Page 62 of Married As Puck
“I’m not mistaken!” I snap, heat rushing to my cheeks. My pulse feels like fire under my skin. “I saw it with my own eyes. She’s been targeting me, undermining my work, and this video––” I wave helplessly at the mocking blank screen. “It was right here.”
The silence that follows feels like a verdict. Mrs. Randolph exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Bring me actual proof, and then we’ll talk. Until then, I suggest you focus on your tasks instead of chasing shadows.”
Her words sting like a slap.
“You should try to be careful when making accusations, Brie—”
I whirl on her, my blood boiling. “Don’t act like you weren’t just—”
“Weren’t what?” She steps closer, tilting her head in mock pity. “You should probably keep better track of your files. If you’rethis careless, no wonder things keep slipping through your fingers.”
The audacity makes my jaw drop. She’s standing here, painting me as the incompetent one, while Mrs. Randolph watches with that cool, unreadable expression.
“Enough,” Mrs. Randolph cuts in sharply, her tone brooking no argument. “This isn’t the place for drama. Brie, if you have evidence, bring it to me properly. Until then, I expect you to keep your head down and your work tight. Am I clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, throat tight with frustration.
Miranda’s smirk lingers as she turns to leave. But not before brushing past me, her voice low enough for only me to hear. “Careful, darling. People might start thinking you’re paranoid.”
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to snap back.
She’s good. Too good.
But she underestimates me if she thinks I’ll let this slide.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve made myself a promise. Miranda might think she’s untouchable, but I’m done playing defense. I’ve spent too long letting her throw jabs and paint me into corners, waiting for the perfect proof to expose her. No. If she wants to make me her target, then fine. I’ll show her I’m not the easy prey she thinks I am.
I’m reviewing a client proposal, determined to focus, when the door to my office swings open without so much as a knock.
Miranda.
She’s balancing two teetering stacks of folders in her arms, her heels clicking against the floor like a warning bell. She doesn’t even bother with a greeting—just drops the piles onto my desk with a thud that rattles my pen holder.
“There you are,” she says, all sugar-coated disdain. “Mrs. Randolph thinks these contracts should go through your eyes before anything moves forward. I told her you were… well, I didn’t want to say behind, but…” She lets the sentence trail off, flashing me a smile that could slice glass.
I glance at the documents. “All of them?”
“Yes, dear.” She props a manicured hand on her hip. “I mean, if you can handle it. You do have a reputation for getting overwhelmed.”
I set my pen down slowly, my irritation cooling into something sharper. “Funny,” I say, meeting her eyes. “Considering you’ve been spending so much time in my office lately, I’m surprised you know what your own workload looks like.”
Her smile falters, just slightly, before snapping back into place. “Careful, Brie. Accusations sound desperate when they’re coming from someone with… let’s say, limited credibility.”
“Limited credibility,” I echo, leaning back in my chair. “Right. And yet, here you are, dumping your busywork on me like I’m your assistant. Is that the only way you stay afloat? By making sure someone else drowns first?”
Her eyes narrow, the smugness slipping into something sharper. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“Oh, I know when to stop,” I say, my voice low, steady. “And I know when to start pushing back. You’ve been playing this game too long, Miranda, and I’m done letting you walk over me.”
For the first time, her smirk looks forced. She leans in, close enough that I can smell her expensive perfume, her words a hiss. “Watch yourself, sweetheart. You just might pay for your stupidity sooner than you think.”
I smile, calm and deliberate, even as my pulse thrums. “If I do, at least it won’t be because I wasted my time trying to sabotage someone else’s work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually have a job to do.”
For a beat, we just stare at each other, tension crackling in the air. Then Miranda straightens, brushing imaginary lint from her blazer.
Her smirk returns, smaller, tighter. “Enjoy the paperwork,” she says, and saunters out like she owns the place.
The door clicks shut, and I exhale, my hands trembling under the desk. But for once, it’s not out of frustration. It’s adrenaline. Resolve.
