Eva's pov
It is almost midnight but I'm still awake. My desk feels like a battlefield bunker. The soft lamp glow illuminates stacks of files and my laptop. Every paper, every folder, is a weapon—if I use it right. My heart paces like a trapped bird as I sift through the stolen data Luca sent me earlier today.
I found what I'm looking for: an email from Katherine Wolfe instructing someone to disregard Eva Sinclair's project reports. Proof she's deliberately sabotaging me from the inside. My stomach clenches at the taste of victory—and fear.
I sit up straighter when my phone buzzes. A message from Luca: *"Drop is ready. Come get it."* I swallow and text back: *"On my way."*
I close my door behind me. My walk is steady, but my pulse throbs in my neck. If anyone spots me too often with Luca, suspicion will bloom. Especially by this time.
I reach the service elevator, press the button. The door opens with a hush. I go, floor 5. No eyes on me. I step out, hall light dull and empty. Room 512. The knock is light.
The door cracks open. Luca's face appears—sharp cheekbones, exhaustion under his eyes. "You got it?"
I nod, stepping in. He pushes a thumb drive into my hand quickly. "This one has the network access logs. You'll see who Katherine's been emailing. It's all there."
I slip it into my pocket. "Thanks." My voice is calm. I fight the urge to say more.
Luca pauses. "Are you sure this is enough? You still plan to use that password Damien left?"
I hesitate. I nearly logged into it this morning. A company-wide drive, with access limited to top‑level execs. If I poke around and raise red flags… I could lose everything. "Not yet," I whisper. "It's a trap. I feel it."
He leans back against the wall. "Yeah. Me too."
He studies me in silence. Then turns away. "Be careful."
I nod again. "Always."
***
Back at my room, I slide the USB under a stack of folders. Damien's market‑analysis assignment rests to my right. I glance at it. *"Due tomorrow."* His name sits above in bold: Damien Wolfe.
I catch my own shaky breath. That paper. He left the company password next to it. Desktop sticky note:
`Admin_W.E.2025!`
A simple phrase that packs a punch. He expects me to use it. But using the password gives me access to every executive file—pulling it would be easy. But if Katherine is watching, she'll know. If Damien is testing me… I can't fall for it.
I slide the sticky note aside. I focus instead on building my own market insights using public sources. Feels safe. But not enough.
***
The next day, in the big glass-walled conference room, I stood at the front with twelve execs including Katherine, Miranda, and Mr. Lowell, staring at me. Mr. Marshall from legal sits off to one side. Damien is at the head of the table—leaning forward, arms folded, watching me.
I clear my throat. My palms sweat inside my jacket pockets. I shut down the presentation slideshow.
"Here are my findings based on market trends and company sales bulletins," I say. My voice is calm, professional. "Given data from Q1 shows a 12% drop in our social media engagement with target demographics, we should re‑tool our ad strategy. I've outlined possible partnerships, tested headlines, and competitor intel in your packets."
I hand out laminated pages. Their eyes flick to my reports. I see nods from some, raised brows from others. Katherine watches me—her face cool porcelain. Her lips don't move, but her eyes sting.
Damien's piercing gaze meets mine. I don't flinch. I let a slight pulse cross behind my eyes. He leans in, quiet. "Your suggestion on the branding ad… why choose that channel over our internal options?"
I flatten the page with one hand. "Because it's unregulated, cost‑effective, and we reach twice as many ideal clients per dollar spent." My tone stays firm. They want certainty? I give it.
He nods slowly. A small crease forms between his brows. He's analyzing my mind. I spin to the slideshow. "Next, partnerships with niche influencers—"
A knock at the glass door. The assistant pokes her head in. "Damien, Mr. Caldwell says he needs a word upstairs."
Damien stands. "We'll continue in five minutes," he announces. He finishes his water, then gives me a look—a quick flick of respect, or is it caution? My chest tightens.
He steps out with the assistant. I watch him leave.
Behind me, Katherine leans to Miranda. "She's getting bold," she whispers, loud enough for me to hear.
Miranda nods and smirks. "Too bold."
My jaw tightens. I turn and finish the pitch with confidence I don't quite feel. When they applaud, I musters a calm smile. But inside I burn.
***
Later, after the meeting, I retreat to the empty kitchenette. My hand shakes as I pour coffee. I glance at the dropped sticky note: the password still sits there.
I swipe at it; nothing happens. I know I should remove it, but something holds me back. Damien is watching. And if I ignore it completely, they'll know I know.
Luca's text buzzes again: *"Just for the record, you're doing fine."*
I tap: *"Thanks"*
Luca's response: *"Remember why you're here."*
I close my eyes and breathe.
Me.
My mother's legacy.
My revenge.
***
An hour later, I walk the hallway and spot Damien heading back. He stops. "Can I have a word?" he asks, voice low and firm.
"Of course." I follow him into the corridor.
We walk several steps in uneasy silence. Then he stops before the elevator. He turns to me, voice hushed: "Why didn't you use it?"
He lifts his chin toward the sticky note still planted on my desk.
My heart thuds. "Because sometimes the test isn't to prove I *can* solve it—but to prove I *won't* be manipulated."
He studies my face. His gaze softens—not hot, just something new. Something like curiosity mixed with respect.
He nods slowly. "That was… wise."
My chest relaxes. I manage a small smile. "Thank you."
Silence. He steps back. "I'm counting on you."
I feel it—his attention shifts, awareness deepening. "I won't let you down," I say.
He gives me one last look. Then he walks away.
***
At home that night, I spread the stolen USB data across my kitchen table. Emails, logs, connections between Katherine and unknown execs. It paints a picture of a conspiracy rooted deep in Wolfe power.
I type up a report. I attach crucial files and send them to Luca. Then I send the same to a private news outlet—anonymous tip. If someone else outs them, I'll still have leverage.
My phone rings late at night—ID says "Damien W." My stomach flips. I let it ring. Let him leave a message.
Morning: voicemail reads, "Eva, good morning and be early to work today. We need to talk about tomorrow's strategy meeting. Please come by as soon as you can."
I deleted it. I won't rush toward him.
I don't need permission.
I'm not just surviving his world.
I'm taking over it.