Page 80 of Babies for the Big Shot
Now it’s gone.
My pulse doesn’t surge; it constricts, methodical and unyielding, a precise tightening that signals control, not panic. I search again, methodically this time, removing every file, examining each layer of the drawer’s contents with the same scrutiny I’d apply to a contract I didn’t trust.
I run a hand along the underside as well, the concealed compartment I use when something needs to remain completely inaccessible, even from my own staff.
There’s nothing.
Whoever was here didn’t stumble onto it. They knew exactly what they were looking for, and they knew where to find it.
I press the intercom.
Emily answers without delay, her voice professional but strained. “Yes, Mr. Ashford?”
“Has anyone entered my office since I left for the conference room?”
There’s a hesitation, not long enough to be obvious, but long enough to matter, before she responds, her tone cautious. “Only the journalist. FromEdge. She said there was a scheduled interview for the fall feature. I assumed it had been cleared.”
I remain still, not out of surprise but because stillness is the only thing preventing a sharper reaction.
“I never authorized an interview.”
This time the silence on her end carries weight, the kind that only follows a realization that comes too late. When she finally speaks, her voice is subdued. “Oh.”
There’s no need to answer. She already understands the implications.
My thoughts are already assembling the pattern with a kind of grim efficiency. Rebecca’s uninvited performance in the conference room, the photograph disappearing from the drawer it should never have left, and now a supposed journalist gaining access under false pretenses.
This wasn’t a misunderstanding.
It was orchestration.
I end the call without another word, the quiet that follows somehow louder than anything she could’ve said.
And for the first time in longer than I care to admit, I can’t tell whether the deeper fury is directed at Rebecca for lighting the match, or at myself for giving her the gasoline.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sara
I tellmyself it’s nothing.
Just a weird coincidence.
A shape in the corner of my eye. A shadow that lingers too long. A woman standing across the street from the office who looks a little too much like Rebecca in oversized sunglasses and a trench coat that screams, “Don’t look at me, I’m trying not to be seen.”
But when I turn to look again, she’s gone.
Of course she’s gone.
I stand on the sidewalk, clutching my takeout bag tightly. My heart hammers fiercely, shaking my earrings with every beat.
I pick up my pace, weaving through the early evening crowd, glancing over my shoulder even though I know it makes me look frantic. It’s unreal, like I’m trapped in a cheap thriller that lost its budget halfway through.
By the time I reach the second crosswalk, I cave. I pull out my phone and hit Laura’s name.
She answers on the third ring, slightly breathless. “Hey! Can I call you back? I’m in the middle of?—”
“Wait, no, just… can I ask you something really quick?” My words come out too fast, too sharp.
