Iris — First Person POV
Revenge is not an explosion.
It is a whisper placed in the right ear at the right time.
People expect fury. They expect fire. They expect something loud enough to justify their fear.
What they never expect is doubt.
Doubt is quieter than guilt. Quieter than memory. But it spreads faster than both.
And today, I plant it.
I wake before sunrise, not because I am anxious, but because I am ready.
The sky outside my window is the color of bruised skin—blue turning purple, fading into something pale and uncertain. I make coffee slowly, carefully, letting the ritual ground me. My hands are steady. They have been steady since the day I decided I would not beg the world to believe me again.
On my kitchen table sits a thin silver laptop that does not exist under my legal identity. It was purchased in cash. Assembled carefully. Wiped clean more times than I can count. It holds no photographs, no personal history. Only strategy.
I sit.
I breathe.
And I open the file.
The document on the screen looks harmless at first glance. Just numbers. Transfers. Timestamps. Internal approval codes.
But buried inside it—between columns and decimals—is a truth that only one person in that entire building should know.
Me.
The transfer that destroyed my life did not originate from my credentials.
It originated from an executive override code that required dual authorization.
Mine.
And Evelyn's.
The override was processed at 2:13 a.m.
I was home that night. I remember because Julian had left my apartment at 1:47 a.m. after a fight that felt trivial at the time. I had cried on my couch. Clara had called at 2:05. I still have the call log saved somewhere, even though the world insists I shouldn't.
At 2:13 a.m., someone accessed the system remotely.
They buried that detail in procedural language. Wrapped it in legal jargon. Reframed it as "administrative anomaly."
I remember staring at that anomaly during trial, wondering why no one was asking the obvious question.
Who had the second key?
Evelyn did.
She claimed she had lost her access privileges weeks before.
No one verified it.
No one wanted to.
Because Sebastian Crowne does not allow loose threads in his empire.
Today, I pull one.
The email account I use has no name attached to it. No recovery address. No traceable IP. It exists only long enough to serve its purpose.
I attach the document.
But not the whole thing.
Just a cropped screenshot.
Just enough to show the dual override.
Just enough to show Evelyn's authorization code active at 2:13 a.m.
And beneath it, I type five words.
"Did you forget this detail?"
I don't send it to Evelyn alone.
I send it to Sebastian Crowne.
Cc: Evelyn Holloway.
Subject line: Audit Clarification – Internal Review
Professional. Polite. Unthreatening.
The email doesn't accuse.
It suggests.
There is nothing more dangerous than a suggestion.
I hover over send for exactly three seconds.
Not because I'm afraid.
Because I want to remember the moment the board shifts.
Then I click.
By 9:12 a.m., Evelyn has opened it.
I know because I have access to a monitoring tool that confirms receipt activity without breaching firewalls directly. It's not hacking in the cinematic sense. It's patience weaponized through publicly available loopholes and predictable human behavior.
She opens it once.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
For seven full minutes.
At 9:21 a.m., Sebastian opens it.
He spends less time on it.
That tells me everything.
He doesn't panic.
He evaluates.
At 9:37 a.m., Evelyn leaves her office.
I am already in the building.
I arrive fifteen minutes earlier than necessary, dressed in charcoal and restraint, carrying a slim leather portfolio that contains nothing important but looks like it does.
I sit in the lobby café across from the elevators. My reflection in the glass looks composed. Distant.
Untouchable.
When the elevator doors open and Evelyn steps out, I almost smile.
She looks pale.
Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But I do.
She walks quickly, heels striking marble too sharply. Her phone is pressed to her ear.
"I didn't authorize that," she says, voice low but strained. "I told you, my credentials were revoked."
Pause.
"No, I don't know who sent it."
Pause again.
"Yes, I saw the timestamp."
Her hand trembles slightly.
I take a slow sip of coffee.
This is not about exposure.
It is about memory.
I want her to remember that night.
I want her to feel the exact second she chose herself over me.
At 9:45 a.m., Sebastian arrives.
He does not rush.
He never rushes.
He walks with the calm of a man who believes storms part for him.
He doesn't see me.
Why would he?
To him, I am a footnote in history. A resolved liability.
He enters the elevator without acknowledging Evelyn's presence across the lobby.
That is deliberate.
Power moves in silence.
I wait exactly three minutes before standing.
Then I follow.
The 14th floor feels colder today.
Tension has temperature.
You can feel it in the way assistants whisper, in the way doors close faster than usual.
I don't approach Evelyn's office.
I don't need to.
The walls in places like this are thin in ways people underestimate.
Voices travel.
Especially raised ones.
"I told you I didn't have access," Evelyn insists.
"And yet the authorization code is yours," Sebastian replies, calm, almost bored.
"Codes can be duplicated."
"Not without internal clearance."
Silence.
Then softer, more dangerous:
"Did you sign anything that night I'm unaware of?"
The question lands heavy.
It's not an accusation.
It's worse.
It's doubt.
