, stepping aside.
I hurry off, heart rattling. His caution lingers, an echo in my ears. Survival here demands more than good work—it demands steel.
My phone vibrates on my desk, cutting through the relative quiet of mid-afternoon. Another unknown number, another message dripping malice. “Corporate pawn,” it reads. “Hope the rumors keep you warm at night.”
My stomach churns. This is the third text in twenty-four hours. Each one more vicious than the last. My hands tremble, anger and humiliation colliding in my chest.
I glance around, half expecting a hidden camera capturing my reaction. Why me? Why so personal? My mind darts to the rumor mill: people who think I only got Redwood access through shady means.
I delete the message, but it leaves a bitter aftertaste. My heart thrums, torn between wanting to lash out and simply ignoring it. Fear lurks beneath the surface—what if these texts escalate?
Grinding my teeth, I bury myself in Redwood’s latest updates. Work is my refuge. The swirl of data distracts me from the sting of hateful words. Redwood needs me focused. My mother’s bills demand I stay strong.
I vow not to let cowardly attacks derail me. If they want me to break, I’ll dig in. Redwood might be an uphill climb, but it’s all I have. And I won’t surrender it to some anonymous bully.
Night wraps the office in a hush, desks abandoned and lights dimmed. I’m hunched over Redwood’s vendor invoices, eyelids heavy. Then I spot it: a line item that makes zero sense.
An overcharge, tucked under multiple subcategories. My exhaustion vanishes, replaced by a jolt of alarm. If left unchecked, Redwood risks bleeding funds it can’t spare.
Heart pounding, I snatch the paper and head for Michael’s office. My footsteps echo in the corridor. Outside his door, I hesitate, wondering if he’s still inside. But I catch a faint glow under the threshold.
He’s at his desk, tie loosened, face pinched with fatigue. I hand him the document, voice laced with urgency. “Look here,” I say, pointing to the suspicious numbers.
He scans it, jaw tightening. A flicker of genuine respect crosses his eyes, warmth battling the usual stoic mask. My pulse flutters, relief fusing with a quiet sense of pride.
We discuss how to handle this. It’s a big deal—this vendor overcharge could hint at deeper issues. My mind spins with solutions. For the first time, I sense we’re on the same side, fighting a threat to Redwood, not each other.
I swallow, heart thrumming. Maybe I’ve proven my worth, at least for tonight.
He sets the page down, exhaling slowly. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders lifts, replaced by a measured nod. “Good work,” he says, voice almost gentle. My breath hitches at the unexpected praise.
In that instant, the barrier between us loosens. We’re not just boss and employee, not simply Redwood’s cogs. We’re two people invested in the same fight, relieved by even a small triumph.
I find myself sharing a quick grin, unguarded. He notices, eyes lingering longer than normal. My stomach flutters. The rumors, the late nights, the stress—none of it matters for this moment.
His next words break the spell: “We’ll need to escalate this to Accounting.” Business returns to his tone, but the trace of warmth lingers. I realize how starved I’ve been for recognition.
My chest feels lighter, as if maybe I’m not Redwood’s scapegoat after all. He hands me the file, telling me to follow up. I nod, trying not to show how much his trust means.
When I leave, my blood hums with a strange mixture of pride and relief. Something shifted tonight. I’m still on shaky ground, but I’m not alone in Redwood’s war. I’m… wanted here.
Morning breaks with new chatter about my discovery. A few coworkers grin, offering high-fives I never expected. Their congratulations break through my usual wall of guarded composure, warming me with a sense of camaraderie.
But not everyone welcomes my success. Some glare, muttering about how I “went straight to Hastings,” bypassing department leads. My cheeks burn as they accuse me of climbing by stepping on protocol.
I can almost see the rift forming. Half the team respects my hustle. The other half sees me as a threat. Whispers echo each time I pass by a cluster of desks, searing into my confidence.
Still, Redwood’s tasks wait for no one. Another investor email pings with fresh demands. A billing adjustment begs for immediate review. I force my frustration into the work, letting numbers guide my focus.
I sidestep gossip, channeling all energy into Redwood’s next phase. Ambition surges, fueled by a desire to prove I’m more than rumors or favoritism. Some part of me revels in each small success, each data fix that cements my position.
They can resent me if they want. My mother’s bills need paying, Redwood needs results, and I won’t let office politics drag me under.
Late again. The corridor is deserted, lights flickering overhead as if just as tired as I am. Redwood files weigh on my arms, but my spirit feels heavier.
The day’s events swirl in my mind—boardroom tension, office gossip, that moment of validation from Michael. I rub my temples, recalling how close I came to snapping under scrutiny. Yet I’m still standing.
Passing the lobby, I catch my reflection in the glass doors. My face is drawn, circles under my eyes. But there’s a flicker of resolve in the set of my jaw. I’ve given Redwood every ounce of energy. I’m not about to back down now.
My phone buzzes with a text reminding me of my mother’s hospital billing cycle. Another wave of dread twists my chest. This job, Redwood’s success, it’s all crucial to her care. I can’t fail.
Stepping onto the quiet street, I breathe the cool night air, letting it rush through me like a cold slap of determination. My heart thuds with exhaustion, but also an unyielding drive. If Redwood is a gauntlet, I’ll push through it.
I hail a cab, Redwood folders clutched tight. Tomorrow, the fight continues. No matter the rumors, no matter the cost—I’m not done yet.