CHAPTER 10 （SARAH）
The next morning, Michael is ice. He strides past my desk without a word, posture more rigid than ever, and barks out Redwood tasks in clipped sentences.
My insides twist at his tone, even though I expected this after the chaos of our kiss.
I gather Redwood’s updated cost projections for him, but he barely looks at me.
His voice is cold as he thanks me, implying I’m just another cog in Redwood’s machinery.
A painful ache clenches my chest. He’s shutting me out.
Staffers hustle through the corridor, glancing at me like I’m carrying a contagious scandal.
Each suspicious stare sends a prick of shame along my skin.
I remind myself Redwood is all that matters, that personal attachments only worsen the rumor storm.
Yet I can’t deny the sting of his indifference.
I settle at my desk, smoothing out Redwood’s investor spreadsheets, heart lurching at every email ping.
The tension in the air suffocates me. Michael remains behind closed doors most of the day, issuing commands through curt messages.
The few times I see him, his gaze slides past me as if I’m invisible.
My pulse flutters with equal parts hurt and anger.
He’s acting like last night never happened.
The barrier between us feels insurmountable, underlined by the corporate hum around us.
Redwood’s deadlines loom, stacking more pressure on my exhausted mind.
My phone rings with a concerned call from the construction site.
I handle it mechanically, ignoring the quiver in my voice.
Focus on Redwood, on work, on surviving.
But my thoughts keep drifting to his mouth on mine, to the heartbreak in his eyes when we parted, to the fact that now he’s turned everything to stone.
A fresh envelope appears on my desk just before lunch, jammed under the corner of my keyboard.
Unease pulses. This is no standard memo.
Curiosity collides with dread as I lift the flap, breath stalling.
Inside are grainy photographs, each capturing an angle of that elevator kiss—my arms around Michael, his hand curling at my waist, lips fused in that desperate moment.
My stomach drops. A typed note reads: Fix Redwood’s mess or face destruction.
My hands clench around the envelope, heart hammering.
We’ve been caught. Horror floods my veins at the clarity of the images, at the raw emotion etched into them.
The blackmail message demands I keep Redwood’s scandal from exploding or these pictures go public.
My head spins. Redwood can’t take another blow.
My chest tightens with panic. They’ll ruin us both.
I shove the envelope into a drawer, adrenaline pounding.
Coworkers pass by, oblivious. The office hums with routine, but my world feels seconds from collapse.
I slip to the restroom, lock myself in a stall, and skim the photos again, searching for a clue to who took them.
Nothing. My breath shakes. This is exactly the ammunition any Redwood enemy would love.
The note’s final words threaten total ruin if Redwood’s scandal doesn’t vanish.
Meaning if I don’t make Redwood’s troubles disappear, these photos become prime tabloid fodder.
My mind races through the ramifications: Redwood’s shaky investor confidence, HR’s zero-tolerance policy, my mother’s hospital bills, everything.
This blackmailer wields an unholy advantage, with evidence that violates any boundary we were meant to keep.
I’m trapped. My heart drums wildly as I push out of the stall and splash cold water on my face, forcing a steady inhale.
The photos burn in my memory, an irrevocable record of how we broke our own rules.
Investor calls unravel by mid-afternoon.
The phone rings incessantly with anxious backers demanding Redwood updates.
My head aches from the tension. Michael sits at the conference table, posture rigid, glaring at me to keep the investors calm.
Each question about Redwood’s finances slices at my composure.
My voice wavers, magnifying the sense that Redwood is spiraling.
Michael’s impatience crackles through the call, his clipped tone offering no solace.
He’s punishing me for this fiasco. When an investor demands concrete reassurance, I stumble.
Redwood’s next milestone has been delayed by sabotage, forging new doubts.
My throat closes. Michael shoots me a scathing look, arms folded, body radiating frustration.
A sizzling combination of anger and hurt knots in my stomach.
He’s the one who kissed me back last night.
He can’t blame all of Redwood’s chaos on me.
But his glare scorches. The investor call ends with minimal confidence restored, leaving me trembling, face hot.
