CHAPTER 7 （SARAH）
Aphone call rips me from my spreadsheets, the handset trembling in my grip.
The hospital staff says my mother’s breathing has worsened.
My stomach twists into knots. A Redwood blueprint sprawls across my desk, half-finished numbers glaring at me.
I can’t wrap my head around floor plans when her health is on the line.
There’s no chance to breathe. Another ringing phone on my desk demands an immediate Redwood update for Michael, but my mind is stuck on my mother lying in that sterile room, monitors beeping around her.
Bills pile high. Her condition teeters. My pulse hammers as I juggle the phone, scribbling notes about Redwood’s site expansions with a shaky hand.
I can’t split myself in two. HR’s fraternization warnings flash in my mind, but that worry dulls beneath the terror of losing the most important person in my life.
The blueprint slides off the desk, corners crumpling.
My cheeks burn when Michael’s office line lights up.
He’s waiting. Everyone’s waiting. I choke out a rushed summary, voice strained, then slam the phone down and grab my bag.
Another call from the hospital. They need additional authorization to run tests.
My chest feels so tight I might snap. I stare at Redwood’s half-finished data, heart pounding.
I can’t fail either of them. I rush out to find a private corner, pressing the phone to my ear, hands trembling against the smooth plastic as I give the nurse the permissions she needs.
My mind whirls in a thousand directions at once.
Later, I’m back at my desk, sweat prickling under my blouse.
Urgent Redwood updates stream in. In the chaos, I transpose two numbers in the ledger.
By the time Michael notices, that tiny slip has triggered a discrepancy in our official cost projections.
He steps into my workspace, frustration etched in the taut line of his mouth.
Heat spikes in my chest as I realize what happened.
I scramble to correct it, shuffling documents and cursing my distraction.
I should have been more careful. He orders me to fix the columns before finalizing Redwood’s pitch deck.
The tension in his voice echoes in the hush of the office.
My heart thuds. Guilt clutches my lungs.
He must assume I’m incompetent or worse.
I glance up, meeting his narrowed eyes, and notice the moment he sees my trembling fingers.
His frustration flickers into something else.
He leans closer, voice dropping in volume.
“Something’s off.” He insists on answers.
My throat tightens. Telling him about my mother’s hospitalization feels like exposing a raw wound, but I have no choice.
So I spill it. He listens, gaze shifting from anger to concern.
The tension in my shoulders eases a fraction.
He won’t fire me today. When I finish, he stands quiet for a moment, then calmly repeats that Redwood still needs accurate data on schedule.
Relief battles with stress in my chest. He steps away, leaving me to fix the mess.
I bend over the spreadsheets, conscience pulsing in my ears.
Redwood can’t wait, and neither can my mother.
Days pass, each one more frantic than the last. A nurse phones again, alerting me to a jump in my mother’s expenses after an emergency procedure.
My fingernails dig into my palm. Another four-figure cost we can’t spare.
Every hour at Chen Technologies feels like a race against meltdown.
Michael pushes Redwood forward at breakneck speed, ignoring the gossip swirling around me.
But there’s no ignoring the fresh notice I receive from the hospital’s billing department.
My eyes skim down the statement, bracing for the number to double, yet part of it is already paid.
Half. I stare, numb. This has to be Michael.
My chest constricts with a swirl of gratitude and shame.
He never says it’s him. Never confesses out loud that he stepped in.
But the evidence glares, and I realize how desperate he is to keep me fully focused on Redwood.
He paid my mother’s hospital bill without asking.
No mention of interest or a loan contract.
Just...covered it. I can’t process it, not with Redwood’s next major investor meeting looming.
Yet guilt weighs on my every breath, because I can’t repay such generosity.
I’m too exhausted to protest. If I refuse, my mother’s care might stall.
Blood roars in my ears, a conflicted wave of relief and anxiety.
The hush in my cubicle grows oppressive.
My phone blinks with urgent Redwood messages, but my hand remains frozen on that hospital statement, tears threatening.
Word spreads that Michael Hastings paid a portion of my personal bills, and the office rumor mill lights up like it’s on fire.
People trade glances around the watercooler.
Some smirk, some scowl, others look at me with pity.
It doesn’t take long before whispers swirl about me exchanging favors for financial help, or selling out to stay in Redwood’s good graces.
My shoulders seize with humiliation every time I step into the hallway.
One conversation ends abruptly as I approach.
Another coworker stares after me, eyebrows raised in silent judgment.
They think I’m being bought. The knowledge scalds my cheeks.
But I can’t deny the money saved my mother’s life.
Redwood’s frenetic pace intensifies. We have a major audit next week, and everyone’s on edge, grinding late into the night to prepare.
Michael only meets my gaze when it’s strictly Redwood-related, as though acknowledging his kindness would fan the flames of rumor.
I bury myself in Redwood’s tasks, fighting not to crumble under the weight of moral compromise.
I have no choice. My mother can’t wait for pride or principle.
The shame lingers, but so does gratitude.
Each time I pass Michael in the corridor, my stomach twists at the memory of that partial payment.
Ms. Patel corners me soon, summoning me into her office, her gaze ice-cold behind rimless glasses.
She gestures for me to sit. My back stiffens.
The air feels stale. She references the fraternization rules again, her voice clipped.
The swirl of gossip about me and Michael has escalated.
Rumors of him paying my personal bills apparently set off alarm bells with HR.
