As I sit in a presentation room on the tenth floor, surrounded by Tim’s team who flutter around like bees protecting their honeycomb, one thing becomes abundantly clear: these people would sooner hand over their firstborn children than show me what they’re actually working on.
Sharpie markers squeak against the whiteboard in high-pitched as every idea is shouted out loud and written down as if they’re just beginning to brainstorm the entire campaign from scratch.
The team breaks into smaller groups, huddling over notepads and laptops with screens angled away from my line of sight.
Though I lean forward hoping to catch glimpses of actual work, their bodies form a human shield around whatever they’re truly developing.
My gut instinct tingles.
They’re putting on a show—a carefully orchestrated performance meant to keep me in the dark.
When I raise my hand to contribute, Tim acknowledges me with a tight smile, jotting down my suggestion in the corner of the board where it will likely be erased the moment I leave the room.
A different plan begins forming in my head as I watch Tim texting someone under the table.
After-hours reconnaissance.
Five o’clock finally arrives after what feels like the longest day in corporate America.
The office empties gradually—monitors switching off, farewell calls echoing through the space.
“Sarah, are you leaving?” the last of my coworkers say, hovering by my cubicle with keys already in hand.
My fingers tap casually against the keyboard as if finishing something important.
“No, I think I’ll stay a bit longer and jot down some ideas,” I reply, flashing a smile that hopefully masks my true intentions.
Once they’ve disappeared around the corner, I count to sixty before rising from my chair.
I scan the floor to confirm I’m alone before slipping down the hallway toward the conference room.
My heart thuds against my ribs like it’s trying to morse code a warning that this is a terrible idea.
I glance around once more. No witnesses. It’s Mission Impossible time.
The file cabinet in the corner beckons like a vault of secrets waiting to be discovered.
Smooth and cold, the metal handle feels forbidden under my fingertips.
My hands tremble slightly as I slide open the drawer marked “ÉTOILE CAMPAIGN - CONFIDENTIAL,” the metallic scrape unnervingly loud in the empty office.
Bullseye.
I pull the folder halfway out when Amanda’s voice fills the air. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Panic jolts through me like an electric current, and I slide the file back inside.
Think, Sarah. Think.
My mind scrambles for an excuse that won’t sound like the blatant corporate espionage I’m clearly engaged in.
“I want to build upon what the team already has because it seems like everyone’s spinning wheels rather than making actual progress,” I say, forcing confidence into my voice.
Her eyes land on the open file drawer, skepticism etched in every line of her face.
“Shouldn’t you be with your team helping on the project instead of lurking around here playing office detective?” I counter, crossing my arms in what I hope looks like professional indignation rather than defensive guilt.
Stone-faced and rigid, Amanda shakes her head with exaggerated disappointment.