My lungs ache from stifled tears. Redwood’s precarious standing intensifies the pressure, each misstep fueling rumors that we can’t handle the job.
I gather call notes with shaking fingers, ignoring Michael’s expression as he sweeps out of the room.
My heart sinks. We stand on the same battlefield but feel miles apart, weighed down by secrets we can’t share.
I corner him after the call, stepping into his office and shutting the door.
My pulse hammers, the envelope with those incriminating photos crinkling in my hands.
I thrust it toward him, voice shaky, explaining the blackmail.
Rage flares in his eyes as he flips through the images.
His jaw tightens, face darkening. I expect some comfort, but he snaps that I should’ve come sooner, that Redwood can’t spare time for personal drama.
My anger ignites. He’s the one who pulled the emergency stop.
I demand we form a plan. He orders me to stay silent while he deals with the blackmailer alone.
My stomach knots. Redwood is our shared responsibility, but his tone reduces me to a disposable piece.
He paces behind his desk, each stride vibrating with tension.
A wave of helpless fury swamps me. I won’t be sidelined.
But I sense he’s determined to protect Redwood— and me—by keeping this hush-hush.
My chest pounds as I recall how lethal these photos could be if they leak.
His voice is tight with rage, telling me Redwood must appear solid to investors, no matter the cost. My head swims, caught between relief that he’s taking control and frustration that he’s shutting me out.
He dismisses me before I can argue further.
I slam the door on my way out, heart racing with dread at how swiftly he’s severed any hint of personal closeness.
An hour later, HR summons me. Ms. Patel waits in a small, glass-walled office, her gaze solemn.
Another policy reminder. Another tense interrogation about fraternization.
My pulse thrums with bitterness. I slump into the chair, anticipating the worst. She references suspicious photos circulating behind closed doors.
My stomach clenches. They’ve reached HR.
She recites official codes about inappropriate relationships, corporate liability, Redwood’s fragile brand.
My cheeks burn. Her tone is ice-cold, implying I risk Redwood’s entire future with my behavior.
Michael’s distant act didn’t fool anyone.
She demands an explanation, but words tangle on my tongue.
I can’t reveal the blackmail or the sabotage.
Redwood’s standing is too fragile. So I murmur a vague denial, insisting Redwood is my only focus.
Ms. Patel’s eyes narrow with doubt. She warns of potential termination if further evidence surfaces.
My throat feels constricted. One slip, and I’m done.
The humiliating session ends, Ms. Patel releasing me with a final glare that suggests she’s not convinced.
I stagger out, face burning. In the corridor, colleagues pretend not to stare, but I see curiosity, pity, disapproval all at once.
Redwood’s meltdown is fueling an internal gossip storm that’s more toxic by the second.
That afternoon, we gather for a tense Redwood staff meeting.
The atmosphere hums with anxiety. Michael leads from the front, cold and exacting.
He flips through Redwood’s updated slides, pointing out flaws with cutting remarks.
My chest tightens when he singles out my section on cost projections.
I brace for mild critique, but he tears it apart in front of everyone, voice harsh.
Each word strikes like a lash. My cheeks sear, but I can’t defend myself in front of the group.
He’s humiliating me. He questions my calculations, ignoring that I’ve validated them a dozen times.
The staffers shift awkwardly, glancing my way with pity.
My hands tremble, fisting in my lap. My eyes burn, but I won’t break.
Redwood’s success depends on composure. Still, my heart cracks.
The meeting ends with a sense of suffocating tension.
People file out quickly, as if afraid to witness any more personal fireworks.
I gather my notes, fighting tears. Michael doesn’t even look my way.
My lungs burn with swallowed humiliation and heartbreak.
I drift from the room, raw and hollow, suspecting he aimed to distance himself publicly, turning me into just another employee he can berate if Redwood stumbles.
Anonymous threats ramp up in my inbox. Each new message demands I resign before Redwood implodes, each brandishing the potential scandal if I stay.
My chest feels under siege, rage flickering every time I open one.
Why am I the scapegoat? Redwood’s sabotage is bigger than me, but these threats pin blame solely on my shoulders.
One email warns that if Redwood goes down, my name will be dragged through every tabloid in Manhattan.
