Chapter 3 Fractured Walls

The second that lie tumbled out of Elara's mouth, she wanted to crawl under her desk and never come out. Honestly, what was that? She sounded faker than a reality show apology. Her excuse just sorta hung there, limp, like a soggy tissue in the rain-no shot anyone was buying it. Panic hit her hard, squeezing her chest so tight she wondered if breathing was optional now. Her heart was hammering away, like it was trying out for a rock band.

And Damien? Good lord. He hit her with that dead-eyed stare-zero blinking, pure judgment, like he was trying to x-ray her soul and probably seeing every idiotic thing she'd ever done. He didn't even bother to play nice. Just called her out, businesslike, voice flatter than last week's soda. He didn't yell, didn't even get mad. Weirdly, that almost made it worse. She half-wished he'd just lost it-at least then she'd know where she stood.

So, yeah, she bailed. Forget dramatic exits-she just speed-walked out, shoes smacking the linoleum, echoing all pathetic behind her. Every step just hammered in how royally she'd messed up. Guilt? Oh, it was there, clinging to her ribs like static. And then that "Project Elara" folder she'd found earlier? Now it was screaming in her head: "Congrats, genius, you're officially in the deep end with no floaties."

The next few days? Absolutely arctic. Damien didn't even look at her unless he had to, and when he did, it was all business-like she was just another piece of office furniture. Every conversation? Brutal. Like face-planting into a snowdrift. The whole office vibe was off. Nobody talked, just shuffled around like sad little ghosts. Elara kept her head down, trying to swallow the knot of stress in her throat, half-convinced she was about to get the boot. But quitting? Not on her bingo card. She needed this job, like, more than she needed her phone charger. So she just kept grinding, telling herself she'd survive Damien's personal ice age, even if she had to grow icicles.

And then-boom-Henry Carter showed up. Damien's right-hand guy. Dude had a smile that could light up a blackout and, apparently, a memory like an elephant. Henry was...not what she'd pictured. He actually talked to people. Cracked jokes. Sometimes even laughed at her worst puns (which, let's be real, was a miracle). He seemed to know everything-who was stabbing who in the back, which project was about to implode, which team secretly hated their own manager. And he was everywhere. Popping up just when she was about to lose it.

At first, she chalked it up to him being friendly. But after a bit? The whole thing started to feel...off. Like, statistically impossible levels of helpful. Her files weren't where she'd left them. Emails she'd deleted-gone for real, like they'd never existed. She'd catch coworkers whispering, then pretending she was invisible when she walked by. It all piled up, making her skin itch. Was Henry just the office MVP, or was she being played? Was this some twisted game and she'd missed the memo? She was starting to think the only thing she'd leave this place with was a first-class ticket to the loony bin.

Honestly, Elara felt like her skin was hosting an ant parade-one of those days where your nerves just won't shut up. "Project Elara." Ugh. That phrase had set up camp in her brain and was throwing a rave at 3 a.m., skipping on repeat till she wanted to bust a window. Eventually she just thought, screw this, waited for the coast to clear, and slid back into that haunted excuse for an office. The place was so dead, it might as well have come with its own horror soundtrack. Every sound-the vending machine's obnoxious hum, the floor making old-house ghost noises-felt like jump scares. Her heart? Basically auditioning for a heavy metal band.

She made a beeline for the desk, crossing her fingers for some kind of cosmic hint. Nope. That "Project Elara" folder? Vanished. Desk looked like it'd just come out of a Mr. Clean commercial-hell, not even a sad coffee stain survived. She just stood there, hope shriveling like a raisin in the sun, ready to call it. But then-hold up. Something glinted below. She dropped down, hands all jittery, and fished out a tiny, silver USB stick crammed way in the back. Little digital Hansel-and-Gretel crumb, like, "Yo, follow me if you don't wanna get iced."

She jammed it into her laptop, probably sweating through her shirt

, praying for answers. Ha. The screen just barfed out a wall of encrypted nonsense-like her computer had been possessed by a caffeinated cat on the keyboard. She probably could've handed it to a squirrel and gotten further. So, yeah, time to eat some humble pie and text Marcus-her hacker ex, the only guy she trusted not to call the men in white coats. No biggie, just her entire sanity on the line.

Marcus cracked into a chunk of the code and, yikes, even he looked like he'd seen a ghost. Not exactly comforting. The bits he could actually read? Straight-up nightmare fuel. "Project Elara" was the kind of surveillance fantasy that would make the NSA blush-wires, recordings, mysterious puppet-masters galore. And the best part? Elara was front and center in their sights. Someone had been tailing her every move-lunch choices, nervous breakdowns, you name it. Paranoid? She was basically chugging it like energy drinks. Every shadow twitched, every shiny surface felt like it was staring back. But nope, she wasn't about to roll over. She started scribbling everything down in a secret journal-every weird chill, every time her gut screamed at her. If someone was writing her story, she was about to set that script on fire.

Things finally went full meltdown on one of her late-night stakeouts. She was wound up so tight she might snap if you poked her. After one of Damien's "I-was-never-here" meetings, the air suddenly reeked of something way too familiar: Isabella Rossi's "I'm richer than you" perfume. The kind of smell that slaps you with a gold-plated glove. It hung there, flashing warning lights. Suddenly, it all clicked. Isabella-Damien's big secret client. Always lurking, always just out of focus. Elara's stomach did somersaults. This was big. Like, "drop everything and run" big. But Elara? Nah, she was done running. Adrenaline kicked in. Time to haul ass straight to Isabella. No more hide and seek. Sink or swim, she was cannonballing in.

Isabella just kind of materialized, like she teleported in-or maybe floated on a cloud of pure attitude. Zero noise, major presence. The air got cold, like she sucked out all the small talk. Money practically dripped off her, but not in that "look at my shiny new bag" way. Nah, she was the vintage-champagne type, the sort who probably has a family crest somewhere but would die before showing it off. Every move? Calculated. That face? Total poker champ. I swear, you could've set off fireworks and she wouldn't have flinched.

Meanwhile, Elara was barely holding it together. Her voice did this weird wobbly thing, and you could practically see her heart doing somersaults. Still, she managed to throw some questions at Isabella about "Project Elara," like she was daring her to fib. For once, Elara's nerves weren't in the driver's seat. Isabella's answers? About as clear as mud. She dropped these cryptic little nuggets, each one landing with a thud, and somehow made them sound like prophecies. According to her, the whole circus was about Elara's "unique abilities"-cue dramatic superhero theme music, right? She called it a "rare gift." Yeah, super reassuring. So apparently Elara was both priceless and basically radioactive, a walking mystery nobody could crack-including herself.

But here's where it got really wild: Isabella claimed they were the good guys, protectors or whatever, shielding Elara from a world full of creeps itching to exploit her. Classic move-"we're the heroes, trust us"-except she never actually said who "we" were, or what exactly Elara was supposed to be capable of. Just trust, no fine print, no FAQ. Sure, makes total sense.

So, with the floor kind of falling out from under her, Elara said yes. Or at least, she faked it. Like, what else was she supposed to do? The whole thing felt like signing some contract in invisible ink. Weighty as hell.

Honestly, her whole reality just went kaboom. Everything she thought she understood? Poof-gone. Suddenly there's this whole underground universe humming beneath her, packed with schemers and probably way too many trench coats and mirrored sunglasses. Elara wasn't just another nobody anymore-she was suddenly the freaking main character in a story nobody bothered to give her the script for. Only thing guaranteed? She was swimming with sharks, with no idea how deep the water went, and her so-called "gift" was the bloody chum. No turning back. Just straight ahead, into whatever fresh chaos was waiting to smack her in the face.