Chapter 4 - Sabotage
The digital clock on Mark’s monitor flashed a relentless 4:58 PM. The hum of the server room downstairs vibrated through the soles of his Oxfords, a low-frequency thrum that matched the tightening in his chest. He was twenty minutes away from the deadline for the Meridian Healthcare acquisition. He had spent three days on the due diligence, the numbers humming a perfect, rhythmic harmony in his head. But now, as he scrolled to the final page of the spreadsheet, the numbers were scrambled, the formatting corrupted, and the crucial attachment— the audit trail— was missing.
Mark stared at the screen, his fingers hovering over the mouse. It wasn't a glitch. It was a deletion. Someone had walked into his office, logged into his desktop, and surgically excised the most important file of his career. The cursor blinked at him, mocking him.
He spun his chair around, scanning the open-plan office. The silence was oppressive. His assistant, Sarah, was at her desk three rows over, headphones on, eyes glued to her screen. She looked up as Mark stood, her expression shifting from confusion to mild concern. "Mr. Vance? Everything okay?"
"I can't find the Meridian file," Mark said, his voice tighter than he intended. "I left it on my desktop."
"I just walked past, sir," Sarah said, checking her watch. "You were on the phone when I came in. I didn't want to disturb you."
Mark nodded, a knot of ice forming in his stomach. He sat back down, staring at the blank icon. He had left the file there. He had walked out at 4:15 PM to grab coffee, exactly as he did every day. No one else had access to his computer; he was the only one with the encryption key. Unless someone had swiped his badge, or—
The thought hit him with the force of a physical blow. Martha.
The memory of her visit to the office last Tuesday resurfaced with startling clarity. She hadn't just wanted to see the building; she had lingered by the door to his office, her hand tracing the frame of the doorjamb. She had asked, with that unsettling, porcelain calm, if he was "happy there." She had smelled of lavender and old dust. She had touched his bag.
Mark grabbed his phone, dialing the number of the Meridian lead partner, Mr. Henderson.
The line rang four times before voicemail picked up. Mark cursed softly, the word catching in his throat. He left a frantic message, explaining the technical issue, but he knew it was useless. Henderson didn't care about server errors; he cared about competence. And right now, Mark was failing.
He walked out of the office at 5:30 PM, his tie loosened, his collar feeling like a noose. The rain had started, a cold, relentless drizzle that turned the city lights into smeared streaks of gold and grey. He drove home in a daze, the silence of the car amplifying the paranoia that had taken root in his mind. He wasn't just a victim of a computer error; he was being hunted.
When he walked into the house, the smell of roasting garlic and thyme greeted him, warm and domestic, which made the nausea in his stomach worse. The house was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
Elena was in the kitchen, her back to him as she plated the vegetables. She was wearing a soft, cream-colored sweater that made her look younger, almost innocent, in the dim light of the pendant lamp.
"Hey," Mark said, his voice sounding rough. "I'm home."
Elena turned. Her face was composed, her expression unreadable. "You’re late. I thought you had a late meeting."
"The system crashed," Mark said, setting his briefcase on the counter. He felt the need to explain, to prove his competence, but the words caught in his throat. "I lost the file. The Meridian audit."
Elena’s eyes widened slightly, a flash of genuine sympathy crossing her features. "Oh, Mark. That’s terrible. Is there anything you can do?"
"I'm trying to access the backup from the server, but it’s not syncing," he lied. He knew the backup was fine. He had verified it himself. But he couldn't tell her the truth—that his mother had sabotaged him. The idea felt absurd, yet the evidence was mounting. If he told Elena, she would look at him with pity, or worse, confusion. She wouldn't understand that this was war.
"I'll order us takeout," Elena said, turning back to the stove. "You look exhausted."
"I'm not hungry," Mark snapped, more sharply than he meant to. The exhaustion was bleeding into anger, a hot, corrosive bile.
Elena paused, the wooden spoon hovering over the pot. She turned slowly, her eyes searching his face. "Mark, are you okay? You’ve been on edge all week. Ever since... since the estate sale."
Mark flinched. "I'm fine. I'm just stressed about work."
"It’s not just work," she said, her voice dropping an octave, losing its warmth. "You’ve been isolating yourself. You haven't told me about the calls, and you won't let me help you with the paperwork." She set the spoon down on the counter with a sharp clatter. "You’re pushing me away, Mark. Why?"
"I'm not pushing you away," he said, though he knew it was a lie. He was terrified that if he let Elena in, if he showed her the crack in his armor, she would see the madness he felt closing in around him. He felt like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, and Martha was pushing him.
May you like
He retreated to the study, closing the door firmly behind him. He slumped into his leather chair and stared at the blank wall. He picked up his phone again, scrolling through his contacts. He wanted to call Martha. He wanted to scream at her, to demand an explanation. But he knew that if he called her now, he would lose control. She would smile that smile—the one that didn't reach her eyes—and she would turn his anger back on him.
He looked at the photo on his desk of him and Elena on their wedding day. She looked so happy, so trusting. The betrayal felt sharper now, cutting deeper. He was alone in his office, surrounded by walls he had built, but the enemy was already inside. He realized then that the sabotage wasn't just about his career; it was about his life. Martha wasn't just trying to ruin him professionally; she was trying to hollow him out, to leave him with nothing but his anger and his silence.