The injustice throttles me. I’ve given Redwood everything.
I think of my mother’s medical bills, how this job is my financial lifeline.
Quitting means losing everything. My phone buzzes with Redwood updates, overshadowing the seething fear in my gut.
My fists clench. Maybe Michael’s approach is right—stay silent, keep Redwood afloat, hope the blackmail fizzles.
Yet each threat intensifies my sense of isolation, building a wall between me and any real help.
I’m bearing this alone. Fury courses through me, but Redwood’s bigger than my pride.
I delete the messages and keep working, resolved not to surrender.
Yet under the anger lies a tremor of fear that these shadowy figures can ruin me if Redwood falters.
Nights dissolve into frantic nightmares.
My mind conjures scandalous headlines, Redwood’s meltdown, forged data pinned on me.
I jolt awake drenched in sweat, chest heaving, the darkness of my cramped apartment pressing in.
No escape, even in sleep. Each day at the office is a minefield.
I bury myself in Redwood’s spreadsheets, bracing for fresh sabotage or investor panic.
My phone pings incessantly, sometimes Redwood updates, sometimes more harassing texts.
Sleep becomes a fleeting concept, overshadowed by dread that Redwood’s downfall is mere days away.
My mother calls, voice laced with concern, sensing my strain.
I mask it with forced cheer, telling her Redwood is fine.
Meanwhile, my reflection in the monitor looks drawn, eyes shadowed.
The stress weighs on every breath. I dream of forging Redwood’s documents, of seeing Michael turn on me.
I dream of tabloids cornering me in front of the hospital.
Morning comes, cold and relentless, reminding me Redwood can’t wait for me to cope.
Work, survive, ignore the chaos. That mantra is all I have left.
He slips by my desk at dusk, casting a glance that isn’t quite as frigid.
Regret flickers in his gaze, tightening something in my chest. In a low murmur, he says he’s onto the blackmailer, that Redwood won’t be destroyed.
My heart twists. For an instant, I see the man who once comforted me, who promised Redwood was our joint cause.
Then it’s gone, replaced by formality. He steps away before anyone notices.
But that glimmer of hope lingers. He’s still fighting for Redwood, maybe for me, too.
My chest feels lighter, though it doesn’t solve our rift.
I bury the moment under Redwood’s never-ending tasks, finalizing cost analysis for tomorrow’s board check-in.
The office empties as the night grows late, but I stay hunched over my computer.
My phone sits silent, no more ominous envelopes for now, but the threat remains.
Michael’s subtle promise that he’ll handle the blackmailer stirs cautious relief.
He’s not abandoning Redwood. Or me, maybe.
I exhale, focusing on the screen. If Redwood fails, no promise will save us from scandal.
I cling to that brief flicker of warmth, finishing the last spreadsheet with trembling fingers.
Heading home, I’m a tangled mess of exhaustion and heartbreak.
My shoulders ache from hunching over Redwood data.
My heart aches from the brutal distance between me and Michael.
My mind replays the blackmail images, each shot capturing the hunger in our kiss.
Guilt gnaws at me for letting one stolen moment threaten Redwood’s fragile stability.
Yet longing churns. That kiss was more real than any professional fa?ade.
Fear spikes every time I imagine the pictures splashed across tabloids.
Redwood can’t take that blow, and neither can I.
My phone remains silent. Part of me wants him to call, to say something that breaks this wall.
Another part scolds me to keep my guard up, to bury personal feelings for Redwood’s sake.
My chest tightens as the taxi bumps over potholes.
The city lights blur past the window, mocking my turmoil.
When I reach my apartment, I toss my bag aside.
The hush presses in. I blink back tears, recalling how once, just once, he made me believe Redwood was ours to protect.
Now I can’t shake the sense that everything’s slipping.
The only reason I stay is Redwood’s paycheck and that helpless pull toward him.
I can’t walk away. Instead, I stand at my window, heart thudding, dreading tomorrow’s storm.
My mind clings to the faint hope that maybe we’ll outmaneuver the blackmail and salvage Redwood—and each other—before the walls cave in.