She pointedly reminds me that Redwood’s future is too critical to be dragged into scandal, and she asks me if there’s any personal involvement.
My pulse throbs. No way to deny we’re close.
But I won’t betray him. I muster a firm statement that Redwood is my sole focus and that I have no relationship beyond professional duties.
Ms. Patel’s eyes linger on my face, searching for cracks.
She exudes caution. She implies that if Redwood’s brand suffers from perceived impropriety, heads will roll.
My chest seizes with dread. She all but accuses me of letting Michael’s favoritism warp the chain of command.
Humiliation scorches my cheeks. She dismisses me with a polite nod, tension humming in the small space.
I stand, spine rigid, then walk out, ignoring the stares from a few onlookers by the HR reception.
The walls are closing in. Redwood or not, every step I take feels monitored.
Confronting Michael after that HR talk is both terrifying and necessary.
I find him alone in a corner office, finishing a conference call.
The instant he sees my expression, he goes still.
My heart pounds. I drop a quiet thank-you for the hospital payment.
His gaze flickers. He folds his arms, face stony, reminding me Redwood thrives if I’m not worried about personal affairs.
He sounds cold, like it was a simple business maneuver, but I sense an undercurrent.
He’s shielding me, but it’s not purely strategic.
I chew on my lip, stepping closer, voice trembling as I tell him I’m grateful.
His posture tightens. He keeps insisting Redwood can’t afford distractions.
A heaviness wells in my chest. Maybe he’s right.
Yet the dynamic between us grows more complicated.
I see warmth in his eyes for a heartbeat, then it’s gone.
The electric swirl of conflicting feelings leaves me on edge.
We stand too close in this quiet space. My breath tangles.
We lock eyes. The moment stretches until he steps away, muttering that Redwood’s tasks won’t complete themselves.
A slap of reality. I can’t dwell on personal gratitude or wariness.
Redwood first. He leaves me alone in that dim corner, half undone by the precarious line between boss and beneficiary.
Over the next days, Michael’s small acts of consideration ramp up.
He brings me an extra coffee unprompted, asking if I’ve eaten.
He rearranges my schedule so I can visit my mother during her more critical treatments.
I accept those kindnesses but each one stings with fresh speculation from colleagues.
The rumor mill churns nonstop. She’s his special project.
She’s got Hastings wrapped around her finger.
My heart clenches each time I catch a sneer or overhear a snicker.
Redwood is in crisis, with sabotage rumors intensifying around Damien’s meddling, so no one openly complains about my workload.
But the stares cut deep. Michael shrugs off the hostility, more concerned about Redwood’s deadlines than HR’s suspicion.
When I slip into his office to deliver revised spreadsheets, his gaze lifts to my face, scanning for signs of exhaustion.
He nods in approval at my thoroughness. My lungs release a shaky breath.
Why does every small kindness make my chest twist?
The tension is heavier by the day. Yet I cling to his calm presence, the subtle ways he tries to ease my burden.
We work side by side long past normal quitting time, the hush broken only by the click of keyboards and the buzz of overhead lights.
Each hour spent in that private bubble further complicates the precarious lines we’re supposed to maintain.
One afternoon, we share a quick lunch in a tucked-away conference room.
Just the two of us, trays balanced on old spreadsheets.
He quietly asks about Redwood’s vendor compliance numbers, and I respond in detail, the conversation drifting to sabotage rumors swirling about Damien.
He rubs his temple, exhaling that Redwood’s brand is under fire.
A flicker of something vulnerable shadows his features.
My pulse flutters at how rarely he shows that side.
He’s not just my tough boss; he’s exhausted too.
We trade frustrations over how every Redwood development faces some new rumor, how investors keep spooking, how the board’s pressure keeps mounting.
Our eyes meet in a moment of raw honesty.
The tension that usually divides us softens, replaced by a reluctant empathy.
I confess that I’m drowning in guilt about relying on his help.
He murmurs that Redwood needs me, insists my focus is crucial.
My chest tightens with a surge of gratitude.
For an instant, we forget office whispers and fraternization warnings.
Then footsteps echo outside, and we shift back to polite formality.
The spark remains, though, glowing beneath the surface.
We toss the empty trays, brushing fingers, hearts pounding.
We return to Redwood’s files as though nothing happened.
Alone in the corridor afterward, I lean against the wall, pulses of adrenaline coursing through me.
He’s giving me these small moments of care, but the gossip is devouring us.
Ms. Patel’s voice loops in my head, reminding me that Redwood’s success stands on a knife’s edge.
The entire tower hums with tension. I swallow hard, thinking about all that Redwood means—my paycheck, my mother’s treatments, my entire sense of professional worth.
Michael’s help weighs on me, but so does the silent push to prove I can handle Redwood’s next pitch without falling apart.
I won’t cave to rumor. I won’t let scandal overshadow what I can do for Redwood.
That vow surges through me. My phone buzzes with another hospital update.
This time it’s good news: my mother’s responding better to medication.
My shoulders loosen. I tuck the phone away and exhale.
Redwood’s next investor pitch is days away.
If we secure their faith, Redwood gains another layer of protection from Damien’s sabotage.
If we fail, the job I rely on might vanish.
And the precarious bond forming between me and Michael could splinter under the weight of rumor and corporate fallout.
Another breath. Then I square my shoulders and push off the wall, determined not to let personal or professional landmines derail me. I will handle Redwood. I have to.