Chapter 74: Whispers in the Glass

Adrienne

The office was still when I arrived, its silence broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation and the muted click of my heels across the floor. The sun had barely risen; pale light smeared itself across the glass, too weak to reach the corners. This was the hour I trusted most—before voices cluttered the halls, before anyone dared knock.

I sat at the desk and woke the screen. The glow sharpened the shadows, illuminating the mess I had left: notes sprawled across the wood, ink heavy from a hand that pressed too hard, coffee cups crowding the edges. I ignored the clutter. My focus narrowed to the logs, the threads of activity mapped in cold, clean lines.

No breach. No unusual entries. Everything lay as it should—neatly timed, properly sealed. Still, my eyes lingered, scrolling back farther than necessary. A blank row felt suspicious, an untouched sequence almost too neat. Absence could hide as much as error.

I pulled Orange’s file to the front. My finger traced the name as though the ink itself might give way beneath the pressure. Nothing shifted. Nothing slipped. Yet I knew it had, once. If a hand could reach it before, it could again.

The stillness thickened, a silence so complete I could hear my own breathing. It steadied me, even as suspicion coiled tighter. Somewhere in the clean white rows, the truth waited, disguised as order.

The morning was mine to discover. A gentle knock suggested hesitation, yet I chose not to answer. Nonetheless, the door opened briefly, revealing a senior manager entering with a polished folder tucked under his arm. His smile appeared overly bright for the hour.

"Dr. Volke,” he began cautiously, “I thought you would want to see this.” He placed the folder on my desk, sliding it forward with both hands. “Press coverage from the European markets. Obsession is being described as a generational launch. Vogue, Harper’s—publications are featuring pieces. This represents extraordinary exposure."

I refrained from touching the folder, maintaining my gaze on the glowing lines of the log still open before me. “And who approved the last distribution manifest?"

He blinked, causing his prepared speech to stumble. "The—ah—logistics head, with my co-signature. As always."

“As always," I echoed, letting the words hang in the air and finally turning my gaze toward him. He shifted, one hand tightening around the folder as if seeking to shield himself.

“Exposure,” I said quietly, "is only valuable when the underlying system is unassailable. Tell me—how many individuals had access to those manifests prior to your signature?"

He hesitated. “Only the core team, the same as it has been—”

"The same,” I repeated more sharply. "Yet, errors have occurred before, have they not? Small ones—labels, timestamps."

His throat worked as he attempted to swallow. “All corrected, Dr. Volke. Nothing that compromised the launch."

I leaned back, folding my hands. The folder of glowing reviews sat unopened between us, rendered useless. “Correction is not synonymous with prevention. Find me the names of everyone who handled those documents. Deliver them by noon."

His smile had disappeared, replaced by a carefully maintained blankness indicative of someone anxious not to offend. He nodded once in agreement and retreated toward the door, clutching the folder as though afraid to leave it behind.

The silence returned as he departed. I avoided looking at the folder. Praise held no relevance; only control was paramount.

The door clicked shut, and the silence resumed, familiar and unwavering. I allowed it to settle before moving, my eyes drifting away from the untouched folder to the reflection in the window. The glass reflected an outline of a woman sitting upright at her desk, hands folded neatly, although the chaos of papers surrounding her betrayed the truth.

For a brief moment, I examined her as if she belonged to someone else. Her expression was calm, yet her eyes—my eyes—carried a shadow unnoticed before. It was not fear, but rather a quieter, more insidious doubt.

It replayed involuntarily: the corridor outside my office days earlier, staff frozen in the doorway while I remained amidst my disorder. Their eyes lingered too long, evaluating me in ways I had not invited. During the meeting, their smiles had been brittle, their voices artificially enthusiastic. When the young executive asked whether I was pleased, the tremor in his voice was not one of deference but of uncertainty—perhaps suspicion.

The memory folded over itself, intensifying with each repetition. Are they whispering about me now? Sharing stories in elevators, lingering in stairwells, convincing themselves that Dr. Volke was slipping?

I rose from the chair and started pacing, taking slow steps that traced the length of the office. Every polished surface reflected a piece of me— the dark reflection in the screen, the faint shadow in the window, even the shine of a steel drawer handle. Each reflection seemed to watch, quiet and patient, as if waiting for me to slip. I whispered to myself, testing the sound. “They saw too much.” The glass responded with silence, but within that silence, I imagined voices—echoes of the staff exchanging my weakness like currency. My hand tightened on the pen I carried, the tip pressing hard enough against my palm to leave an imprint. The doubt didn’t turn into panic. No—panic was loud, and I didn’t need noise. Instead, the doubt sharpened, narrowing my focus to a blade’s point. Whoever thought they saw something useful, whoever believed they could turn a single moment into leverage, would quickly learn that I had been watching them longer than they had been watching me.

I stopped pacing and went back to the desk. The glass still held my reflection, with pale light streaking across it. Two of me looked back— the mask everyone saw, and the hunter beneath it. I carefully smoothed my notes, aligning the corners and setting the stacks square. Order restored, at least on the surface. Doubt had become another tool. It would remind me to look harder, listen longer, and catch small betrayals before they grew teeth. The reflection didn’t look away, and neither did I. I sank back into the chair, the weight of silence wrapping around me like a cloak.

The notes on the desk glowed faintly under the lamp, with the circles around Orange and Red darker than the rest, pressed so hard they nearly cut through the page. My pen tapped once, twice, steady as a metronome. I liked the rhythm. Soon, whoever reached again would step straight into the net I had woven. There would be no doubt, no question, only proof. In the window’s reflection, my mouth curled into a sharp smile. Not the polished mask of meetings, but something leaner, hungrier. The predator living beneath the surface. “They’ll reveal themselves,” I whispered, the words fogging faintly against the glass. “And when they do, they’ll belong to me.” The silence carried the promise, heavy and certain.