Page 22

SAVANNAH

T he PR conference room always felt too cold to me, even on a day like today when the building’s HVAC system seemed to have finally caught up with the lingering autumn warmth.

The long, paneled table stretched toward the windows, where the blinds had been drawn to reduce glare.

I stood near the whiteboard, tapping the capped end of a dry-erase marker against my palm while the core team filtered in with laptops, notepads, and half-hearted greetings.

No one looked relaxed, and none of the greetings held any real warmth.

The usual idle chatter had dried up. People kept their heads down and did their jobs, but meetings like this were inevitable when such huge shifts in company culture happened.

Everyone knew the executive board was watching us.

Every deck we built, every rollout plan we presented—it all carried more weight than normal.

And right now, it was my job to keep the group focused, even though I was barely holding it together myself.

The problem was, I was so new to this, I didn’t think any of them trusted me yet.

“Let’s jump in,” I said as I stepped back and gestured to the digital slide on the screen. The header read: Integrated Strategy for Q3 Launch: Narrative Pillars and Influencer Sync .

Monica, seated at the middle of the table, gave a curt nod and typed something quickly into her open laptop.

Kyle and Elena barely looked up from their screens.

The only sound in the room was the rapid tap of keys and the occasional shuffle of papers.

I wasn’t sure if they were readying themselves to take notes or messaging on Facebook.

I clicked to the next slide and spoke slowly, making sure my voice stayed even.

“We’ve aligned our brand messaging across three channels: retail, digital, and event-based.

We’ll need support from the design and analytics team by Friday if we want to meet the regional deadlines.

” The content was boring to me; I’d gone over it a dozen times already this week alone, so I let my mind drift while I spoke and watched their reactions.

I hadn’t heard back from legal about the doctored PDF except to say they were flagging it and adding it to a query that was already open about one of my analysts, but they didn’t say which one. And I had no clue why there was a query open or what it meant, probably not something good.

Kyle asked a question about demographic targeting, and I answered without looking at my notes.

Every word had been drilled into my head over the last forty-eight hours.

I had memorized the numbers, cross-checked every chart, and laid out every contingency plan.

It wasn’t the content that made my pulse race. It was the door.

It opened twelve minutes into the meeting, when we were in the thick of reporting features and demographics.

Marla entered like nothing was wrong, like she wasn’t late, and that strange interaction in the ladies’ room hadn’t happened.

She wore a sharp navy dress and carried a tablet under one arm.

She didn’t offer an apology or even a greeting when she walked in.

She made a beeline for the table, selected the seat directly across from Kyle, and settled into it without once looking in my direction, as if arriving twelve minutes late was routine and unworthy of comment.

Though I was thoroughly annoyed at the unprofessional entrance, I finished my sentence, advanced the slide, and moved on. But I felt the shift immediately, the way an engine stutters when it’s about to run out of gas.

The team had already been tight-lipped and focused before she arrived, but now their attention fractured completely.

Several people shifted in their chairs, glancing toward Marla as if waiting for an explanation that never came.

Monica adjusted her laptop and stopped typing, while Kyle closed the spreadsheet he had open, his shoulders tense.

The rhythm we had built over the last ten minutes dissipated into a murmur of side glances and silence.

We made it through the rest of the meetings on sheer determination, and I directed questions to specific people, kept them engaged with direct prompts, and paused often to let them contribute. A few offered feedback. Most said very little. Marla didn’t say a word.

When we finally wrapped, Monica gathered her things quickly and offered me a sympathetic glance on the way out. Kyle mumbled something about email follow-ups, and Elena shut her laptop and was the first to dash out of the room. One by one, they left until it was only me and Marla.

She stood, smoothing the front of her dress as she turned toward the door.

“Marla, hang back a second. I want to run through one of the vendor notes,” I said casually, but I watched her shoulders tense and her forehead wrinkle as she crossed her arms and leaned against the table like she had all the time in the world.

“Sure,” she mewled, and I got the sickening feeling I was looking at the person who messed with my documents.

