CHAPTER 15 （MICHAEL）
Sarah’s resignation hits like a punch the instant I see her clearing her desk.
I pause in the corridor, heart hammering, watching her tremble as she places folders into a cardboard box.
My throat tightens. The flicker of overhead lights reveals tears brimming at the corners of her eyes, though she tries so hard not to let them spill.
She looks so defeated. Redwood’s meltdown echoes in every slump of her shoulders.
I step forward, but the twist in her expression stops me cold.
She’s done. She can’t fight Redwood’s scandal any longer, and the board has cornered her—someone has to take the fall.
My pulse throbs with anger so fierce it almost blinds me.
They forced her out to placate the rumor mill.
She lifts the box, her gaze skimming past me, brimming with sorrow that stabs my chest. I can’t meet her eyes. The hush weighs like lead.
I want to yell at the board, at Redwood, at the entire fiasco that shoved her to this place.
But words tangle on my tongue. She gives a shaky nod of acknowledgment, then walks away, footsteps echoing.
For a moment, my fists clench at my sides, imagining upending the nearest table.
Redwood’s meltdown has claimed its first casualty.
Guilt and rage coil in my gut. I fight the urge to chase after her, to demand she stay, but the finality in her stance rips me apart.
I let her face all that suspicion alone.
In the following days, Redwood suffers from her absence more than anyone expected.
Investors reduce capital; they’ve lost faith in a project that can’t keep its own staff from scandal.
My attempts to salvage trust crash against rumor-hungry blogs.
Redwood’s brand hemorrhages daily, each negative headline feeding on the fact we lost a key figure under suspicious circumstances.
They suspect Sarah was the saboteur, or they suspect Redwood forced her out.
Either way, Redwood can’t spin it positively.
I spend endless hours in stifling investor briefings, reciting Redwood’s cost projections, insisting the sabotage is under control, but no one truly believes me.
Meanwhile, the daily Redwood tasks that Sarah handled pile up.
She had insight into small but crucial details—the kind of knowledge Redwood can’t fake.
Efficiency plummets. Even Redwood’s morale dips.
People tiptoe around me, aware something vital is missing.
I hold furious press conferences, fiercely defending Sarah’s innocence, fueling a media narrative that Hastings is enthralled by his fallen assistant.
At first, I tried to remain measured, to maintain Redwood’s professional face, but the tabloids push too far.
They spin a tale that Sarah’s alleged fraud forced Redwood to cut her loose, that my rumored affair with her clouded my judgment.
My anger ignites. I step in front of reporters with Redwood’s data, jabbing at the smear campaign that led to her resignation.
Cameras flash, capturing my every muscle twitch.
My voice trembles with rage as I declare Redwood’s meltdown is driven by sabotage, not some cunning scheme by Sarah.
I stop caring about the optics. Journalists gobble up the drama, writing headlines about my personal crusade to vindicate her.
Redwood’s board doesn’t like my tone, but I push them aside.
I can’t let Sarah become the scapegoat Redwood discards to quell panic.
By chance, I see her on a busy Midtown street a week later, eyes haunted.
My heart jolts at the sight of her carrying groceries, shoulders tense, scanning the pavement as though expecting more harassment.
A wave of guilt floods me. She looks thinner, or maybe it’s the exhaustion etched into her posture.
I approach, breath unsteady, and beg her to give me five minutes to talk.
She shrinks back, eyes brimming with a mixture of hurt and relief, like she’s unsure whether to bolt or listen.
I keep my tone soft, promising Redwood can still be saved, that I’m fighting the sabotage.
She nods stiffly, tears flickering, then shakes her head as though she can’t handle more heartbreak.
My lungs compress with shame. I let her down, didn’t I?
But I glimpse a tiny spark in her eyes. Something that says she wants Redwood to pull through as badly as I do, even if she can’t stand the agony Redwood inflicted on her.
She turns away without a word. I stand helpless in the swirl of midday pedestrians.
Redwood feels a thousand miles away, and so does she.
Meanwhile, Redwood’s stock plummets, speculation that I’m letting personal vendettas trample objective leadership.
Reality stings that sabotage persists unchecked without Sarah’s keen eye.
