CHAPTER 8 （SARAH）
Redwood’s major investor pitch day dawns before I’m ready.
The office bustles with urgency by the time I arrive, everyone scrambling to finalize last-minute data.
My stomach constricts as I shuffle into the glass-walled boardroom, aware of every suspicious glance.
Two dozen eyes flick my way, some openly hostile.
They’re convinced I’m here on personal favor, not ability.
My heart thuds faster. I straighten my spine, slide my notes onto the polished table, and force a neutral expression.
Whispers ripple through the room. I catch a hiss of speculation about Redwood’s shaky numbers and how I might ruin the entire presentation.
The tension sets my nerves aflame. Michael arrives in a crisp suit, gaze scanning the room, then resting on me.
A tiny, imperceptible nod from him unlocks the breath trapped in my chest. I glance at the Redwood slides on the projector screen, pulse hammering.
Everything hinges on the pitch I’m about to deliver.
One deep inhale, and I begin, voice steady despite the thunder in my ears.
My opening slides detail Redwood’s restructured costs, but my first sentence wobbles.
The hush feels suffocating. Blood rushes in my ears.
Don’t freeze. Suddenly, Michael’s silent nod surfaces in my mind, and my voice strengthens.
My sentences become sharper, more authoritative.
Budget breakdowns roll off my tongue. The lines on the investors’ faces soften a fraction.
My heart pounds with every chart, adrenaline igniting my focus.
Redwood’s cost-saving measures, scheduling updates, and contingency plans flow from my mouth like a script I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.
That hush flips into mild interest, a spark of cautious belief in Redwood’s viability.
I wrap the final note with a measured exhale, scanning the silent table.
Relief trickles through me as the tension crackles, no immediate condemnation.
I stand tall under those intense stares, praying Redwood’s shaky reputation holds another day.
Tension spikes the second rumors swirl that Redwood’s data might be doctored.
One investor waves a whisper-thin tablet, eyebrows high, apparently referencing a gossip site.
Accusations swirl that Redwood’s restructured costs are little more than smoke and mirrors.
My gut clenches. If they think Redwood’s numbers are fake, we’re finished.
Michael’s expression darkens at the far end of the table.
I force unwavering calm into my posture.
I state Redwood’s methods clearly, highlighting the new auditing team, referencing the internal checkpoints we’ve applied.
My voice resonates across the hush, each word carrying more confidence than I feel inside.
The tension grows tangible. They might not trust me.
But I push forward, determined not to let rumor overshadow fact.
One by one, the investors flip through the printed pitch decks.
A few exchange skeptical looks. My heart hammers, but I maintain the polished fa?ade.
Redwood’s entire future hinges on my ability to project stability right now.
Outside the boardroom’s glass walls, staffers hover like vultures, straining for a glimpse of any meltdown.
I lock my gaze on Michael. He inclines his head, and something in my chest loosens.
My voice never wavers as I affirm Redwood’s documentation is legitimate and robust. Silent seconds tick by as the lead investor sets down the deck, expression neutral.
The faint edge of a nod from him staves off the panic gripping my lungs.
We end with lukewarm applause, that tepid reception hitting me like a slow punch to the gut.
My chest spasms with disappointment. I gather my papers, ignoring the low murmurs.
A swirl of conflicting relief and worry throbs in my temples.
We survived, but Redwood remains on a knife’s edge.
Investors shuffle out, phones already buzzing.
Michael exchanges a few curt pleasantries, face drawn.
His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid under his tailored jacket.
I slip past the threshold of the boardroom, head spinning.
The applause was halfhearted, no ringing endorsement.
My pulse thrums with the knowledge that Redwood might still crumble if a single rumor sticks.
My heels click on the polished floor. There’s no time to dwell on the uncertain outcome.
Redwood’s sabotage threat looms heavier each day.
The hallway hums with tension. Coworkers pretend not to stare.
Their eyes flick to me, to the fleeting expression on Michael’s face, to the hush that follows.
We can’t celebrate or mourn yet. A wave of exhaustion sweeps over me, but I square my shoulders and walk toward my desk, ignoring the dryness in my mouth. Redwood’s fight isn’t over.
A sealed envelope waits on my keyboard when I return.
No return address. My heart jolts. I tear the flap open with trembling fingers.
Printed words on crisp paper glare up at me: Resign or Redwood burns.
Blood pounds in my ears. My mind races as I skim the typed threats detailing how Redwood’s downfall will be pinned on me if I don’t step aside.
My hands shake, pulse throbbing. This is war.
Tension spirals in my chest, every muscle rigid.
The envelope slips from my grip, fluttering onto the desk.
My eyes dart around, paranoid someone might be watching.
The stark clarity hits: Redwood is under siege, and I’m the easiest target.
Panic flares as I recall how easily rumors swirl around me.
My mother’s face flickers in my mind. The medical bills.
The precarious balance I fight to maintain.
The note’s last line warns: One word to the wrong person, and Redwood is finished.
Fear grips me. I can’t yield to blackmail.
But this threat could bury Redwood for good if I misstep.
I reread the letter, dread clenching my stomach.
Damien’s men? Another rival? My breath feels thin, chest tight as I tuck the letter away, determined to show Michael.
Redwood’s success is my lifeline, and I refuse to bow to intimidation.
Michael meets me in a deserted corridor, the overhead lights flickering.
My throat contracts as I pass him the threatening letter.
Tension radiates off him the instant he reads it.
His gaze snaps to mine, fury scorching behind his eyes.
He grips the paper so hard it crinkles. This is the side of him people whisper about—relentless, dangerous if provoked.
His voice strains at the edges, promising Redwood will not bend to blackmail.
My heart races. A protective fierceness lights up his features.
The closeness between us in this echoing hallway steals my breath.
He mutters that no one attacks Redwood or me and walks away unscathed.
A flash of something primal flickers in his expression.
A wave of conflicting emotion tightens my throat.
Gratitude. Fear. Attraction. He glances at me, voice softer, saying we’ll handle this quietly, that I should keep the letter hidden until we gather proof of who sent it.
The hush between us grows thick with unsaid words.
My heartbeat thuds as I realize how personal Redwood’s success has become for both of us.
He steps closer, eyes locked on mine, as if preparing to vow something more.
But footsteps echo at the corridor’s end, dragging us back to reality.
He tucks the letter into an inner pocket, jaw set.
Then he strides off, leaving me tense with adrenaline and a strange sense of relief that he’s on my side.
HR calls me in next. Ms. Patel waits in a small office, arms folded.
The air inside feels suffocating. She presents a typed list of rumors swirling around Redwood, half of them centered on my so-called involvement with Michael.
Her voice is clipped, as if reciting official policy.
She claims Redwood’s meltdown worsens every time scandal attaches to our “unorthodox working relationship.” My blood simmers with quiet anger.
No one sees my real work, only gossip. Ms. Patel references last night’s pitch, pointing out how the board remains divided on Redwood’s viability.
My hands clench. She warns that if Redwood’s sabotage rumors keep rising, top brass might choose me as the scapegoat, especially after all the fraternization whispers.
A pulse of frustration throbs in my temples.
I can’t form a rebuttal that she’ll believe.
She’s convinced Redwood’s in danger partly because of my alleged personal ties.
My stomach twists. My voice emerges tense but steady, insisting Redwood’s numbers come first for me.
Ms. Patel’s expression remains guarded, but I sense the doubt.
She dismisses me with a nod, cautioning that the board is watching every move.
I walk out of HR, chest tight, warring with the urge to yell.
Redwood is my lifeline, yet it feels like a noose some days.