CHAPTER 7. The First Strike
647 Words
The days following the annual party were anything but calm.
Purple Constructions returned to its usual rhythm on the surface, but underneath, tension simmered. Samantha felt it in the way conversations stopped when she entered a room, in the careful looks cast her way, in the sudden politeness that replaced outright hostility.
She kept her head down and worked harder.
Chris noticed.
He noticed the longer hours she kept, the way she triple-checked documents, the quiet professionalism with which she handled sensitive correspondence. He said nothing—yet—but his trust in her grew steadily.
Bridget, however, was done playing loud.
She had learned something dangerous over the years: silent damage lasts longer.
---
Late one evening, long after most staff had gone home, Bridget sat alone in her apartment, laptop open, eyes gleaming with purpose. She still had access—old access—credentials she had never been fully locked out of.
She smiled.
“Sloppy,” she muttered.
With deliberate patience, she began her work.
Emails were drafted carefully—formal, precise, unmistakably written in Chris Chase’s tone. Instructions were sent to suppliers. Payment approvals were rerouted. Copies were deleted. Logs were altered.
And every trail led to one place.
Samantha Roles.
Bridget leaned back, satisfied.
“Let’s see how smart you really are.”
---
By midweek, discrepancies surfaced.
An angry supplier called about a payment delay.
A shipment arrived at the wrong location.
Sales figures didn’t align with inventory reports.
Samantha noticed immediately.
She flagged the inconsistencies, cross-checked approvals, and reviewed outgoing emails.
Her stomach tightened.
“I didn’t send this,” she whispered, staring at the screen.
The email carried Chris’s name—his signature style, his formatting—but she knew better.
She walked straight into his office.
“Sir,” she said carefully, “there are emails circulating under your name that I didn’t send.”
Chris looked up sharply. “Show me.”
She did.
He studied the screen, expression unreadable.
“These weren’t authorized,” Samantha continued. “And they didn’t pass through the internal approval flow.”
Chris nodded slowly. “Leave this with me.”
She hesitated. “Am I in trouble?”
Chris met her eyes. “No. Not yet.”
The words unsettled her.
---
That evening, Chris stood in his office with Cliff and Thomas Whitaker—the private investigator he had quietly brought in weeks earlier.
“Something’s wrong,” Chris said. “And I don’t think it’s just one person.”
Thomas adjusted his glasses. “These emails were sent through an external server impersonating your credentials. It’s deliberate. Professional.”
Cliff folded his arms. “And Samantha?”
Chris didn’t hesitate. “She’s being framed.”
Thomas nodded. “Then we proceed quietly.”
Chris agreed. “No one finds out. Not yet.”
---
Unaware of the full investigation, Samantha continued working—unknowingly stepping deeper into danger.
More emails appeared. Larger sums were misallocated. Internal audits were triggered.
And this time, the board noticed.
Chris was called into an emergency meeting.
By the end of the day, a decision had been made.
---
Samantha was leaving the building when two men in plain clothes approached her.
“Miss Samantha Roles?”
“Yes?”
“You’re under arrest for impersonation, fraud, and mismanagement of company funds.”
Her world tilted.
“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered.
Across the lobby, Chris watched silently as Cliff held him back.
“Not here,” Cliff whispered. “Trust the plan.”
Samantha was escorted out quietly—no sirens, no spectacle.
Only whispers.
—
The next morning, an internal memo circulated.
Miss Samantha Roles is on medical leave effective immediately.
Chris’s office door remained closed all day.
Bridget read the message and smiled slowly.
Checkmate.
But she had no idea—
The game had only just begun.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD