Chapter 2 Wiping the Slate Clean
755 Words
"The repairs left the machine damaged," I stated with a cool demeanor.
Mark's hand hesitated briefly before he shifted his focus, dropping the subject.
"Have Cartier craft a new one by tomorrow morning," he instructed, loosening his tie and heading for the bed. "Ensure it has a more substantial diamond this time. At least five carats. With so much media at the banquet the day after tomorrow, an unadorned hand is all the fodder they need."
"Understood."
Mark chuckled, bending down to plant a kiss on my forehead.
As his lips met my skin, I couldn't shake the memory of the ring submerged in grime, ensconced within that condom.
I stood rooted, my stomach twisting in revulsion.
The next morning, Mark departed for a promotional photoshoot.
Left alone in the apartment, I powered on my computer and accessed the team's backend system.
A questionable download activity caught my eye.
It appeared that someone used Mark's high-level access last night to duplicate a key predictive data file from my hidden directory.
Following the digital trail led to Chloe's cloud storage, where a freshly minted presentation was waiting.
She had renamed my data, all set to unveil it as her breakthrough at the upcoming conference to secure a multimillion-dollar investment.
Swiping from both the personal and professional arenas—and she considers herself top-tier? How utterly laughable.
Confronted with her presentation, I didn't feel anger but rather a sense of dark amusement.
Did Chloe seriously believe that pilfering a few data sheets would make her irreplaceable? She would likely struggle to list the wheels on a race car.
Little did she know that the data was a baited draft. Under high temperatures, the tire wear predictions would catastrophically lag.
That was the trap I had laid for her.
I let the download proceed unchecked, even clearing her tracks from the backend with nonchalance.
A sight far worse than just taking away his keys was a blind man behind the wheel of a careening race car. I was curious to witness how their so-called fervor would finally lead to ruin.
After darkness fell, I entered the living room, ignited the fireplace, and retrieved five leather-bound journals from the vault. These books chronicled my laborious endeavors from the past five years.
I once thought he gambled with his own life on the racetrack, but now I saw it was me staking everything.
As he tossed my ring into the garbage, I was busy calculating his Monza curve angles.
While he and Chloe indulged in their dalliance, I braved the scorching 104°F sun to measure tire pressure.
With his boasts of instinct on camera, I was tirelessly orchestrating our team to refine his braking system.
Five journals. An impressive tally of over eighteen hundred pages.
Each page penned beyond the quiet of 3 AM.
Each page he never deigned to read.
Now, I tore out the sheets, casting them into the fire.
The flames leapt as the pages curled, blackened, and turned to ash, symbolic of five years' worth of vanished effort.
Click!
The door swung open, and Mark entered, loosening his tie. He froze in the entryway, sniffing the air.
"What are you up to?" he asked, striding over and eyeing the scattered papers on the ground.
"Just disposing of some outdated information," I replied, tossing the remainder of a notebook into the blaze, "making room for something new."
Mark eyed the remains and let out a soft chuckle. He flung his jacket onto the sofa.
"Good riddance. Just looking at them gave me a headache." He ruffled my hair. "You've needed a break for a while. Quit being such a nerd. Next season, we're upgrading to a new car. With my skills, I could win blindfolded."
Win blindfolded?
I glanced at him, swallowing the acrid taste of resentment, and held my tongue.
The phone resting on the sofa began to buzz distinctly.
Mark hurried over, grabbed it, and gestured towards the balcony. "It's the sponsor. I'll handle this. You should get some rest."
He swiftly unlocked the phone and headed to the terrace, smoothly closing the glass door behind him with a practiced flick.
Through the clear pane, I could see him grinning at the conversation on the other end.
I turned my attention to the fireplace. The flames were almost gone.
Outside, he remained on the balcony, charming the caller and envisioning another championship triumph next season.
He had no clue that what was smoldering in the fireplace wasn't mere paper. It was his destiny.
- Writer
