The next morning, I arrived at the campaign headquarters earlier than usual. The air still felt heavy with unspoken suspicions, but I walked directly to the central finance floor, ready to confront whatever Julian had set in motion. I needed physical access to the servers, to the hard copies of the ledgers.
I scanned my badge at the reader. A sharp red light flashed.
A security guard, a burly man named Dave who usually greeted me with a nod, stepped in front of the turnstile. His arms were crossed over his chest.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Driscoll,” he said, his voice flat. “Your access has been temporarily restricted.”
My blood ran cold. Twist 4.
“Restricted?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “What are you talking about, Dave? I’m the PAC’s CFO.”
“Candidate De Witt issued a directive,” he replied, not meeting my eyes. “A safety directive. Effective this morning.”
A safety directive. He was painting me as a threat, not just incompetent. This wasn’t about “burnout” anymore. This was about making me seem unstable, a potential risk to the campaign’s secure data.
“He can’t do that,” I said, my voice rising a fraction. “My credentials are tied to the federal election commission.”
Dave merely shrugged, a subtle shift in his stance that indicated he wouldn’t be moving. “My orders are clear, ma’am.”
Just then, the elevator doors chimed behind me. Julian stepped out, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. Genevieve Laurent was not with him, but his smug satisfaction was palpable.
“Clara,” he said, his voice dripping with false concern. “Still pushing yourself, I see. I told you, a break would do you wonders.”
I turned, my gaze locking onto his. “You revoked my access.”
He sighed, shaking his head slowly, as if addressing a misbehaving child. “For your own good, darling. And for the campaign’s. We can’t have you… overthinking the books right now.”
He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Listen, I’ve spoken with the committee. They understand. We’re prepared to offer you a very generous paid leave of absence.”
He pulled a folded document from his inner jacket pocket and offered it to me. “All you have to do is sign this agreement. It simply acknowledges a few… minor bookkeeping errors that occurred under your oversight. Nothing serious, purely administrative.”
“You want me to take responsibility for your embezzlement,” I stated, my voice devoid of emotion. “And in return, you’ll give me a paid vacation?”
His smile widened, sharp and predatory. “Consider it a severance package. A clean break, Clara. You walk away with a good sum, no messy accusations, and you can recover from all this stress.” He paused, his eyes glinting. “You know how Washington can be. Mistakes follow you.”
The offer was clear: accept blame for his fraud, or face a public shaming that would end my career. He was trying to buy my silence, leveraging the very crisis he had created.
I looked at the document, then back at Julian. The lobby was starting to fill with early-morning staffers, their conversations quieting as they observed the scene.
“No,” I said, pushing his hand back gently, without touching the paper. “I won’t sign it.”
Julian’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. He clearly expected me to crack.
I turned from him, ignored the security guard, and walked out of the building. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t make a scene. I simply left. The D.C. morning air, usually a welcome contrast to the conditioned offices, felt cold and unforgiving against my skin.
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