Kara
Six months. Six months of cheap apartments, painful physical therapy, and the slow, meticulous death of Kara Devlin. Cora is born from her ashes.
Today is Cora’s first day. Her first day back in the lion’s den, dressed as a lamb.
The lobby of Devlin Industries is exactly as I designed it. Cool marble, soaring glass, and the subtle scent of white tea and citrus pumped through the vents. My scent. A bitter taste fills my mouth.
“Right this way, Cora.” The HR manager, a relentlessly cheerful woman named Brenda, chirps. She was a junior coordinator when I hired her. Now she walks with an air of unearned importance.
She leads me to the elevators, her heels clicking an upbeat rhythm on the floor I had imported from Italy. “You’re going to love it here. The energy is just electric these days.”
“I’m very excited for the opportunity,” I say. The voice is part of the costume. Soft, a little breathy, easily dismissed. I keep my eyes downcast and let the limp I’ve perfected carry me forward. One foot dragging just slightly, a constant, physical reminder of my weakness.
“Ms. Devlin and Mr. Callahan have created such a dynamic culture,” Brenda continues as the elevator ascends. “It’s all about forward momentum. A new era.”
My fingers curl into a fist inside the pocket of my cheap polyester blazer. A new era, built on my grave.
The elevator doors open onto the executive floor. My floor. It’s different. The warm mahogany walls have been painted a sterile, glossy white. The art, carefully curated pieces I’d collected, has been replaced by massive, ego-stroking photos of Arabella modeling Devlin handbags.
“Your desk is just over here,” Brenda says, leading me into the open-plan bullpen that supports the creative department. Heads pop up over monitors. Eyes, curious and then quickly dismissive, rake over me. They see the scar that slices from my temple to my jaw. They see the limp. They see a charity case.
Gary, a designer I personally promoted to a senior role, stands near the coffee machine. He looks at me, and his face pinches in confusion, then pity. “Brenda, who’s this?”
“Everyone, this is Cora!” Brenda announces to the room. “She’s our new administrative assistant, here to support the whole team. Let’s all give her a warm Devlin welcome!”
A few people offer weak, insincere smiles. Gary just stares at my face.
“Welcome,” he says, his voice flat. He turns back to his coffee without another word. The welcome is anything but warm. It’s the chill of a tomb.
“Your desk is right here,” Brenda says, gesturing to a small cubicle tucked away in a dark corner, right by the noisy copy machine. The lowest rung on the ladder. “You’ll be reporting directly to Ms. Devlin, so you’ll want to stay on your toes.”
“I will,” I whisper, sinking into the lumpy, uncomfortable chair. This is my view now. Not the sprawling city skyline from a corner office, but the back of a filing cabinet.
And then, they arrive. A wave of expensive perfume and palpable arrogance precedes them.
Arabella sweeps into the room, Marcus at her side. Her arm is linked through his, her laughter loud and performative. She’s wearing a crimson dress that costs more than my entire six-month budget. Diamonds glitter at her ears. Marcus looks every bit the powerful COO, his suit perfectly tailored, his smile confident.
“The board meeting was a complete waste of time,” Arabella says, her voice carrying across the entire office. “Old men who don’t understand that luxury is a feeling, not a balance sheet.”
“I handled them, Bella,” Marcus says, his voice a low thrum of reassurance. He kisses her temple. “They just need to see the quarterly projections. Your vision is gold.”
They stop near Gary’s desk, a king and queen surveying their court. No one makes eye contact with them for more than a second. Fear and awe radiate from every desk.
My heart pounds against my ribs, a frantic drum of pure hatred. I force myself to breathe. Slow, steady. I am Cora. I am no one.
Arabella’s gaze sweeps the room, a bored monarch’s glance, and then it snags on me. Her perfect brow furrows. She unlinks her arm from Marcus’s and saunters over, her crimson heels silent on the plush carpet.
