Not Your Scapegoat Again

Florence's POV

I balanced two coffee trays on both my hands as I slipped through the office doors like I belonged there. A practiced smile curved my pink glossed lips, friendly but not too bright to make people uncomfortable, just enough to look approachable and likeable. I greeted the receptionist by name, dropped a coffee off at the front desk, as I walked further in.

“Thanks! Wait, are you one of the new interns?”

“Oh, no,” I replied with a soft laugh. “Just hoping I soon will be.”

A woman in red bottom heels passed by, barely sparing me a glance as she did. I turned my smile to her, but the woman didn’t return it. Instead, she disappeared down the corridor marked Human Resources, the same direction I was heading. Oh boy.

I tucked in a loose strand of hair behind my ear and kept walking, my heels clicking on the shiny marble floor with confidence. My blouse was crisp, skirt modest, and hair pulled into the neatest low bun I could manage. I probably looked like a dream employee.

Inside the interview room, the HR representative, a woman, middle-aged, bored, and barely looking up, flipped through my résumé with disinterest. “I can see from this that you don’t have much experience in corporate admin work.”

“I’m a fast learner,” I replied smoothly, crossing one leg over the other. “And I’m extremely organized. I’m passionate about structure and productivity.” I said like I was reading a script. Which technically I was, I used an AI app to draft out the perfect way to answer questions during an interview.

The woman barely nodded, already scribbling something down. I caught the faint smirk and the way my application was slowly being slid toward the wrong pile. A pile of so dirted and discarded looking files as opposed to the neat and arranged set on the opposite side.

This wasn’t going to work. Not like this, I had to change the situation. Fast.

When the woman excused herself to use the bathroom, I instantly made my move. Calmly, like I was just adjusting my seat, I leaned over the desk. In one swift motion, I slid my application from the rejection stack to the approval one and tucked the one from the favored candidate under the discarded pile. The switch took less than five seconds and I left no evidence.

I sat back, sipping from the coffee I had brought for myself, and waited like nothing had happened.

Later, as I walked back through the office, I handed out two more coffees with a warm smile and casual confidence. I waved at one of the assistants and complimented her. “Hey! Love your shoes.”

“Thanks! Wait, what department are you in again?”

“Oh, I’m not yet an employee,” I replied with a soft grin. “Just... hoping.”

People laughed, and complimented my vibe. Apparently it was magnetic, kind, and efficient. I looked like I belonged with them and they would not have suspected me not being an employee until I pointed it out.

At the exit, I nodded politely to the gate man and flashed a charming smile at the security guard.

“Have a great day!” I cheerfully called as I walked out.

Once I was past the glass doors and onto the empty sidewalk, my entire face fell. The bright smile dropped like the mask it was. I walked straight, purposeful, like the weight of the world rested on every step. Unfortunately it did.

My phone buzzed with a notification. I looked at the screen, checking it and it was an alert from my calendar. Day 1: Infiltration complete.

I looked up at the massive glass building behind me, St. Louis Corp, its polished windows gleaming like everything I had lost, everything I would soon recover.

“Phase One,” I whispered. “Now let’s burn this place down.”

********

I pushed open the door to the modest apartment and immediately caught the scent of burning onions.

“Mum?” I frantically called out, locking the door behind me. She wasn't meant to be near any dangerous appliances.

From the kitchen came the clang of metal and a soft, melodic hum, off-key, but familiar. I dropped my bag quietly by the couch and quickly made my way toward the sound.

My mom, Maria Davidson, stood by the stove, stirring a pot like it was a normal Tuesday evening in a house that no longer existed. Her graying hair was tied loosely, her floral nightgown stained with something that looked like flour and tomato paste. The dining table was already half-set, the plates along with matching cutlery clinked against one another, mismatched but neatly arranged.

My steps slowed down. There were four plates, but only four people.

I swallowed hard. “Mum...”

Mom looked up, her face brightening. “Oh good, you're home. Wash your hands, sweetie, your dad should be back soon. I made his favorite stew, and your brother he’s always late, isn’t he? Always something at the office.”

“Mum, we...there’s only two of us.” I tried to keep my voice calm, steady, but it cracked. “Dad... Dad’s not coming home.”

Mom blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?” she asked, waving a dismissive hand. “Of course he’s coming home, and Gabriel, he’ll be really hungry. Don’t be silly, Florence, get another spoon. They’ll both want seconds.”

I held my mother’s hands. “Mum, listen to me. Daddy’s gone and Gabriel,he’s... we don’t know where he is. It’s just us now.”

Mom stared at me, the brightness fading from her eyes like a candle dimming. She shook her head violently and pulled her hands away.

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that again, Florence. Your father is not dead and your brother is not gone. You always say that, but it’s not true, you’re just confused. I’m making dinner, and they’re coming home.”

She turned back to the stove and stirred faster, more erratic now. “They’ll be hungry. We have to eat. I promised Gabriel we’d watch that old movie tonight...”

The spoon clattered to the floor.

I bent to pick it up just as Mom slammed a cabinet shut and kicked the chair by the table. The plate on top slipped from the impact and shattered all over the ground.

Mom flinched at the sound, then covered her ears and began to hum again like a broken record.

I stood still, holding the wooden spoon in my hands, breathing through my nose as Mom herself rocked slightly by the stove.

This wasn’t new, but it never got easier.

I walked slowly to the table and removed the two extra plates. I said nothing, just packed them away, gently, like they weren’t reminders of the past.

Mom mumbled under her breath, “He’s just working late. Your father’s car broke down, that’s all. It happens... it happens...”

I finally set the spoon down and leaned against the marble counter that reflected my face. My face was expressionless again, cold, flat, as though I pressed the shutdown button on my emotions.

My phone buzzed on the counter and I stretched to stare at the screen.

* Application Accepted. Probationary period begins Monday.

St. Louis Corp HR *

My eyes lifted slowly to the reflection of herself in the microwave, lips tight, skin pale, exhaustion written in every line.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” I whispered. “They’ll all pay for what they did to us.”

And this time, I meant it.