THE REVENGE I DIDN'T CHOOSE

The offer

I didn’t sleep. Not after the basement. Not after Adrian Blackwell caught me trespassing and let me walk. Not after that note in my pocket with my real name. Billionaires don’t do favors without a string. I just don’t know what his string feels like yet.

At 8:47 a.m. my phone rings. Unknown number. My stomach drops. “Ms. Wells? Blackwell Technologies HR. Mr. Blackwell asked me to call personally.”

My mouth goes dry. “Okay.”

He was impressed with your interview. “We'd like to offer you the position of Junior Analyst, Corporate Strategy. Starting Monday."

I just stood there, with my phone pressed to my ear. My tiny apartment is a mess. I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes. The fake ID is sitting in my wallet, tucked a few feet away on the counter. And the salary they're offering? It's more money than I've ever seen attached to my name. Enough to pay my rent for a year and still have some left over.

For a second, I forgot how to speak.

“Ms. Wells? Are you there?”

I swallow hard. “Yes. I accept.”

On second thought, this was the plan: get in, get close, destroy him. But agreeing to work for the man I hate leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Excellent,” she says. “Mr. Blackwell wants you to report directly to his office on your first day. 8 a.m. sharp.”

“Okay” I muttered.

I hang up and throw the phone on the bed like it has stung me earlier. My hands were shaking from rage. He caught me last night. He called me Zara Vance. He saw me digging through his files. And now he’s hiring me? It’s a trap.

Monday came too fast.

Blackwell Tower looks even more intimidating in daylight, all glass and steel cutting into the sky. I walk through the lobby with my new badge clipped to my jacket and my heart pounding against my ribs. No one is stopping me. No suspicious looks. No questions. “They're expecting me.”

The ride to the fifty-seventh floor feels longer than it should. Last week, I was sneaking in as a trespasser, an outsider but this week, the doors are opening for me. Somehow, it feels more dangerous.

His assistant meets me at the doors. “Ms. Wells. Mr. Blackwell is waiting.”

His office is worse than the conference room—floor-to-ceiling windows, a black desk, nothing on it except a laptop and a bottle of water. No photos, no sign that a real person works here. He was standing facing the glassy window when I walked in.

"Zara," he called.

Not Ms. Wells. Just Zara.

I freeze. “You called me by my—”

“I know who you are,” he cuts in. “Sit.”

I sit. My legs didn’t feel like mine anymore.

He slides a folder across the desk. I didn’t touch it. “You broke into my building,” he started. “Used a stolen keycard. Dug through files you had no right to see. And now you’re sitting here with a fake name and a real grudge.”?

My throat tightens. I didn't say a word. “So why am I hiring you?” he continues.

I frown.

“Angry people pay attention. They ask questions.” His jaw tightens. “Blackwell Tech has too many people who smile, nod, and never look close enough to see what's falling apart underneath.” He leans forward, his gray eyes fixed on mine.

“People like you notice things.”

“I want you to see it,” he said. “I want you to look.”

“What?”

“I want you close,” he said. “Very close. Because if you’re going to try to destroy me, Zara, I’d rather you do it where I can watch.”

My head spins for a moment before I could figure out what to say.

“You think I—”

“I think you hate me,” he said. He pushes the folder closer. I glanced through it, it was a contract. “Sign it, and you work for me,” he said. “If you walk away, I'll make sure you never work in this city again.” This is not a threat, it's a fact.

I stare at my fake name on the contract—Zara Wells. The identity I built to ruin him, now he’s telling me to use it right under his nose.

My hand moves before I can stop it. I signed. Adrian watches me sign. He doesn't smile. If anything, he looks exhausted. “Your desk is on my floor,” he said. “You'll report directly to me, you'll see everything happening in blackwell company—the good, the bad, and the things Blackwell Tech keeps hidden.” He stands and bangs his hands on the table “Meeting over.” I stood up and left, my hand was on the door when I heard his voice behind me.

“Zara.”

I turned.

“Last week in the basement, you asked for audit logs,” he said. “They’re gone. But the person who deleted them is still here. And he's nervous.” My blood went cold. “How do you know I was asking for audit logs?” “Because I was the one who deleted them,” he said without mincing words. The door clicks shut before I can respond. I didn't say anything either, I just left.

My desk is ten feet from his office, separated by nothing but glass. I can see him. He can see me. Everything feels intentional and more like torture.

The first hour is emails and passwords and the constant feeling that someone’s watching—He is watching actually, every time I glance up, Adrian’s eyes flick to me. Not checking my work, just staring at me. At 11:32, my computer pings. An internal message—No sender. Check your personal email, now!

My stomach tightens. My personal email is linked to Zara Vance, not Zara Wells. “One new message.” No subject line, just an attachment.

I tapped it.

A scanned birth certificate fills the screen.

Name: Adrian Daniel Blackwell

DOB: March 12, 1983

Father: Daniel Vance

Mother: Elena Blackwell

My father’s name is on Adrian's birth certificate. My vision blurs. I grip the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles ache.

This isn't real.

It can't be real!!!.

Another message pops up. Same sender.

There's more…come to the server room at 1 a.m. Come alone. Or ask Adrian why your father's name appeared on his birth certificate. I deleted it. My hands won’t stop shaking. Across the glass, Adrian looks up. His eyes meet mine. For half a second I swear he knows what I just saw. He knows I’m about to break. His eyes stay on mine as he picks up his phone.

A moment later, my phone vibrates.

One message.

Don't go to the server room tonight, Zara.

I stare at the message. Then at him. He didn't look away. The office is full of noise, phones, Keyboards, just a normal Monday but all I could hear is my heartbeat and one question: If he deleted the logs, and he knows about the birth certificate, and he’s warning me not to go—

Then, who sent me that email?