Chapter 4

"Claire, this is the second batch of evidence Chloe submitted. We need you to respond to each point."

Victoria pushed a stack of printed screenshots toward me. It was twice as thick as the last one.

I flipped to the first page.

It was a Snapchat screenshot.

At 2:47 AM, I had sent Chloe a message: *The data logic in section three is off. Look at the highlighted parts, fix it, and send it back.*

Below it, Chloe had written a note: *"Still forced to edit proposals near 3 AM. This happened repeatedly, severely impacting my mental health."*

The second page.

A photo of a printed draft on my desk, covered in red ink. Every error had hand-written corrections, brackets, arrows, and detailed explanations.

Chloe's note: *"She would rip my work to shreds and throw it back at me in front of the entire team."*

The third page.

A transcript of an audio recording.

*"You call this a proposal? Redo it."*

No context. No lead-up. No ending.

I remembered saying those exact words.

The actual, full sentence was: *"You call this a proposal? Redo it. Don't worry, I'll walk you through it. Let’s re-read the client's brief together and map it out step-by-step."*

She had conveniently cut out everything after the first seven words.

"How do you respond?" Victoria asked.

"I have the complete chat logs to disprove all of this. For the late-night message, I ended up working on that draft myself for another three hours and sent her the finished version. You can check my outgoing mail logs. The red markings on that paper draft were mentoring notes, not a disciplinary notice. As for the audio—tell her to submit the unedited, full recording."

Victoria made a note, then looked up at me.

"Claire, I spoke to other members of your team over the past couple of days. Jenna Brooks mentioned that you do have incredibly high standards and can be very demanding."

"Being demanding and bullying are two entirely different things."

"You don't get to draw that line," she said, closing the folder. "Furthermore, Chloe provided a screenshot of her digital journal from last August. She wrote: 'I feel like I can't do this anymore. I live under her constant scrutiny every day, like a soulless corporate puppet.'"

"Last August, Chloe landed a two-million-dollar deal with Mr. Sterling. At the celebration dinner, she posted a picture of us raising champagne glasses on Instagram. Her caption was: 'So grateful to my amazing mentor Claire for holding my hand through this process. I couldn't have done it without her.' Would you like me to send you the screenshot?"

Victoria’s pen paused.

"That could just prove she was in a fawning state of mind at the time—"

"Victoria," I interrupted her. "Are you here to investigate the actual facts, or are you just trying to find footnotes to support a conclusion you've already made?"

She pursed her lips, refusing to answer directly.

"We will evaluate all materials thoroughly."

In HR-speak, that translated to: *I'm taking your evidence, but I’m probably going to ignore it.*

That afternoon, I sat at home scrolling through my phone.

Fiona sent me a link to another viral post on Medium.

Title: *How I Spent Two Years of My Youth Feeding a Corporate Monster.*

It was posted anonymously, but the writing style, tone, and vocabulary were identical to Chloe's.

It already had over a hundred thousand views.

In the comment section, someone had managed to leak the name of my apartment complex.

I stood up and drew the curtains shut.

At 9:00 PM, my doorbell rang.

I opened the door.

Chloe was standing in the hallway.

She was still wearing her signature innocent cream-colored sweater, her eyes red, showing fresh tear stains that she had deliberately tried to wipe away.

"Claire..."

"What do you want?"

She bit her lip, her voice trembling.

"I know you hate me. But... this wasn't entirely my idea."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "Arthur... he approached me. He said if I helped diminish your influence in the department, he would give me your clients and promote me to Assistant Manager. Claire, he’s the one pulling the strings behind all of this—"

I stared at her face.

The watery eyes, the fluttering eyelashes, the shallow breathing, even the slight tremble of her lips—everything was perfectly rehearsed.

For two years, I had watched her practice these exact expressions before she walked into client negotiations.

"Do you have proof?" I asked.

Tears immediately streamed down her face.

"Claire, why don't you ever believe me? You were always like this at the office—always doubting me, always making me feel like I was never good enough—"

She began to sob hysterically, her voice rising in volume.

The light in my neighbor’s hallway clicked on.

I stepped back and pulled the door shut.

I didn't lock it.

I just closed it.

Her crying continued outside my door for about two minutes before abruptly stopping.

Then came the sound of retreating footsteps.

I picked up my phone.

Chloe had just updated her Instagram story:

"Gathered the courage to privately apologize and seek peace, only to be met with coldness and a shut door. Some people’s desire for control is simply hardwired into their bones."

Attached was a photo of my apartment door number.

A text from Fiona popped up almost instantly: *Did she seriously just go to your apartment?*

*She just left.*

*What did she say?*

*She claimed Arthur was the mastermind behind everything.*

*Do you believe her?*

I looked at the flood of "stay strong" and "sending love" comments pouring under her post.

*She didn't come here to warn me. She came to capture content of being 'shut out.'*

*So, what now?*

*Now?*

I sat back down on my couch and turned off the living room lights.

*I have two years of complete project logs, client emails, and handwritten thank-you notes from her. But to Victoria, those are just 'written under duress.'*

*So, what are you going to do?*

*Nothing. Evidence is useless to people who refuse to see it. It needs to be presented to the right people, at the exact right moment.*

*When is that?*

A notification popped up on my screen—an email from Mr. Sterling’s assistant with the subject line: "URGENT: Q3 Payment Issues."

I didn't open it.

*Very soon.*