Her Ex-Fiancé Humiliated Her at a Corporate Gala, But Her CEO's Sudden Appearance Reversed Everything — Then the Gaslighting Began
The next morning brought no clarity, only a throbbing headache and the lingering phantom sensation of Ethan’s sneering smile. I had found no immediate, glaring error in the Q3 commodity reports that aligned with Ethan’s public accusation. The numbers *I* had compiled still showed a two percent saving. The discrepancy was subtle, almost imperceptible to an untrained eye, which only deepened my unease. It was a ghost that vanished upon closer inspection, but left its chilling effect behind.
I pushed the unsettling feeling aside, trying to focus on the day’s tasks, specifically a crucial presentation for a key vendor, Sterling Solutions. Their specialized lighting systems were essential for the Centennial’s grand ballroom. Maya, my assistant, was already bustling around my office.
“Morning, Scarlet,” Maya said, her usual cheerful demeanor a stark contrast to my internal turmoil. “Everything ready for Sterling? Their representative is due in twenty minutes.”
“Almost,” I replied, pulling up the budget spreadsheets that contained the detailed financial proposal for Sterling. “Just need to do one final check on the payment schedule.”
I clicked on the icon, but nothing happened. I tried again, my brow furrowing in confusion. The file seemed unresponsive.
“That’s odd,” I muttered, trying a different method, navigating through the project folder. The file was there, clearly visible, but when I tried to open it, an error message flashed across the screen: “Access Denied: You do not have sufficient permissions to open this document.”
My blood ran cold. This was impossible. These were *my* files, in *my* secure project folder. I had full administrative rights. I tried other files in the same folder; they opened perfectly. Only the Sterling Solutions budget spreadsheet was locked.
“What’s wrong?” Maya asked, sensing my sudden tension.
“The Sterling Solutions budget file is inaccessible,” I explained, my voice tight with frustration. “It says I don’t have permission.”
Maya leaned over, looking at the screen. “That’s crazy. You’re the project lead. You should have full access to everything in here.”
She tried to open it from her own login, but received the same message. Panic began to bubble up. The Sterling representative would be here any minute.
“Call IT,” I instructed, my mind racing. “Explain the urgency. Tell them we need someone here, now.”
Maya immediately picked up the phone, relaying the problem with growing agitation. Meanwhile, I frantically tried to access a backup copy, but even those seemed to be mirroring the same permission error. It was as if a very specific lock had been placed on this one, vital document.
The IT technician, a harried young man named Kevin, arrived ten minutes later, already sweating despite the office’s cool air conditioning. He bent over my laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard, running diagnostics.
“This is really strange, Ms. Hayes,” Kevin said, his voice perplexed. “It looks like the specific read/write permissions for this file, and its immediate backups, were altered just a few hours ago. System shows it happened around 3 AM.”
“Three AM?” I repeated, my heart sinking further. I had been at home, trying to sleep, or rather, not sleeping, tossing and turning over Ethan’s accusations. “Who could have done that?”
Kevin shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “The system logs are a bit… convoluted. It looks like an administrator-level alteration, but it’s not directly tied to any active login for your department. It could be a ghost in the system, a glitch after a server update, or…” He trailed off, clearly unwilling to speculate on anything malicious.
But I knew. The chilling certainty settled in my gut. This wasn’t a glitch. This was another deliberate act of sabotage, another twist of the knife. This was someone trying to derail my project, to make me look incompetent, just hours before a critical meeting. Ethan. It had to be him.
The Sterling Solutions representative, Mr. Harrison, arrived promptly at 9 AM. I had to meet him in the lobby and explain the delay, the words catching in my throat.
“I am so incredibly sorry, Mr. Harrison,” I said, forcing a professional smile. “We’re experiencing an unexpected technical issue with a crucial presentation file. We’re working to rectify it immediately, but it seems we’ll need to reschedule our detailed discussion for 48 hours from now.”
Mr. Harrison’s smile was polite, but his eyes held a distinct coolness. “I understand, Ms. Hayes. These things happen. But I do have a rather tight schedule. This will push us back significantly.”
The words were an ice pick to my already raw nerves. A 48-hour delay for a critical vendor presentation wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a major setback. It pushed back the entire procurement timeline, threatening to ripple through subsequent phases of the project. I pictured Lorenzo’s face, his emphasis on “absolute precision.” This was exactly the kind of “oversight” Ethan had accused me of.
“We will do everything in our power to make up for this,” I promised, feeling a cold knot of dread in my stomach. The humiliation of having to explain a technical failure to a high-profile vendor was a bitter pill. I could almost hear Ethan’s condescending chuckle in my head. He would consider this a small victory.
After Mr. Harrison left, Maya looked at me, her face pale. “This is bad, Scarlet. Really bad. What are we going to tell Lorenzo?”
“The truth,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what the truth was anymore. Was it a glitch? Or was it something far more sinister? The nagging self-doubt that Ethan had planted yesterday began to resurface. Could *I* have accidentally messed up the permissions? Had I clicked something wrong in my sleep-deprived state? The corrupted file from Part 2, the one that mimicked an old mistake, now felt like a precursor. Was this another one of my “recurring oversights”?
“Kevin said the logs were convoluted,” Maya added, her voice quiet. “But he also said it was an administrator-level change. You’re an administrator, Scarlet.”
Her words, though innocent, were like a blow. Maya hadn’t meant it maliciously, but the implication hung heavy in the air. *I* was the project lead. *I* had the access. Had *I* sabotaged myself? The idea was absurd, yet the seed of doubt, carefully nurtured by Ethan, began to bloom into full-blown anxiety.
I spent the next several hours working with Kevin, who eventually managed to restore the file permissions. He confirmed again the 3 AM timestamp. He also mentioned, almost as an aside, that the method used was quite sophisticated, not a simple accidental click.
“It looks like someone was actively trying to hide their tracks,” Kevin murmured, more to himself than to me, as he closed a diagnostic window. He then cleared his throat, sensing my intensity. “But it’s fixed now, Ms. Hayes. Just keep an eye on your folder permissions, okay?”
His advice, meant to be helpful, only deepened my internal conflict. *Keep an eye on my folder permissions.* Was he subtly suggesting I was careless? The message was clear: whatever happened, it was now *my* responsibility to prevent it from happening again.
I slumped back in my chair, staring at the perfectly accessible budget spreadsheet. The problem was gone, but the damage was done. A critical vendor meeting rescheduled, the project timeline disrupted, and my professional reputation, already fragile, chipped away a little further. Ethan hadn’t just ‘discovered’ an error; he was actively creating them, and I was left to clean up the mess and face the consequences.
The personal cruelty of it wasn’t just the professional setback, but the insidious way it was designed to make me question my own competence, my own memory, my own sanity. It wasn’t an open attack; it was a slow, deliberate poisoning of my confidence. I remembered the way Ethan used to “helpfully” point out my “flaws” in our relationship, small things he’d frame as my personal failings. This was the corporate equivalent.
I grabbed my phone, fingers hovering over Lorenzo’s contact. I needed to tell him. But what exactly would I say? “Someone keeps messing with my files, but I can’t prove it’s Ethan, and I might have accidentally done it myself”? It sounded hysterical, unprofessional. I took a shaky breath, knowing I had to deliver the news, but dreading the conversation. This was a battle I was fighting largely alone, and it was quickly becoming overwhelming.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours