CHAPTER 13 （SARAH）
The office feels hostile in a way I’ve never experienced.
People pause in conversations when I pass, eyes flicking to me with pointed curiosity.
The rumor mill churns louder every day, fueled by tabloids that call me Michael’s personal plaything, or Redwood’s scapegoat, or both.
My cheeks burn under their scrutiny, but I keep my chin high.
They want me to crack. Each new rumor stings.
Some coworkers whisper I’m faking Redwood data for personal gain, others claim I seduced Michael for clout.
Every step from my desk to the copier is a gauntlet of tense silence.
My stomach knots with the knowledge that Redwood is still in peril, and these rumors only push it further toward collapse.
My inbox overflows with half-snide messages, some anonymous, hinting I should pack up before Redwood’s meltdown takes me down with it.
I force a smile when a manager walks by, but his quick glance away confirms the worst. Redwood’s brand is fragile, and I’m the easy target.
Tension settles in my shoulders like an old ache, each hour spent double-checking Redwood’s data for the next sabotage attempt.
My mother’s mounting bills tighten the vise around me.
No time for self-pity. Redwood remains the reason I stand here.
Coworkers avert their eyes as I head for the break room, but the hush that follows makes my chest clench.
I close myself in a bathroom stall, pressing my forehead to the cold metal.
One breath, then another. Quitting is not an option.
Redwood needs me. Or maybe I need Redwood to justify these countless humiliations.
HR rakes me over the coals again, summoning me to Ms. Patel’s small office that reeks of disinfectant and tension.
She closes the door with a firm click, launching into a monologue about Redwood’s hemorrhaging brand.
Her voice is clipped, each word an accusation.
Redwood is suffering. My alleged affair with Michael only intensifies the scandal.
My breath tightens. She’s never once asked about my actual job performance.
She mentions the tabloids referencing me as a “fraudulent temptress,” Redwood’s meltdown pinned on me.
Ms. Patel’s stare pierces any defense I muster.
She demands an immediate plan to salvage Redwood’s reputation or face disciplinary action.
My nails dig into my thigh. I try explaining that sabotage frames me, that Redwood is the real victim.
Her expression remains unmoved. She says Redwood can’t afford more negative press, and if the board decides I’m the root cause, they’ll sever ties without hesitation.
My pulse thuds. Redwood’s brand is everything.
Ms. Patel’s tone suggests the final straw is near.
I stammer that I’m doing all I can, but she only shakes her head, eyes cold.
She warns that time is nearly up. Another wave of tension grips my chest. I nod, lips pressed together.
Redwood won’t be saved by compliance forms or HR guidelines alone.
Whispers spread through the corridors that the board plans to vote me out.
The hush that follows me amplifies each rumor.
They’ve decided I’m Redwood’s worst liability.
I overhear two managers near the copy machine: if Redwood’s scandal can’t be contained, the company might force me out to placate the investors.
My hands clench around a stack of Redwood files.
They think one sacrifice can fix Redwood’s battered image.
My stomach flips. I can’t read a single line in the spreadsheets anymore without imagining how easily I could be jettisoned.
A sick swirl of dread lodges under my rib cage.
I push past them, breath unsteady. Damning logic repeats itself: Redwood needs a scapegoat, and I’m an easy target.
The elevator ride to my desk feels claustrophobic, colleagues glancing sideways but saying nothing.
Emails ping with urgent Redwood updates, references to potential sabotage, but the board is too busy panicking about the PR fiasco to see the bigger picture.
They want results, not excuses. If Redwood’s meltdown continues, they’ll hold a decisive vote.
I swallow fear. The thought of losing Redwood’s paycheck, especially with my mother’s hospital bills looming, sets my nerves on edge.
Michael stands up for me in a tense meeting that afternoon.
The conference room is stuffy, board members lined up like prosecutors, pressing for Redwood updates they suspect I’ve falsified.
My chest constricts. I present the slides, voice strained.