The office feels hollow. Redwood’s daily tasks slip through cracks she once meticulously patched.
I pace my executive suite, scanning half-completed spreadsheets Sarah used to finalize by midnight.
My staff tries to fill the gaps, but no one matches her knack for Redwood’s labyrinth of data.
And the sabotage angle intensifies. Investor calls sour quickly when I can’t produce the same thorough oversight.
The meltdown lumps in my chest, each day more precarious.
Tabloids label me a lovesick billionaire, Redwood’s meltdown overshadowing my alleged heartbreak.
The press frames Redwood’s sabotage as an afterthought.
They only care about personal drama. The board senses we teeter on the brink.
Tensions surge in every meeting. Half the directors whisper we should cut Redwood entirely.
I end up calling Sarah late each night, voice hoarse as I promise she won’t be blacklisted forever, that I’ll fix Redwood.
She picks up sometimes, sounding broken.
Her tone is laced with defeat, but faint hope pricks me when she doesn’t hang up.
I babble about Redwood’s daily meltdown, how the sabotage thickens, how the board remains blind.
She listens in silence. I sense she’s torn.
She hates Redwood for what it did to her.
She also can’t bear seeing it crash. My chest twists as I hear her sigh, exhaustion pouring through the phone lines.
Each call stirs longing—nostalgia for the nights we hammered Redwood’s data together, adrenaline fueling our synergy.
Now there’s only this lonely hush. I swallow my pride, confess Redwood’s chaos intensifies daily, that I can’t fill the gap she left.
She says nothing, but I detect the faintest exhale, maybe a flicker of empathy. I cling to that.
Guilt claws at me as I watch news clips labeling me a lovesick billionaire, Redwood’s meltdown overshadowing solid evidence we haven’t yet pinned to Damien.
The networks plaster photos of me glowering at press conferences, with subtitles suggesting I ignore Redwood’s meltdown for personal vendettas or illusions of romance.
I cringe each time. Redwood’s sabotage fades behind the scandal’s bright lights.
I pace my office, phone in hand, scanning logs that hint at forged data.
Damien’s fingerprints lurk, but intangible.
I want to scream. Without Sarah’s ability to parse Redwood’s labyrinth, we flail.
We need her expertise. Meanwhile, tabloids spin me as incompetent, obsessed with exonerating an ex-employee I “favored.” Redwood’s meltdown rages on.
The board grows restless. They corner me about the negative press, hinting Redwood might be sold off in pieces.
I grit my teeth, swearing we can turn this around if we unmask Damien.
But they see no progress. My mind reels with every sabotage detail, every rumor.
Sleep is nonexistent, replaced by wretched anger and regret.
A flicker of salvation arrives when Sarah texts me about a new lead in Redwood’s finances.
My phone lights up at midnight, her name flashing.
My heart leaps. She found suspicious vendor patterns, linkable to an offshore account.
I seize it like oxygen, adrenaline pounding.
She’s re-involving herself in Redwood. We text back and forth.
She outlines how she cross-referenced Redwood’s supply chain from her home, discovering anomalies pointing to hidden bribes.
My chest floods with hope. This could be the crack we need.
I realize she never truly gave up on Redwood, that some part of her still fights for its survival.
I stare at the phone, pulse racing. This might be the clue that unmasks Damien’s sabotage, proving Redwood can be saved.
The board’s gloom might shift. And more than that, I sense a gentle thaw in our conversation.
She’s distant, but no longer shutting me out.
The memory of our explosive kisses and emotional stands tears at me.
Pride and longing tangle in my chest, each late-night phone call fueling it further.
She’s out there, battered by Redwood’s meltdown, yet still reaching out to help.
My mind replays stolen elevator moments, quiet corridors brimming with unspoken tension.
The guilt merges with a fierce yearning.
I want Redwood stable. I want her back. Yet we’re stuck in this swirl of sabotage and scandal.
Each time I hear her voice, a storm of regret and longing coils inside me.
I recall how we braved Redwood’s initial sabotage together, how her gaze lit with determination.
Now we’re separated by betrayal, rumor, and a meltdown neither of us fully anticipated.
Redwood might still tear us apart before we can fix anything.