The comment she made in the bathroom, the way she happened into my meeting late without remorse—it was too coincidental.

My gut told me she was the one responsible, but I had no clue why she would want to sabotage me.

The only thing I could think was that it was jealousy maybe?

I’d been given this job and she wanted it?

I walked to the head of the table, pulled a printout from my folder, then turned and walked back to stand closer to her. I didn’t hand it to her, but I said, “You’ve had access to the draft messaging documents for the Milan launch, correct?”

Her mouth pulled into an almost amused smirk. “That’s part of my job, Savannah.”

“So you’ve seen the version we sent up to Vanessa for review?” I turned it around, holding it out so she could see it, but I didn’t let her take it.

Marla tilted her head, and for a second, I thought she might feign confusion, but instead, she gave a single, deliberate nod and a sardonic shrug of her shoulder. “That’s the version we all signed off on.”

I kept my expression neutral, though my fingers curled around the edge of the folder. “Except the version that ended up in Vanessa’s inbox wasn’t the one I submitted.” I was a dog with a bone, locked on every inflection on her face, the slightest twitch, the way her eyes blinked languidly.

But she smiled wryly and said, “Sounds like someone made a mistake.” And when her eyes narrowed, I found myself getting angry and wanting to smack her.

“They did,” I said evenly, controlling my urges, “but I don’t think it was an accident.”

A quiet stretched between us, long enough to make the hum of the ceiling sound about as loud as a helicopter overhead. I waited, but she didn’t respond immediately other than to continue smirking and ignore my statement.

Marla picked up her tablet and tucked it under her arm. “You should be careful throwing around accusations without proof.” One eyebrow rose, which made my blood boil.

“And you should be careful modifying internal documents that go to the executive team. I’ll have you know I sent this to legal.

If they find out it was you, you’ll be terminated…

” I had no intention of letting this go.

Someone was trying to make me look bad for some reason, and the only thing I could think was that it was personal somehow.

She smirked as she turned away. “Have a nice afternoon, Boss ,” she said, accentuating my title with spite in her tone.

I watched her leave and waited until the door clicked shut, and then finally sat down. My back ached. My hands were trembling. But I had kept my voice calm, only because I knew escalating this to an argument would only give her more satisfaction and make me look less in control.

As I was wrapping up notes at my desk, my phone buzzed. I saw Isla’s name on the screen and picked up quickly, hoping she had word for me about the PDF hack and what I could expect.

“It’s official,” she announced. “HR is initiating a preliminary investigation. They’re pulling Marla’s access to the messaging archives for the next two weeks.”

I let out a long breath and closed my eyes for a second. “And the memo?”

“Your version is the one being logged. IT confirmed the metadata. HR will include it in the internal report.”

It wasn’t a full win in the way I’d hoped, but it was the first shift in my favor. I had something tangible to help me get some footing—an action backed by evidence. If legal was on my side, then I wouldn’t be terminated at least, which was what I really needed to know.

I thanked her and ended the call, then rose from my chair and smoothed my blouse. There was one more update that needed to be delivered in person, and I wasn’t looking forward to delivering it.

Dominic’s new office, set up by the team so he didn’t have to commute across town so often, was on the twelfth floor, tucked behind a glass wall with a view that made most of our other spaces feel like broom closets. His assistant wasn’t at her desk, so I knocked once and let myself in.

He was reviewing something on his tablet and didn’t look up right away. “Give me one second.”

I waited near the doorway until he set the device down and looked at me. His tie was undone, the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed to his elbows. He looked happy to see me, but I knew once I told him what I had to say, he wouldn’t be so pleased.

“Problem?” he asked when I didn’t immediately start talking.

“An update.” I stepped forward and laid the folder on his desk.

“Marla showed up late to the strategy session. She didn’t offer a reason or acknowledge her lateness…

I found out earlier this week that a memo I submitted—one tied to the Milan campaign—was tampered with.

The version that landed in Vanessa’s inbox wasn’t the same file I drafted. I went to legal about it…”