Page 108 of The Secretary Volume II

“Dear god,” she says, almost gently.“This isn’t you, Gillian.You never could hold a grudge.”

I don’t move.

She flicks her chin toward the door.“Open it.”

“No.”

“Come on.You got what you needed.”

“I didn’t.”

For the first time, she really looks at me.Not with concern.Not with pity.Just calm, detached evaluation.“God.You’re starting to sound like him.”

Her voice isn’t harsh, just uninterested, like she’s already decided the ending.She throws her hands up, walks past me, swiping her badge.The panic room lock disengages with a soft, final click.

I thought I’d disabled it too, but leave it to Devon to find an override.I watch her disappear inside.

And just like that—it’s over.

I don’t move.Not because I can’t, but because something in me is breaking too fast to track.

And I don’t know what I hate more: that I lost, or that I didn’t see it coming.

62

Lena

Idon’t plan it.It just happens—quiet, clean, like instinct.

Stewy’s in the break room.Probably harassing the Keurig.His laptop’s open on his desk, angled carelessly like always, screen unlocked.Slack is active, Outlook minimized.He thinks HR won’t touch him.He’s probably right.

I glance around.No one’s looking.

Sliding into his chair, I don’t hesitate.No pause, no breath.Just a new tab.Gmail, sign out of his account, log into the one I created this morning.New name.Random numbers.No recovery.No signature.

I plug in the drive.

The spreadsheet is already prepped—three columns across, sixty-three rows down: Date, Department, Deaths.No names.No causes.Just patterns.Trial groups that ended early.People who never showed up in onboarding again.Medical notes taggedtermination complete.

Two hundred thirty-one confirmed.Twenty-four still labeledin progress.All internal.All buried.

I attach the file.

Then I type:Shergar Corp internal mortality during closed trials.You missed this.231 dead.Ask for the audit logs.They won’t give them to you.

—An internal witness

I send it to three reporters.Same message.Same file.One covers health ethics.One works investigative tech.The third’s a freelancer I found—she writes exposés that get quietly buried.

I don’t log out.Don’t delete the tab.I just close the window and nudge his mouse an inch to the left.

Then I walk away.Back to my desk.Back to normal.

Three minutes.Total.

Not revenge.Not even sabotage.

Just insurance.

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