Page 21 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

I step into Finch Corp with my blazer crisp, my heels decisive. The elevator chimes open, and I move with the confidence of someone who’s spent the night convincing myself that nothing can unravel what I’ve rebuilt.

Rain streaks down the glass exterior of the building behind me, grey smudges over the skyline. But inside, everything is white light and ambition, just the way I like it.

My stride is fluid and focused until I notice my friend Beth.

The usually chatty junior consultant stands stiff by the printer, eyes avoiding mine.

We usually keep things professional at work but taking this far can't be normal.

Jay, across the bullpen, taps frantically on his keyboard, his shoulders hunched in tension. A conversation halts behind me the moment I step past.

The energy has shifted.

I reach my office. Close the door. The quiet inside is almost suspicious. I set my bag down, pull my laptop free, and turn to the window. The city looks like it is watching me, blurred and ominous through the wet glass.

A knock.

Jay steps in without waiting for me to answer. His face is pale, phone in hand.

“You need to see this.”

He places the device in front of me. A headline blinks up from the screen, bright red font:

FINCH INDUSTRIES SENIOR CONSULTANT LINKED TO ILLEGAL PAC FUNDING.

“What the hell is this?” I ask flatly.

Jay doesn’t answer. He simply swipes through screenshots. Email chains. Documents.

“They’re saying you facilitated backdoor contributions through a shell account. That you promised legislative returns.”

I grab the phone, scrolling.

There are quotes, words pulled from legitimate internal messages, now framed beside fabricated replies, spliced and rearranged like digital ransom notes.

My voice catches. “These aren’t real.”

“They look real,” Jay says quietly. “And they’ve gone viral.”

A sharp knock at my door again. Beth this time, clutching a folder like a life raft. “Emergency meeting. Conference room C.”

"Okay," I stand up.

"I'm sorry about earlier, I just didn't know what to say." Beth says and immediately starts walking away.

"We'll catch up later," reply conclusively.

I follow. My legs move on autopilot.

Inside Conference C, Legal, PR, and senior execs have already gathered. Finch himself isn’t there. But his absence is louder than any accusation.

“Before we begin,” I say sharply, “I want to go on record stating that these emails are doctored. I’ve never sent or authorized any communication even remotely resembling what’s been published.”

The PR head, Nora, lifts a hand. “We understand your position, Vera. But from an optics standpoint, we need to pause your involvement on all active lobbying files.”

“You’re suspending me?”

“No,” says Legal, “but your name can’t appear on anything until the internal review clears your name. IT is combing through the archives as we speak.”

“And what happens in the meantime?” I snap. “My clients walk?”

Nora gives me a sympathetic look that feels more like pity. “They’ve already started calling.”

I stand straighter. “Then let me speak to them. Let me explain this isn’t—”

“We can’t allow that,” Legal cuts in. “Not until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

It is surgical, the way my credibility is stripped away in real time.

Beth won’t meet my eyes on the way out.

I return to my office and sit without realizing I’ve moved. The quiet now feels cavernous. Like the floor might open beneath me.

I open my laptop. Log into the archive. The real emails, the originals, are there, in plain sight. But side-by-side with the falsified versions online, even I can admit the fakes look polished enough to pass.

I haven’t clicked on my encrypted messages in days. The last one left me cold. Shaken.

But now, I reopen the audio file. My stalker’s voice, filtered and distant, but distinct:

“You’re walking into something that won’t end the way you think. Walk away from the client. Now. I won’t warn you again.”

I inhale sharply.

Is this…him? Is he trying to warn me? Or is this the setup? Is this the punishment?

I lean back, closing my eyes.

He said he’d known me for a long time. He said I was walking into danger.

And now, the floor is vanishing beneath my feet.

***

The hallway outside is silent. My name whispers just once, quickly, before the voice disappears.

I stand, walk to the door, and lock it.

Then I pick up my phone and dial IT directly. “I want a full scan on all external logins and archived messages in my cloud. I don’t care if it’s after-hours. Pull everything.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s already in motion.”

