Chapter 339
“The war room is currently under a Level 3 security lockdown for a proprietary data review. Your access has been revoked. Per the InnoTech investment agreement, all liaisons are assigned a standard workstation.”
She pointed to a small, lonely desk pushed against the wall near the printer — positioned directly beside the break room door and the men’s restroom.
“That is your station,” Isolde said.
Belle stared at it. “I’m not sitting there! It smells like microwave popcorn and bleach!”
Isolde raised her wrist and tapped the face of her watch.
“Work starts at nine, Belle. It is 9:02.” Her voice was low and without inflection. “Per company policy, which you agreed to when you accepted your credentials, failure to be at your designated workstation during operating hours is grounds for a formal performance review.”
Belle’s mouth fell open. She grabbed her phone. “I’m calling Gray. I’m telling him you’re abusing me!”
“Go ahead,” Isolde said, her voice dropping to a quiet challenge. “Ask him if he wants to explain to the Board why he’s paying you a salary to argue about the seating chart while they’re already fielding questions about the negative press surrounding his eviction.”
𝖰u𝘢𝘭i𝗍𝘆 t𝗋𝗮𝗻𝘴l𝖺𝘵𝗶on𝘀 𝘰𝘯 𝘨а𝘭n𝗼vе𝘭s.𝘤𝗈𝘮
Belle hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She knew Grayson had spent the morning screaming at his PR team. He was already on the edge.
She lowered the phone.
With a huff of pure, impotent fury, Belle stomped to the small desk and threw her designer handbag onto the surface. The heavy bag skidded across the cheap laminate and knocked over a cup of pens.
Clatter.
Blue and black pens scattered across the floor, rolling under the printer.
At nearby workstations, several staff members ducked their heads, shoulders quietly shaking.
Isolde didn’t help her pick them up.
She turned and walked into her glass-walled office, closing the door behind her and sealing out the noise. Through the glass, she watched Belle settle into the cheap, non-ergonomic chair, looking miserable and small.
Arland slipped in a moment later, tablet in hand, and looked out at Belle through the glass.
“Ruthless,” he murmured.
Isolde opened a file on her desk.
“Efficiency, Arland,” she said. “She’s a virus. I’m simply raising the fever until the body expels her.”
She tapped the file. “She’ll quit within a week. Now — let’s talk about the server migration.”
By 10:30 AM, the smell of microwave popcorn had been replaced by something far more pungent.
Acetone.
Isolde looked up from her monitor. Through the glass wall, she saw Belle — not reading the CloudPath contracts, not answering emails. She was painting her nails a bright, aggressive red.
The chemical stench drifted through the open-plan office. Engineers were coughing. One developer pulled his shirt up over his nose.
Isolde stood, picked up a stack of papers from her credenza — the physical archives from 2015 that needed digitizing, a task usually reserved for interns — walked out of her office, and dropped them on Belle’s desk.
Thud.
Belle flinched. The brush slipped, smearing red polish across her cuticle.
“Hey!” she snapped. “You made me mess up!”
“We are digitizing the archives,” Isolde said evenly. “Start typing.”
.