She doesn’t look at me. She looks at Brenda, who has reappeared at my side as if summoned.
“Brenda,” Arabella says, her voice like chilled champagne. “What is this?”
‘This.’ Not ‘who.’ ‘This.’
“This is Cora, Ms. Devlin,” Brenda stammers, her cheerfulness evaporating. “The new administrative assistant. Per your request for additional support.”
Arabella’s eyes finally drop to me. She takes in the limp polyester suit, the scar, the downcast gaze. A flicker of disgust crosses her face before being replaced by a mask of saccharine pity.
“Oh,” she says. “Right. The… support.” She makes the word sound dirty.
Marcus approaches, his gaze lingering on my scar for a moment too long. Is there a flicker of recognition? A ghost of a memory? No. He sees what everyone else sees: a broken thing.
“Good to have you with us,” he says, the words rote and meaningless. He doesn’t offer a hand. He’s already turning his attention back to Arabella.
“Well, ‘Cora’,” Arabella says, drawing my name out like an insult. “I hope you’re a fast learner. I don’t have time for incompetence.”
“No, ma’am. Ms. Devlin,” I correct myself quickly, adding to the persona of a nervous, bumbling employee. “I’m a very hard worker.”
Her lips curl into a smirk. It’s not a smile. It’s the baring of teeth. “Good. My office is an absolute disaster. The filing for the Callahan collaboration is a mess. I want every document sorted, cross-referenced, and digitized. Financials, supplier contracts, logistical analyses, every single design spec from the initial pitch.”
My breath catches. The Callahan collaboration is their biggest project. A joint venture with our largest competitor, a deal that will make or break the company’s entire fiscal year. Access to those files is access to the company’s entire nervous system.
“The deadline for the final proposal is tomorrow,” she adds, a casual flick of her wrist. “So I’ll need it all on my desk by the time I arrive in the morning.”
An impossible task. A test designed for failure.
Brenda pales. “Ms. Devlin, that’s hundreds of documents…”
“Was I talking to you, Brenda?” Arabella snaps without looking at her.
Brenda flinches and shuts her mouth.
Arabella’s cold eyes lock back on me. “Is that a problem, Cora?”
Here it is. My first test. The old Kara would have argued. She would have pointed out the logistical insanity of the request. But Cora is not Kara.
Cora is obedient.
“No, Ms. Devlin,” I say, my voice steady despite the rage boiling in my veins. “Not at all. First thing in the morning.”
A glimmer of surprise, then satisfaction, appears in her eyes. She enjoys breaking people. She thinks she’s breaking me.
“See that you do,” she says, turning away dismissively. She takes Marcus’s arm again. “Darling, let’s get lunch. I’m suddenly starving.”
They walk away, their laughter echoing behind them, leaving me in the silent, judgmental wake of their passing.
The entire office is staring at me. I can feel the weight of their pity. ‘Poor woman,’ their looks say. ‘Eaten alive on her first day.’
I ignore them. I get to my feet, the practiced limp feeling more real than ever, and walk toward Arabella’s office.
My office.
Pushing the heavy glass door open, I’m hit by a wave of alien perfume. Jasmine and something musky. It smells like her. The room has been completely redone. White leather furniture, chrome accents, and a giant, abstract painting that looks like a blood splatter on the wall where my father’s portrait used to hang.
And on a massive table in the center of the room, a mountain of files. Binders, folders, stacks of loose paper. It’s chaos. It’s a punishment.
I walk over to the pile, my hand tracing the spine of a thick blue binder. The label, in Arabella’s loopy, arrogant script, reads: ‘Callahan Collaboration: Supply Chain Logistics.’
I pick it up. My hands don’t shake. The humiliation that burned my cheeks moments ago cools into something hard and sharp. A tool. A weapon.
Arabella thinks she gave me an impossible, menial task. She thinks she’s burying me in paperwork. She has no idea. She just handed me the keys to her kingdom. She just gave me the blueprint for her destruction.
