The weekend hadn't been enough. By Monday morning, the office felt like a pressurized chamber, and Julian Thorne’s threat was a phantom weight on my shoulders. I wasn’t going to be "fired." I was going to be better than everyone else.
I had spent all Sunday digging through the archives of the Henderson project, finding the exact point where the communication had collapsed. I needed a second pair of eyes—someone who knew the office politics better than I did. I needed Sienna.
"My place," I had texted her. "I have wine, I have the files, and I have a theory on how to save the deal."
Sienna showed up an hour later, looking like she’d just stepped out of a magazine—a sleek, monochromatic jumpsuit and a look of guarded curiosity. We spent the first hour buried in spreadsheets, my profess
