By the following week, Isabelle had stopped pretending the missing files and corrupted documents were mere accidents.
Too many small things were going wrong — emails disappearing, meeting times mysteriously altered, budget figures mismatched. None catastrophic on their own, but together they painted a pattern.
Someone was tampering with her work.
She'd always prided herself on calm efficiency, but lately even her confidence had started to fray. She'd double-check a spreadsheet only to find the totals changed an hour later. Or she'd print out a signed approval from Richard, return to her desk, and find it gone.
By Tuesday, she'd begun arriving early — earlier than Robert, which felt like a small, petty victory. She'd spend the first quiet hour cross-referencing files, making sure nothing else had gone astray before the office stirred to life.
That morning, as she sipped her coffee and scanned her inbox, she noticed something new — a message supposedly sent from her own email account.
To: Legal Department. Subject: Confidential—Staff Misconduct.
Her stomach dropped. The contents were short and cutting, criticising a senior associate's performance and implying misconduct. Her name sat neatly in the "From" line.
Someone had sent it under her credentials.
She sat back, pulse steady but sharp. She knew better than to panic. Instead, she printed the email, timestamp and all, slipped it into a plain folder, and locked it in her drawer.
That afternoon, when Richard called her into his office, she decided to ask for what she needed.
"Richard, I need to ask you for something. "
"Close the door, Isabelle," Richard said, glancing up from his laptop. His tone was genial, the same easy authority that made people both trust and slightly fear him. "What's the matter?"
She hesitated only a moment. "I'd like permission to install a small camera near my desk — just a basic security one. There've been a few issues with documents and files going missing, and I think it might help me track where things are going wrong."
Richard frowned. "A camera?"
"Purely for accountability," she said quickly. "No sound, no privacy breach. I'd never film the team area — only my own workspace."
He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "Has this happened often?"
"Enough to raise concern."
He studied her for a moment — that assessing, paternal look he often gave her when he thought she wasn't coping, but didn't want to say it outright. "All right. But only if Facilities clear it. And make sure IT know. I don't want anyone accusing you of snooping."
"I understand. Thank you."
As she turned to go, he added gently, "You've been under a lot of pressure lately, Isabelle. Don't let this place wear you down."
She gave him a tight smile. "It won't."
The camera arrived the next day — discreet, matte black, easily hidden behind a small office plant. Isabelle set it to record her desk and chair.
If someone was meddling, she'd see it.
And this time, she'd make sure her work was protected. She began saving every key document to a password-encrypted flash drive she kept in her coat pocket. For good measure, she altered the submission email address on the next proposal — just one letter off, invisible to the untrained eye. If someone tried to send the wrong file, she'd know.
By Thursday, she'd built her own quiet web of traps.
Still, the week dragged on — tense, precise, full of half-smiles and cautious glances. Robert remained distant, almost deliberately so. He'd issue short, clipped instructions and disappear for meetings, leaving her to handle the fallout. She wasn't sure if he was oblivious to the chaos around her or simply uninterested.
But she noticed, occasionally, the way he watched her when he thought she wasn't aware — not with admiration, but with something sharper, almost evaluative. As if she were an equation he hadn't quite solved.
Friday arrived with drizzle and the kind of low, oppressive sky that seemed to flatten London into shades of grey. Isabelle caught the early Northern Line, packed tight with commuters and the familiar scent of damp coats and coffee.
By half twelve, the office was humming again. She was halfway through an updated report when the receptionist buzzed through the intercom.
"Mrs. Hale is here. She's here for lunch with Richard."
The words dropped like cold water.
Isabelle had met Mrs. Hale only twice before — both encounters had left her feeling oddly diminished, like standing too close to a flame that burned cold.
When the lift doors opened, Eleanor Hale stepped into the office with the kind of presence that turned heads. She was elegance distilled — cream coat, silk scarf, diamonds subtle enough to be real. Her perfume lingered like money and disapproval.
"Darling," she said to Richard, air-kissing both cheeks. "I thought we might try that new place in Mayfair — somewhere with proper service this time."
Her gaze flicked across the office, landing on Isabelle. "Ah. The assistant."
Richard smiled, oblivious to the frost beneath the words. "You remember Isabelle. She keeps us all afloat."
Eleanor's lips curved. "Yes, of course. The miracle worker. You do talk about her rather a lot at home, you know."
Isabelle felt her face heat, though she kept her expression perfectly neutral. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hale."
"Afternoon," Eleanor said airily, then turned to Robert. "Robert Kane — I haven't seen you in years! What a surprise."
"Eleanor." Robert's tone was polite but cooler than his usual detachment. "Still making Richard look good, I see."
"Oh, I leave that to his lovely employees these days."
Her eyes slid back to Isabelle, sharp and appraising. "You must be something of a charity case, my dear. Richard does have such a soft spot for a hard-luck story."
The words hung in the air like a slap. Isabelle blinked once, her only betrayal of emotion.
Richard, sensing the shift too late, cleared his throat. "Eleanor —"
"Oh, don't fuss," she said, smiling sweetly. "I'm only teasing."
Robert's gaze flicked briefly to Isabelle, unreadable, before he looked away.
"Shall we go?" Eleanor said, looping her arm through her husband's.
As they left, her perfume lingered behind — an expensive ghost.
The office air felt oddly heavy after that. Isabelle returned to her desk, fingers tight around her pen.
Charity case. Hard-luck story.
She'd been called worse, but somehow the words carried extra sting coming from that woman's mouth.
She forced herself back to work. If Eleanor Hale wanted to sneer, let her. Isabelle had survived far worse than rich women's disdain.
That evening, when the office had emptied again, Isabelle downloaded the camera footage to her computer. She watched the first few clips on fast-forward: herself typing, answering calls, Sienna walking past twice with her usual bright smile, a courier dropping off packages.
Nothing obvious.
Then, on Wednesday afternoon's footage, just as she stepped out to the printer, a blurred figure moved near her desk. The camera caught only a shoulder, a hand hovering over her keyboard for less than ten seconds before moving away.
The screen froze mid-frame. Isabelle leaned closer. It wasn't enough to prove anything yet — but it was something.
A start.
She copied the file to her flash drive and tucked it safely into her bag.
As she powered down her computer, she caught her reflection in the dark screen — tired eyes, determined mouth.
No, she wouldn't say anything yet. Not until she had more solid proof, that couldn't be twisted or denied.
Tomorrow, she decided, she'd tighten the net.
Let whoever it was make one more move.
She'd be ready.
That night, as she rode the underground home, her thoughts drifted — to Eleanor's cutting words, to Richard's oblivious kindness, to Robert's brief, sharp look across the office.
There'd been something in it she couldn't quite name. Not sympathy. Not scorn, either.
Something in between — recognition, perhaps.
Isabelle rested her head against the cold glass and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be another long day.
But for the first time, she felt she wasn't merely surviving it.
She was fighting back.