Kara
The hours bleed together. My world shrinks to the scent of paper, the low hum of the copy machine, and the glow of a monitor. I work through the night, fueled by lukewarm coffee and a rage so cold it feels like a second skeleton holding me upright.
This isn't just filing. It's archaeology. I am digging through the ruins of my own company, unearthing the story of its decay. Arabella's directives are scrawled in the margins of financial reports, all demanding more spending, more glamour, less oversight. Marcus’s notes are cautious counterpoints, consistently overruled.
By dawn, the mountain is a series of neat, digitized stacks on a hard drive. I know their suppliers, their margins, their shipping routes. I know every crack in the foundation because I laid the first stones.
I’m wiping down the last of the dust from my desk when the office begins to stir. People walk past my corner, their eyes sliding over me as if I’m part of the furniture. It’s exactly what I want.
Just before nine, Arabella’s personal assistant, a perpetually terrified young woman named Chloe, skitters over to my desk. Her hands are shaking.
“Cora? Ms. Devlin needs coffee for the Callahan meeting. A full tray. She said you are to bring it in. Exactly at nine-fifteen.”
“Of course,” I say, my voice soft. An errand. A servant’s task. Perfect.
“And please, please don’t be late. She’s… on edge. Mr. Callahan is already here.”
I nod reassuringly. “I’ll be right on time.”
In the kitchenette, I prepare the tray. Six porcelain cups, a silver pot of steaming coffee, sugar, cream. It’s heavy. As I lift it, my leg, the one I’ve trained to be weak, gives a genuine, protesting twinge from the long hours of sitting.
I walk slowly, carefully, my limp more pronounced than usual. I can hear the murmur of voices from the glass-walled conference room. My old conference room.
I push the door open with my shoulder. The room falls silent. All eyes turn to me.
There he is. Hunter Callahan. He’s exactly as I remember from industry events in my past life. Dark suit, sharper angles. His hair is black, his eyes a piercing, intelligent gray. He radiates a stillness, a coiled power that makes Marcus, sitting beside him, look like a boy playing dress-up.
Arabella is at the head of the table, mid-sentence, her expression souring as she sees me. “Put it on the sideboard, Cora. And be quiet about it.”
I nod, my eyes fixed on my task. I move toward the polished mahogany sideboard against the far wall. I’m halfway there when my ankle chooses this exact moment to buckle. A real, searing pain shoots up my calf.
I stumble. The tray tilts. For a horrifying, slow-motion second, I try to save it.
I fail.
Hot coffee sloshes over the silver rim, directly onto Hunter Callahan’s impeccably tailored trousers. He lets out a sharp, surprised hiss as the liquid hits his thigh. Porcelain cups clatter and shatter on the marble floor.
Silence. Absolute, deafening silence, broken only by the drip of coffee onto the floor.
“You useless, clumsy moron!” Arabella screeches, jumping to her feet. The mask of the elegant executive is gone, replaced by the face of the spoiled, vicious girl I grew up with. “Look what you’ve done!”
I’m on my knees, fumbling with napkins, my face burning with a humiliation that is ninety percent performance and ten percent genuine horror. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m so, so sorry. My leg… it just gave out.”
Hunter Callahan stands, looking down at the dark stain spreading on his gray suit. His face is a granite mask of annoyance. “It’s fine.”
The words are clipped. Final. He is dismissing the incident, me, all of it.
“It is not fine!” Arabella snaps, her voice high and shrill. She’s not just angry about the coffee. She’s angry that her display of power in front of her rival has been ruined. She turns her fury on me. “Are you brain damaged as well as crippled? Do you have any idea how much that suit costs? Get out. Get out of my sight before I fire you.”
Marcus stands, trying to play the diplomat. “Bella, it was an accident. Let’s just get this cleaned up.”
“You stay out of this, Marcus,” she spits, not even looking at him. Her eyes are locked on me, enjoying my pathetic display on the floor amidst the broken china.
I keep my head bowed. I let a tear fall. “Yes, Ms. Devlin. I’m so sorry, Ms. Devlin.”
Hunter Callahan dabs at his leg with a napkin provided by a panicked Marcus. “Forget it. Let’s get back to the Q4 distribution logistics. As I was saying, the Shanghai hub is our most efficient option.”
This is it. The opening.
As I gather the last of the broken porcelain, my voice comes out, a timid whisper, barely audible.
“Excuse me.”
Arabella whirls around. “What did you just say? I told you to get out.”
I look up, not at her, but at the dark stain on Hunter Callahan’s trousers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak. It’s just… you mentioned Shanghai.”
Hunter’s gray eyes flick down to me, cold and impatient. “We did. What about it?”
I take a breath, keeping the tremor in my voice. “The primary distribution hub in Shanghai puts the entire project at the mercy of the Q4 typhoon season, which historically creates a six-week bottleneck.”
I pause. I have his attention. His eyes have sharpened, the annoyance replaced by a flicker of something else. Analysis.
I deliver the second sentence, still in that same apologetic whisper. “Moving the primary hub to Singapore completely bypasses that meteorological risk.”
I stand, using the sideboard to steady myself, my limp pronounced. I look him directly in the eye, for just a second, and deliver the final blow.
“It also shortens the shipping lane to your European markets by three days.”
Silence again. But this time, it’s a different kind. It’s the sound of a gear shifting in a powerful engine. It’s the sound of a thought landing.
Hunter Callahan doesn’t move. His gaze is fixed on me, but he’s not looking at the scar or the limp anymore. He’s looking at my mind. He looks from me to the complex logistical chart on the screen, and then back to me.
Arabella breaks the spell, her voice dripping with venomous disbelief. “And what would you know about shipping lanes? You’re the help.”
“She’s right,” Marcus says slowly, looking at the chart. “The Singapore route… it’s faster. Why didn’t our team flag this?”
“Because our team is supposed to be competent!” Arabella hisses, shooting a murderous glare at her own logistics director, who suddenly looks very pale.
She turns back to me, her fury magnified by the public humiliation of being corrected by her lowest employee. “I don’t know who you think you are, offering your ridiculous opinions in a meeting that is so far above your pay grade you can’t even comprehend it. Clean this mess and get out.”
“Yes, Ms. Devlin,” I whisper, my eyes returning to the floor. I did my part. The seed is planted.
I gather the last of the debris and back out of the room, not looking at anyone. But I can feel it. A weight on my back. A stare.
As the heavy door clicks shut behind me, I lean against the cool wall of the hallway, my heart pounding. I risk a glance back through the glass panel in the door.
Arabella is yelling at Marcus. Marcus is staring at the presentation screen, a frown on his face. And Hunter Callahan… Hunter Callahan is not looking at either of them. He is staring directly at the door, at the spot where I just stood, his expression unreadable, his sharp eyes lingering for a moment too long.
