Chapter 3
The next morning at work, I moved through the office like a ghost of my former self. On the outside, I was still Maya Chen, dedicated marketing coordinator—smiling at colleagues, responding to emails, attending meetings. Inside, I was someone else entirely: a woman calculating, planning, gathering intelligence on the people who had betrayed her.
I needed proof—concrete evidence of Jake and Sophia's affair and whatever professional misconduct they might be engaged in. My suspicions about "Project X" had only grown stronger. The way Sophia had tried to undermine my Williams campaign presentation wasn't just professional rivalry; it felt personal, targeted.
Around noon, I was organizing files in the marketing department's shared drive when a soft knock interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see Chloe Evans, Jake's administrative assistant, hovering in my doorway. Her expression was hesitant, almost pained.
"Maya? Do you have a minute?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. Chloe closed the door behind her before sitting down, her movements cautious as if she feared being seen.
"I've been... I've noticed some things," she began, fidgeting with the sleeve of her blouse. "Things that don't seem right."
My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression neutral. "What kind of things?"
Chloe reached into her portfolio and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. "Jake's been having me book the small conference room on the sixteenth floor for late meetings. Always with the same initials in the notes section." She slid the paper across my desk. "S.B."
Sophia Blake.
I unfolded the printout—a calendar showing two months of after-hours room bookings, all with those damning initials beside them. Some as late as 10 PM. My fingers tightened on the paper, crinkling its edges.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Chloe's eyes met mine, filled with genuine sympathy. "Because you've always been kind to me. And because... this isn't right. What they're doing."
I carefully folded the paper and tucked it into my bag. "Thank you, Chloe. I appreciate your... discretion."
She nodded once before standing. "I never gave you that. If anyone asks."
After she left, I sat motionless, staring at the wall. The printout was like a burning coal in my bag—painful to touch, but impossible to ignore. It confirmed what I already knew, but seeing the pattern laid out so clearly, the premeditation of their deception, made my chest ache with renewed betrayal.
But I couldn't dwell on the pain. Not now. I had a networking mixer to attend.
* * *
The company's monthly mixer was held in the building's rooftop lounge—a sleek space with panoramic views of Los Angeles. I arrived fashionably late, having taken extra time with my appearance. The navy blue dress I wore was one Jake had always complimented, its neckline modest but flattering, the material clinging in all the right places. My armor for the battlefield.
I spotted Derek Hamilton by the buffet table, alone and nursing what looked like scotch. Perfect. I made my way toward him, pausing occasionally to exchange pleasantries with colleagues. When I reached the buffet, I selected a few appetizers, positioning myself next to him.
"The crab cakes are surprisingly good," I said, not looking at him directly.
Derek glanced at me, surprise registering briefly in his eyes. We'd never spoken much beyond professional necessities. "I'll take your word for it. I'm more interested in the open bar."
I smiled, taking a sip of my wine. "Long week?"
"You could say that." He swirled his scotch thoughtfully. "The Westridge account mysteriously pulled half their budget yesterday. Third client this quarter to scale back after initial enthusiasm."
I tilted my head. "That's strange. Especially with how well your team's been performing."
"Strange is one word for it." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Suspicious is another."
I lowered my voice, leaning slightly closer. "I've been noticing some... unusual patterns myself. Particularly around certain talent acquisition decisions."
Derek's posture shifted subtly, his attention now fully on me. "What kind of patterns?"
"The kind that might explain your client troubles." I met his gaze directly. "I have some insider knowledge that might interest you."
He studied me for a long moment, clearly weighing his words. Finally, he moved closer, his voice dropping to ensure only I could hear him.
"Three major clients pulled significant portions of their budgets after meetings where Sophia Blake was inexplicably present. Meetings she had no business attending." His jaw tightened. "But I can't prove she's behind it. She's too careful, too connected."
I nodded slowly, processing this information. It confirmed my growing suspicion that Jake and Sophia's relationship wasn't just a personal betrayal—it was professional misconduct with far-reaching consequences.
"What if," I said carefully, "we could prove it?"
Something flickered in Derek's eyes—interest, certainly, but also wariness. "That would be... valuable information. But why would you help me with this?"
I took another sip of my wine, buying time to formulate my response. The truth—that I wanted revenge on the woman sleeping with my boyfriend—seemed too personal, too emotional to share with this man I barely knew.
"Let's just say I have my reasons," I replied, "and they align perfectly with yours."
Across the room, I caught sight of Jake entering with Sophia a few steps behind him—separate but synchronized, like dancers performing a well-rehearsed routine of discretion. My grip tightened on my wine glass.
Derek followed my gaze, his expression hardening as he observed them. "Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting."
I turned back to him, my decision made. "We should talk more. Somewhere private."