Her Ex-Fiancé Humiliated Her at a Corporate Gala, But Her CEO's Sudden Appearance Reversed Everything — Then the Gaslighting Began
Eleanor’s call left a bitter taste, but it also solidified my resolve. I couldn’t trust her judgment, and I certainly couldn’t rely on Chloe. This was my fight, and I had to approach it with cold, hard logic, not emotion. I needed proof, undeniable evidence, to counter the gaslighting.
The next morning, Lorenzo called me into his office. He didn’t mention the rescheduled vendor meeting directly, but his gaze was sharp, assessing.
“Scarlet,” he said, leaning back in his executive chair, “I’ve assigned a new junior assistant to your department, effective immediately. Marcus Davies. He’s fresh out of business school, very keen.”
I nodded, absorbing the information. A new assistant wasn’t unusual for a large project like the Centennial.
“He’ll be assisting with administrative tasks, data entry, and whatever else you need,” Lorenzo continued. “He specifically requested to be placed on a high-profile project, and I thought the Centennial would be an excellent learning opportunity.”
A faint unease stirred within me. Lorenzo rarely made such specific assignments without a reason, and a junior assistant “requesting” a high-profile project felt a little too convenient. But I pushed it down. I needed all the help I could get.
Marcus arrived an hour later, a young man in his mid-twenties, impeccably dressed, with an eager-to-please smile. He introduced himself with a firm handshake, his eyes bright with ambition.
“It’s an honor to work on the Centennial Project, Ms. Hayes,” Marcus said, his voice enthusiastic. “I’ve heard so much about your work.”
I gave him a brief rundown of his duties, emphasizing the need for discretion and meticulousness. He listened intently, nodding.
Over the next few days, Marcus proved to be incredibly efficient, almost unnervingly so. He completed tasks quickly, often anticipating my needs before I even voiced them. He seemed genuinely dedicated, which should have been reassuring. Yet, the unease persisted.
He started asking questions. Not general questions about the project, but oddly specific ones.
“Ms. Hayes,” Marcus asked one afternoon, hovering near my desk as I reviewed a technical schematic, “I was just wondering, when you’re uploading large CAD files to the main server, do you use the standard FTP client, or do you have a direct secure upload protocol?”
I looked up, surprised by the specificity. “Standard FTP for most, secure protocol for highly sensitive architectural plans.”
“Right, right, makes sense,” he said, scribbling something in a small notebook he carried. “And for smaller updates, like daily progress reports, do those go directly into the secure project folder, or do they pass through a temporary staging drive first?”
His questions felt less like an eager junior assistant learning the ropes, and more like someone meticulously mapping out my digital footprint, my exact workflow, my access points. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible intrusion, masked by a veneer of diligent inquiry. It felt like a personal cruelty, disguised as professional interest, because it meant he was actively probing for vulnerabilities.
“Marcus, why the detailed questions about file transfer protocols?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even, but a tremor of suspicion ran through me.
He looked up, his smile unwavering. “Oh, just curious, Ms. Hayes. Learning the ropes, you know. I want to be as efficient as possible. Understanding the exact pathways helps me anticipate potential bottlenecks.”
His explanation was plausible, professional. But it didn’t quite sit right. It felt too rehearsed, too smooth. He had an answer for everything.
Another time, he caught me logging into the central project management software. “Ms. Hayes,” he said, casually walking past, “I noticed you use a multi-factor authentication for the PM software. Do you find it slows down your workflow significantly? I’ve been reading about some new single sign-on solutions that streamline access.”
He wasn’t asking for my opinion; he was gathering information about my security practices, about how I accessed critical systems. It was a veiled probe into my defenses, under the guise of an innocent query.
I felt a growing sense of paranoia. Was this just ambition? Or was he reporting back to someone? The thought of Ethan’s legacy network access from his past consulting stint, mentioned by the outline, suddenly clicked into place. Ethan needed current information on my access points, my habits, my vulnerabilities. And Marcus, with his “keen interest,” was perfectly positioned to gather it.
I started to notice other things. If I left my desk for a few minutes, he would sometimes be near it when I returned, ostensibly tidying his own workspace. Once, I saw him glance at my open laptop screen before quickly looking away. It was all so subtle, so easily dismissible as normal office behavior, yet the accumulation of these small observations set my teeth on edge.
The feeling of being watched, of my every digital move being scrutinized, began to eat at me. It was a deeply personal violation, even in a professional setting. It chipped away at my sense of security, making me feel constantly exposed, constantly vulnerable. Every time I typed a password, every time I uploaded a file, I wondered if Marcus was noting the details, if they were being relayed to Ethan.
I dismissed it as ambition, as Lorenzo had suggested. But the faint sense of unease hardened into a cold, hard suspicion. Marcus wasn’t just a keen new assistant. He was too interested, too precise in his inquiries. He was a piece of the puzzle, a living, breathing extension of Ethan’s gaslighting, designed to keep me off balance and exposed.
I made a mental note to change my administrative passwords, to tighten my digital security protocols, but even as I thought it, a sense of futility washed over me. If Ethan could manipulate file permissions at 3 AM, what else was he capable of? And what if Marcus was simply a pawn, or worse, a willing accomplice? The possibility made my blood run cold.
The professional landscape around me was no longer just a place of challenges; it was a minefield, meticulously laid by a former lover, and now, perhaps, even by an eager young assistant who was far too curious for comfort. I knew then that I couldn’t ignore this creeping dread. I needed to act.
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