They hurl pointed questions about Redwood’s viability and the swirling rumors that I’ve manipulated data.
My cheeks burn. Then Michael’s voice cuts through, defending the integrity of my work.
He cites examples of cost analysis I’ve perfected, the hours spent mitigating Redwood’s sabotage.
He stares down a scowling board member who insinuates I’m incompetent or corrupt.
Relief surfaces in my chest, but guilt twists too.
He’s risking credibility by supporting me.
The board’s suspicious eyes flick from me to him, tension crackling.
They claim Redwood’s meltdown demands swift action, implying that removing me might placate investors.
Michael’s face tightens, an undercurrent of anger in his clipped responses.
He states Redwood can’t afford to lose me or the critical knowledge I hold.
My stomach roils with a mix of gratitude and dread.
Their stony expressions don’t soften. The meeting ends in frosty silence.
Michael’s posture is rigid as we exit, and I catch his quick exhale.
For a moment, I see the weight of Redwood’s crisis etched on his face.
New sabotage files surface under Damien’s name that very evening, intensifying the board’s scrutiny of my every move.
I’m hunched at my desk, sorting Redwood’s daily data, when a coworker forwards me leaked documents.
They carry Damien’s digital signature, referencing Redwood’s finances in subtle, incorrect ways.
My heart sinks. Every sabotage file pushes Redwood further into chaos.
This new batch suggests Redwood’s cost structure is unsustainable.
I sense the board’s eyes on me, suspecting I’m behind each forged spreadsheet.
The paranoia swells. I hurry to Michael’s office, brandishing the suspicious files.
He studies them, jaw clenched. The forging is expert, mimicking Redwood’s style but sprinkling disastrous errors.
He calls an emergency check with IT, but there’s no direct link to Damien, only hints.
My fingers tremble with frustration. Redwood’s meltdown accelerates.
The board sees more “evidence” of financial tampering.
Michael glances at me, something raw in his eyes, then directs me to keep working.
No time to panic. Redwood’s entire future stands on the brink, and each new sabotage cut draws more blood.
During a quick lunch huddle, Michael and I meet in an empty cubicle row, hearts racing with Redwood’s accelerating downfall.
My stale sandwich sits untouched, appetite lost to stress.
He confesses Redwood’s future is on a razor’s edge, that if the board believes firing me will stabilize the brand, they might do it.
My lungs squeeze. He mentions the upcoming investor presentation, that Redwood can’t lose momentum.
Guilt and gratitude churn inside me. He wants me to fight, but he’s also powerless if the board decides I’m the problem.
We talk in hushed tones, aware prying ears might be near.
I lay out the sabotage patterns, pointing to Damien’s manipulations.
Michael’s lips press into a thin line. Redwood’s meltdown deepens, yet we can’t present half-baked evidence.
He murmurs that losing me would hamper Redwood’s continuity, but the board sees me as a magnet for scandal.
Anxiety flares in my chest. We break apart when a coworker passes, exchanging awkward glances.
He squeezes my arm, a brief show of support.
We’re not beaten yet. But as he disappears around the corner, I’m left clutching a stale sandwich and a sense that Redwood might slip through my fingers if the board has its way.
Another threatening text dings my phone after lunch, demanding my resignation, claiming Redwood can’t thrive with me around.
My vision blurs with anger. The message warns Redwood’s meltdown will continue until I step down, painting me as the epicenter of scandal.
It’s so unfair. The text ends with a sneer that Redwood’s brand will improve instantly if I vanish.
My fists clench around my phone, heart racing.
This is psychological warfare. The memory of my mother’s hospital bills intensifies my fury.
I can’t lose Redwood’s paycheck, or the chance to prove my innocence.
I retreat to a deserted corridor, chest heaving.
My entire body shakes with the frustration of being singled out.
Redwood’s sabotage is bigger than me, yet these threats pin all blame on my shoulders.
Fear mingles with indignation. I refuse to be bullied into leaving.
