Page 7 of Trail of Betrayal
Chapter 4
“If you believe in God, you’d call my office a chapel. If you believe in me, you’d call it a crime scene.”Minority Report.
My favorite quote, because it reminds me of my own workspace.
Every edge gleams in the light, glass and steel surfaces designed for minimum personal comfort. I demand that in my workspace. There’s nothing to distract, everything to remind. The walls are white, but each has its own purpose: one is reserved for client awards (chrome, gold, lucite), one for a clock that ticks with such exactitude it could serve as my pacemaker, and the last for a gallery of professional photos—a greatest-hits reel of my career. No friends, no family, just victory in high-res.
At this hour the office is silent except for my own, deliberate movements—the slow draw of a Montblanc across a legal pad, the feathering of my thumb along the keys, the gentle but constant percussion of my nails on the desk. That last one is involuntary. I keep my face schooled in perfect serenity for the benefit of the glass walls and anyone who might look in.
The laptop is open. It always is. I have three tabs open; two are for work, but the last one is for Lawrence’s infidelities. It has time-stamped, emoji-laced text messages and hotel reservations that, when plotted against the company’s Outlook calendar, create a damning negative space.
I scroll with one hand and take notes with the other, because this isn’t emotional, it’s data. The more granular, the better, dates, times, places. There’s no room for error. I could confront Lawrence today and shatter him with a single line of evidence, but that would mean stepping into the role of aggrieved woman. I’m not interested in that role. I want the only satisfaction that means anything, which is absolute control and a clean exit.
It’s then that the thought comes to me, fully formed: a small group outing. I almost laugh at the brilliance of it, how neatly it slots into place. It’s public enough to keep them from theatrics, intimate enough for them to sweat every moment. The genius of it is that neither would dare refuse, for fear of confirming my suspicions. Even better, it lets me control the timeline, pace the narrative, and decide exactly when the trap is sprung.
I roll the idea over in my mind, letting it breathe. Already I’m sketching the participants. Lawrence, the corporate show pony, will bring his A-game. Isabella, the glass-daggered nemesis, will wear something that reads innocent in forty shades of Calvin Klein. I’ll ask Elise to serve as my second, just to keep the numbers even, and because she knows what’s going on. The thought of the four of us boxed together in some expensive restaurant makes me smile in a way that would unnerve anyone who bothered to look.
I set the plan aside for now and grab a pen nestled in a custom-engraved holder. Lawrence gave it to me for our anniversary, a joke that only works if you’re both the kind of people who buy gifts at airport duty-frees. I pick up the heaviest one, black resin, platinum-plated, and roll it in my palm. It’s meant to conveypermanence and fidelity, but I know the truth: even the best-designed objects break under pressure.
There’s a photo frame at the back corner of the desk. Most people keep photos front and center, as a declaration of priorities, but I’ve never trusted anything that requires public proof. The photo is from two months ago, Lawrence and me at a rooftop event, faces pressed together, both a little drunk and sunburned. I look at it now and feel nothing but loss. I flex my hands, feeling the tension in each knuckle. The tapping resumes, rhythmic and soft. I could measure time in it.
I check my phone for the hundredth time. There’s a message from Lawrence, a nothing phrase about dinner, and I file it away as more ammunition. There’s another from Elise: “Need to catch up about the Westfield deck. You in?” I reply immediately.
I rehearse the double date in my mind, running through contingencies. If Lawrence tries to bail, I’ll leverage guilt; if Isabella flakes, I’ll have Elise guilt her into attending as a matter ofteam unity. Every variable accounted for.
The only question left is whether it will hurt, not them, but me.
I rehearse the contingencies on my walk down the hall. If he tries to cancel, I’ll pivot to guilt—remind him we haven’t had a night out in weeks. Should he hesitate, I’ll make it sound casual, an office bonding thing. And if he looks too calm, I’ll find something to rattle.
The corridor hums with end-of-day exhaustion: printers spitting out decks, someone’s laughter leaking from the break room, the faint reverb of a phone on speaker somewhere down the hall. My pulse ticks in sync with my heels. By the time I reachhis office, my expression is the picture of composure—serene, maybe even bored.
Lawrence’s door is half-open, like an invitation he can claim he never extended. I pause, smoothing a stray wrinkle from my sleeve, then step inside.
His office is exactly what you’d expect from a man who calls restraint a personality.
There’s a standing desk, because sitting is for the weak, and a tray of raw almonds on the credenza, because discipline is supposed to taste like deprivation. Everything smells faintly of cedar and ambition.
He doesn’t see me at first. He’s scrolling through something on his monitor, face tilted toward the glow. When he finally looks up, the shift is instant—eyes sharpening, mouth curving into that slow, conspiratorial smile he once used to talk me down from a dozen fights. It worked once. Now, I just catalog the technique: the head tilt, the flash of teeth, the careful pause before he hits the sleep key.
“Veronica,” he says, warmth like honey. “You have perfect timing.”
“I try,” I answer, keeping my tone light—playful with a hint of invitation. “Got a minute?”
“For you, always.” He gestures toward the chair, then rethinks it mid-motion and leans one hip against the desk instead. Dominance, rehearsed.
I take the chair anyway.
The AC hums. Somewhere a phone buzzes against glass, the vibration carrying through the floor. I fold my hands loosely, then let a smile creep across my mouth—just enough for him to notice, not enough to read.
“I was thinking,” I begin, “it’s been forever since we had a proper night out. Just us. Maybe a few coworkers, too?”
He blinks once, twice. The smile lingers but doesn’t reach his eyes. “A group outing?”
I nod, relaxed. “You’re always saying I should get to know your colleagues better. So I figured—why not? We’ll invite the people we work with most.”
His phone vibrates again on the desk. Reflexively, his hand twitches toward it, then away. “Which colleagues?”
I let the pause stretch, a beat too long. “I was thinking Isabella could use a break. She’s been killing herself on Westfield. Might do her good to unwind.”
