Aubree sat at her cramped desk in the administrative wing, her skin the color of old chalk.
She typed a thick stack of expense reports into the system, her jaw locked tight as she fought the relentless, rolling nausea in her gut.
A suffocating wave of Chanel No. 5 hit her senses before the footsteps stopped.
Brittany Wolf, the PR Director, stood in front of Aubree's desk. Her red-soled heels clicked sharply on the linoleum.
Brittany slammed a plastic cup of iced Americano down right next to Aubree's keyboard. The dark brown liquid sloshed over the rim, splattering across the freshly printed financial summaries.
Aubree's brow twitched. She didn't say a word. She pulled a tissue from the box and methodically wiped the wet stains off the paper.
Her lack of reaction made Brittany's face flush with irritation.
Brittany raised her voice, making sure the entire open-plan office could hear. "Are you entirely useless, Aubree? You can't even get a simple medium-roast right?"
Heads popped up over cubicle walls. No one spoke. No one was going to defend a bottom-tier assistant against the PR Director who was currently sleeping with the CEO.
Aubree stood up slowly. Her legs felt heavy. "Fetching coffee is not in my job description. And I am currently processing the urgent financial reports for the President's office."
Brittany's eyes narrowed. She lunged forward and snatched the damp reports right out of Aubree's hands.
"Don't use the President's office to threaten me, you little rat," Brittany mocked.
She leaned in close, intentionally tilting her neck. A dark, purplish bruise sat right above her collarbone.
"Ell was a little too rough in the penthouse last night," Brittany whispered loudly. "He gets so demanding."
Aubree stared at the fake hickey. She had been in that penthouse last night. She knew exactly what Ell had been doing.
The sheer absurdity, combined with the overpowering perfume, triggered a violent spasm in Aubree's stomach.
Her face turned a sickly green. She clamped both hands over her mouth, shoved Brittany hard in the shoulder, and sprinted toward the restrooms.
Brittany stumbled backward, her heels catching on the carpet. She barely caught herself on a desk.
"You uneducated psycho!" Brittany shrieked at Aubree's retreating back.
The silver doors of the private executive elevator slid open.
Ell stepped out, surrounded by a flock of senior managers. His cold eyes landed exactly on the scene: Aubree shoving Brittany out of the way.
Brittany spotted him instantly. Her angry face melted into a mask of pure, trembling victimhood. She rushed over to Ell, her eyes welling with fake tears.
"Ell," she whimpered, touching his arm. "Your assistant just attacked me for no reason."
Ell didn't look at Brittany. His gaze shot down the hall toward the restroom doors. His jaw ticked. He was absolutely certain Aubree was throwing a jealous tantrum over last night's divorce papers.
Inside the restroom, Aubree gripped the edges of the porcelain sink. She dry-heaved violently, her knuckles turning white. Her throat burned with stomach acid. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
She turned on the cold water and splashed it ruthlessly against her face. The freezing temperature shocked her system back to reality.
She stared at her pale, hollow reflection in the mirror. You cannot fall apart here.
The restroom door swung open. The HR Director walked in, her eyes immediately dropping to Aubree's slightly hunched posture and the hands resting near her stomach.
Aubree's pulse spiked. She quickly reached into her pocket and pulled out a small plastic bottle of antacids.
"Severe stomach ulcer," Aubree lied, forcing a weak, self-deprecating smile. "The stress is killing me."
The HR Director's suspicious gaze lingered for a second before turning entirely apathetic.
"The President's office just issued a directive," the HR Director said flatly. "They are furious about those delayed financial reports. Don't tell me you let a spilled coffee ruin your entire workflow. Because of your gross negligence, your performance rating for this quarter has been downgraded to an F."
Aubree's fingernails dug into her palms so hard the skin almost broke.
An F rating meant zero bonus. It meant she was one step away from losing her medical insurance.
When Aubree walked back to the administrative floor, half of her desk was empty. Her files, her computer monitor, her project folders-all gone.
Brittany leaned against the glass wall of the President's suite, sipping the iced Americano. She offered Aubree a slow, victorious smirk.
The intercom on Aubree's desk buzzed. Mr. Vance's robotic voice filled the air.
"Ms. Daniels. Report to the sub-basement archive room immediately. You are reassigned to sort the decade-old voided contracts."
It was a corporate execution. The surrounding coworkers whispered, looking at her like she was a walking corpse.
Aubree didn't argue. She pulled a cardboard box from under her desk and swept her few remaining pens and a mug into it. Her movements were sharp, efficient, and entirely devoid of emotion.
She carried the box toward the freight elevator.
As she passed the President's suite, she glanced through the gaps in the blinds. Ell was sitting at his massive mahogany desk, signing a document. He didn't even lift his head.
Aubree looked away. A cold, dead smile touched her lips.
She pressed the down button. The heavy metal doors of the freight elevator closed, sealing her in.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out. It was a burner phone. An encrypted message flashed on the black screen, sent from a server in Europe.
The package from Geneva has been intercepted. Initiate protocol B.
Aubree stared at the glowing text. The exhaustion in her eyes vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp, predatory gleam.
Her thumbs flew across the keyboard.
Proceed as planned.