Adrenaline thrums in my veins. It’s as if Damien or his associates are pressing me to fold under the mounting chaos.
I reread the text, jaws clenched. Redwood depends on me, and giving up only hands victory to the saboteur.
Deleting the message, I vow not to bow to intimidation.
James Chen hints I should step down professionally before I’m forced out.
He calls me into his expansive office, glass walls overlooking Manhattan’s skyline, the hush electric.
His voice is measured, but there’s tension underneath.
He’s seen Redwood’s stock slip, witnessed the tabloids devour my name.
He suggests I could resign “gracefully” to save Redwood from further negative press.
My stomach drops. He’s not demanding it outright, but the subtext is clear.
Redwood’s meltdown might be eased if I disappear from the picture.
My throat constricts at how easily they can discard me to preserve Redwood’s image.
I argue I’ve poured everything into Redwood, my words clipped by a tight throat.
He listens, expression regretful, yet unwavering.
He implies the board weighs Redwood’s brand above my innocence, and even if sabotage truly frames me, Redwood must prioritize investor trust. My heart throbs with betrayal.
Redwood was my lifeline, but now it’s a machine that might crush me to keep functioning.
Sorrow, anger, and desperation swirl. I stand, trembling, tears threatening.
I’m not ready to walk away. James Chen lowers his gaze, saying he can’t protect me if the board decides it’s my time to go.
I press my lips together, walking out with shaky steps, Redwood’s looming verdict haunting me.
Michael storms into my office near day’s end, eyes wild with desperation.
He slams the door, voice tight as he begs me not to resign.
He says letting Damien win would be catastrophic for Redwood.
My pulse spikes. I see the weariness shadowing his face, the guilt carving lines in his expression.
He feels responsible, yet powerless. He paces, muttering that Redwood can’t function if the board scapegoats me.
My heart twinges with a fierce mixture of gratitude and frustration.
Redwood is on life support, rumors bury us, and we’re pinned under an avalanche of sabotage.
I lash out that every new threat corners me further, that James Chen practically asked me to jump before I’m pushed.
Michael’s eyes flick to mine, raw with conflict.
He pleads for more time, claims we’ll find a silver bullet to prove my innocence, to save Redwood from meltdown.
My insides churn. I want to believe him.
But the board is ready to cast me aside if it protects Redwood’s brand.
Tears sting. He steps closer, voice trembling with determination.
Redwood needs me, he says. I need Redwood too.
Our gazes lock in a charged hush. I can’t speak.
He squeezes my hand, then wrenches himself away before we cross a line.
We stand there, breathing, hearts battered by the endless chaos.
I leave battered by day’s end, exhausted beyond measure.
The corridors empty out, colleagues avoiding my eyes, the hush pressing in.
My legs ache as I gather Redwood documents I’ve been updating, mind spinning with doomsday scenarios.
Tomorrow might bring the board’s final decision.
They could fire me at dawn. My chest feels hollow.
Redwood was my lifeline, but each rumor and sabotage wave tears at its foundation.
My mother’s bills remain a crushing weight.
The elevator ride down is silent, just the hum of fluorescent lights.
I stare at the reflection of my slumped shoulders.
This meltdown isn’t just Redwood’s; it’s mine.
Outside, the city’s neon glare hurts my eyes.
My phone buzzes with an alert from the Redwood group chat.
More panic. I ignore it, tears welling. If I vanish, Redwood might lose the one person who’s traced sabotage from the start.
If I stay, the board might cast me as the scapegoat and bury me anyway.
My heart thrashes with indecision. I glance at the looming tower behind me, Redwood’s heart in its upper floors, beating erratically.
One day left to prove myself or step aside.
Darkness creeps over the streets, cars racing by.
I hug my papers to my chest, stepping toward the subway, uncertain if tonight is my last under Redwood’s failing banner.
But a small spark of defiance remains: I won’t fold easily. Tomorrow decides my fate—and Redwood’s.