I hang up.

And finally allow myself one moment. One breath.

I feel it like a storm in my chest. The knowledge that someone has used my life like a stage. That someone has bent perception just enough to ruin me.

I’m not safe here.

And I’m not in control anymore.

I turn slowly toward the corner of my office, where a small camera had once been installed during renovations. It had been long since deactivated.

At least I thought it had. I stare into the lens.

And for a moment, I whisper aloud, “Why me?”

The light stays red.

***

My work calendar wipes itself while I am in the middle of an email.

I blink at the screen, the blinking cursor frozen mid-sentence, and the entire event list flickers once and vanishes. Just…gone. Strategy sessions, staff briefings, and internal calls all scrubbed like they were never mine.

When I click into the client dashboard, it redirects me to a restricted access screen. You do not have the required clearance level to view this material.

I read it repeatedly.

The silence in the bullpen presses in on me like a slow, deliberate crush.

I stand up. Walk through the office like a ghost wearing a fitted suit.

Beth intercepts me at the kitchen corner, holding a paper cup of coffee with both hands like it might anchor her.

“Hey,” Beth says, her voice tight. “Are you okay?”

“No.” I don’t sugarcoat it. “Someone’s rewriting my life and signing my name at the bottom. My reputation is hanging by a thread. And now I’m being digitally erased.”

Beth’s expression collapses, a painful blend of guilt and helplessness.

“I know this is wrong. I believe you. I just….” She trails off. “Everyone’s scared, V. Legal’s saying not to touch it until they finish the audit.”

“I am the audit.”

Beth doesn’t answer.

“I covered for you when you were three weeks behind last quarter,” I say, the words spilling faster now. “I signed my name under yours when you forgot to update the annual filing. I backed you when you—”

“I know,” Beth snaps, eyes glistening. “But they told me if I keep defending you, I’ll be looped in too.”

There it is, self-preservation. The final switch.

I step back. “Thank you for your honesty.”

I leave Finch Industries without another word.

The air outside feels like static.

Then I see them.

Across the street. A woman with a long-lens camera. A man holding a mic, pretending to check his phone. A beat-up van that hadn’t been there this morning, now parked directly across from the revolving doors.

My name is in their mouths before I reach the sidewalk.

“Vera Calloway, did you knowingly coordinate illegal donations?”

“Is it true you’ve been blacklisted from Capitol Gate?” “

“Do you deny any romantic involvement with campaign leaders—”

I shove past the cluster, head low, keys digging into my palm.

By the time I slam my apartment door shut, my chest is aching.

My phone vibrates violently, three voicemails. I don’t listen. Delete them in a row. If they can’t say it to my face, they don’t matter.

The inbox is a battlefield. Dozens of subject lines pulsing in blood-red font:

URGENT: Statement Needed

FINCH PR: Immediate Response Required

Interview Request: Channel 7 News

And quietly, a single text from a blocked number.

“Back off before this becomes worse.”

I stare at the words until they blur.

Back off what? The client? The case? My life?

I toss the phone onto the couch and stand in the center of the room, frozen in clothes that still smell like the office.

My walls are clean. My space is sterile. But I can feel it, eyes again. Not his this time. Someone else’s. Or maybe him. Or maybe no one.

There are no footprints in my rug. No bent curtains. No ajar drawers. But the paranoia has roots now.

I move to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Don’t drink it.

I keep thinking about the message I sent before the scandal hit.

He warned me.

And I’d ignored it.

The thought feels like treason.

The buzz in my mind is only broken by a new email notification.

Subject: Need to talk. Privately.

The sender’s name is a familiar one—not Finch staff, not a journalist. Elias Boone, junior partner at the lobbying firm. Young, competent, the kind of guy who tries too hard at cocktail mixers but actually reads the footnotes.

I click.

Vera, someone’s been asking questions about your past. Not the version you gave HR. The real one. Thought you should know.

Be careful who you trust.

My stomach drops.

