MY COLLEAGUE SMILED WHEN I REALIZED THE PROJECT WAS COMPLETELY GONE
I clicked the first slide, the projector light blinding, but the screen stayed stubbornly blank. The conference room was hushed, twenty pairs of eyes waiting expectantly. My fingers flew across the keyboard like frantic spiders, sweat slicking the plastic beneath my fingertips. *Where was the file?* It had to be here, saved just minutes ago. The air in the room felt suddenly thin, hard to draw into my lungs.
Pure panic choked me, rising like hot bile in my throat. I could hear the blood pounding a frantic, deafening rhythm in my ears, louder than the low hum of the projector unit above me. I checked the external drive, the cloud backup, scrolled through every folder on my desktop – everything was empty, vanished without a trace.
“Looking for something, Clara?” Greg’s voice was silkily amused from the back row, a cruel smile I could feel burning into my back even without turning around. He knew. He *did* something. My stomach churned with a sudden, cold certainty that settled like ice. This wasn’t a random tech glitch; this was deliberate, an act of calculated, vicious sabotage.
I stood frozen at the laptop, my hands hovering uselessly over the keyboard, the silence stretching for what felt like an eternity, thick with anticipation and my own ragged breathing. Every face in the room was a blur of silent judgment. Just as I managed to open my mouth to try and stammer out some kind of explanation, the heavy oak conference room door swung open sharply behind me.
Then I saw the tiny, almost invisible icon hidden in the corner of the desktop.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…Then I saw the tiny, almost invisible icon hidden in the corner of the desktop. It wasn’t a shortcut I usually had there; it was a miniature version of the corporate secure data vault logo, barely distinguishable against the patterned wallpaper. My brain, foggy with panic, struggled to process its significance. Why would that be there?
The heavy oak conference room door swung open sharply behind me, and all heads turned. Standing there, framed by the hallway light, was Sarah from IT, holding a tablet. She met my gaze, her expression serious, and gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod towards my laptop screen.
Understanding flickered through the remaining panic like a match in the dark. The vault icon. Sarah. She knew. She *did* something. With newfound purpose, I clicked the tiny icon. A small window popped up, asking for credentials, but before I could even lift my fingers, Sarah said quietly, her voice just loud enough for me to hear, “Secure offsite backup initiated at 17:30 yesterday, Clara. Folder ‘Project Aurora’.”
It clicked into place. Sarah, anticipating or perhaps having witnessed Greg’s malice, had proactively secured a copy of my work and left me a lifeline. A wave of immense relief washed over me, so potent it made my knees tremble. I quickly logged into the vault – the system remembered my basic credentials – and navigated to the ‘Project Aurora’ folder Sarah mentioned. There it was. The file. Perfectly intact.
I didn’t hesitate. I opened the file directly from the secure vault. The projector screen, moments ago a symbol of my failure, flickered to life. The vibrant title slide of Project Aurora bloomed across the wall, bathing the room in colour and light.
I straightened up, running a hand through my hair, the tremors gone, replaced by a simmering confidence. I turned, facing the now silent, expectant audience. My eyes swept across the faces, landing for a brief second on Greg at the back. The cruel amusement had vanished from his face, replaced by a look of stunned, cold fury. The smile he had worn seconds ago was entirely erased.
“Apologies for the brief technical hiccup,” I said, my voice now steady and clear, carrying across the room. “A minor access issue with our local files, quickly resolved thanks to our robust security protocols and prompt assistance from IT.” I gave a small, professional smile, picking up the presentation clicker from the table.
The presentation proceeded flawlessly. Every slide appeared exactly as planned, every data point was there. As I spoke, I could feel Greg’s burning gaze, but it no longer had the power to unsettle me. The project was safe, my reputation was intact, and the truth of Greg’s sabotage, though not explicitly stated in the room, hung in the air between us. Justice, in this moment, felt incredibly satisfying.