"I was covering for you," Evelyn says suddenly, voice cracking. "After the transfer was flagged, you said it would be handled internally."
Another silence.
Longer.
Measured.
"You're suggesting I fabricated documentation under your credentials?" Sebastian asks.
"I'm suggesting," she whispers, "that someone is trying to make it look that way."
There it is.
The first fracture.
He does not defend her.
He does not reassure her.
He says, "Find out who sent it."
The door opens abruptly.
I step back casually, pretending to study a framed abstract painting.
Evelyn exits first.
Her eyes scan the hallway.
For a moment, they brush over me.
There is the faintest flicker of confusion.
Recognition almost, but not quite.
Good.
Sebastian follows.
His gaze sweeps the corridor once, clinical, assessing.
For half a second, his eyes pause on me.
Then move on.
He doesn't recognize me.
Not yet.
But he feels something.
Predators always sense when something else is hunting nearby.
I leave before security can log unnecessary footage of my presence.
Outside, the air tastes sharper.
Victory is subtle.
It is not applause.
It is not spectacle.
It is knowing someone who once slept peacefully is now replaying a night they thought was buried.
At noon, my phone vibrates.
A message from an encrypted channel I monitor discreetly.
Internal compliance review initiated.
Audit scheduled.
Interesting.
Sebastian moves quickly.
That means he believes there is risk.
And if he believes there is risk, he believes Evelyn is capable of being the source.
Trust, once cracked, never seals cleanly again.
I spend the afternoon walking past the apartment building I once called home.
Not inside.
Just past it.
The windows on the third floor are open.
Evelyn lives there now.
Of course she does.
I stand across the street and look up at the balcony where I once kept potted herbs and fairy lights.
Julian helped hang those lights.
I wonder if he remembers.
Or if he has rewritten that chapter too.
A car pulls into the driveway.
Julian steps out.
He looks tired.
More tired than he did this morning.
He doesn't look up.
He enters the building without hesitation.
I feel something sharp twist in my chest.
Not love.
Not exactly.
Grief has layers.
I swallow it.
Emotion is indulgence.
Indulgence weakens focus.
I did not come back for reconciliation.
I came back for reckoning.
By evening, the second email arrives.
This one is internal.
I don't see it directly.
But I see its ripple.
Evelyn's assistant leaves early.
The office lights remain on past eight.
Sebastian cancels a dinner appearance.
When people who are never disrupted begin canceling plans, it means something unsettled them deeply.
At 9:14 p.m., I receive confirmation that Evelyn accessed archived security footage from the night of the transfer.
Good.
Let her look.
Let her remember exactly where she was.
Let her replay every choice.
It's nearly midnight when my burner phone vibrates again.
A different number.
Unknown.
I let it ring twice before answering silently.
Breathing.
Then a voice.
Low.
Male.
"You should be careful," he says.
I don't respond.
"You're stirring something dangerous."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Either Sebastian has private investigators faster than I anticipated.
Or Julian has begun noticing patterns.
Either way—
I smile.
The game has officially begun.
The next morning, I return to the building once more.
Not to act.
To observe.
Evelyn looks like she hasn't slept.
Her makeup is heavier.
Her movements sharper.
She avoids Sebastian's gaze during a staff meeting.
He notices.
He always notices.
When the meeting ends, she lingers.
I stay within earshot, pretending to type notes on a tablet that is not connected to anything.
"Sebastian," she says quietly, "someone is trying to make this look like I betrayed you."
He studies her.
"Did you?" he asks.
Her face drains.
"No."
Another pause.
"Then find out who did," he replies.
And walks away.
Evelyn stands alone in the conference room for a long time.
Her hands grip the edge of the table.
I can see the tremor from where I sit.
Her reflection in the glass looks smaller than I remember.
For a second—
A very small second—
I almost feel sorry for her.
Then I remember the courtroom.
I remember her hand slipping into Julian's.
I remember her watching me be led away.
Sympathy evaporates.
That night, from the safety of my apartment, I watch a live interview.
Sebastian speaks about transparency.
About resilience.
About integrity.
He smiles at the camera like a man untouched by scandal.
But there is something new in his eyes.
A calculation slightly more aggressive than usual.
Paranoia, when planted correctly, blooms fast.
Behind him, slightly out of frame, Evelyn stands stiffly.
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.
She keeps glancing toward him.
Toward the man who may now be questioning her loyalty.
The interview ends.
The camera cuts.
But I imagine the silence that follows.
The questions.
The doubt.
The thin air between them.
Later, in the quiet of her apartment, I imagine her pacing.
I imagine her replaying the timestamp.
2:13 a.m.
I imagine her remembering where she truly was that night.
Who she spoke to.
What she signed.
What she ignored.
And finally—
When the weight becomes too heavy—
I imagine her whispering into the dark:
"She's not gone."
And she would be right.
Because ashes don't disappear.
They wait.
They settle.
They remember.
And when stirred—
They choke everything that once believed it was safe.