My past.

Not the college transcript or the résumé bullet points, my real past.

Foster records. The sealed files. The ones I never mentioned. Not even to Finch.

Who would’ve known where to look?

I walk to my bathroom, shut the door, lean against the counter.

Stare at my own reflection.

The makeup is flawless. The face is clean.

But inside, everything is tilting.

Someone is pulling strings behind the glass.

And I have no clue how many threads have already snapped.

***

I don’t open the blinds the next morning.

Let them speculate. Let the cameras wait. Let the inbox fill with noise.

I sit at my kitchen table, one knee tucked to my chest, cold coffee on the counter, laptop untouched. I haven’t slept, but exhaustion has twisted itself into something electric. Not fear. Not anymore.

Resolve.

Because whatever they think they are doing to me—they don’t know who I really am.

They saw the surface: the strategist, the neat résumé, the curated sound bites.

None of that carried me through the foster homes. None of that had held me together when I sat on courtroom benches waiting for people who never came.

And none of that is going to save me now.

I need the version of myself that I buried so deep under decorum and professionalism I forgot it had teeth.

The wolves have arrived.

And I will not bleed quietly.

***

My return to Finch Industries feels like walking into a funeral no one admits is mine.

Beth doesn’t meet my eyes. Jay offers a tight nod. People part around me in the hall, but not out of respect, out of dread. Out of fear that my downfall might be contagious.

The walls of glass, once symbols of clarity and transparency, now make me feel like I am on display. A specimen under scrutiny.

I pass a group by the water cooler whispering. They don’t stop when I look at them.

By the time I reach the elevator to the executive floor, a bitter laugh is clawing at my throat.

They have already decided I am guilty.

My office door is ajar. Someone has been inside.

I enter, scanning for disturbances. Nothing is broken. Nothing taken. But the subtle shifts are there—the pen holder moved two inches left, the chair angled not quite how I left it.

And my calendar? Still blank.

I open my laptop. The email from Elias is still there. I reread it once, twice. The words haven’t changed.

Someone’s been asking questions about your past.

I click into the firm’s shared database. Search for my name. Find it listed under “Hold: Internal Review.”

Two levels above “Suspension.”

Three above “Termination.”

I exhale slowly, hands clenched at my sides.

They’re freezing me out without the guts to say the word.

Cowards.

***

Back home that night, my apartment no longer feels like refuge.

It’s too quiet. The kind of silence that wraps around you like a warning.

The press vans are gone, for now, but their ghosts linger. I keep expecting a knock. A flashbulb. Another alert.

I peel off my blazer and collapse onto the couch, one leg hanging over the edge, the other pressed into the cushions like I might fall through them.

My phone buzzes once. A notification.

New voicemail. No caller ID.

I stare at it. Don’t play it. Not yet.

I’m not ready to hear another threat. Or worse, another silence.

Instead, I open the window. The city beyond feels different tonight. Muted. Like it, too, is watching.

And somewhere out there…he is…

The man I don’t want to think about.

The one who warned me.

The one I can’t stop thinking about.

I grip the edge of the sill and lean forward, letting the air sting my face.

What scares me most isn’t the scandal.

It is the realization that the only person who might understand this moment—the only one dangerous enough to fight this war for me—is the same person who might be orchestrating it.

Or maybe…maybe he isn’t.

Maybe he’s watching. Waiting. Protecting.

I hate the hope that blooms in my chest at the thought.

I hate how much I want it to be true.

I press my forehead to the glass.

Don’t be weak.

I turn back toward the room and pick up my phone. Finally press play.

“You need to be careful, Vera.

“They’re not after your job. They’re after your history. That means they’re not random.

“You have three days. Use them.”

The voice is masked. Digitally flattened. His threat dressed up as advice.

I press my palm to my mouth. I laugh just once, a short, hollow sound.

Three days.

The countdown has started.

I look up at the ceiling, toward no one, and whisper like I’m speaking to a ghost:

“Then come and watch. Watch me survive this, too.”