Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Olivia couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen — as if staring at it long enough might somehow undo the disaster she had just caused.

From the moment she hit send, her heart had been pounding so hard she could barely hear her own thoughts.

She knew that in this company, any mistake was unforgivable… let alone one like this.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she whispered in a trembling voice,

> “If he finds out… I’m finished.”

She could almost see his cold, sharp face, hear the chill in his tone when he was angry — she could almost feel his breath behind her just from the thought.

With shaking hands, she reached for the mouse, trying to reopen her email, praying she’d imagined it all —

but the disaster was real.

Her name gleamed right there in the company-wide inbox.

Next to it, the words that sealed her fate: “All Departments.”

> “No… no…”

Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers trembling, her brain refusing to process what she’d done.

> “I sent the reports… to the entire company!”

She fell back into her chair, the air around her suddenly too heavy to breathe.

She smacked her forehead lightly and muttered in despair,

> “Idiot! Idiot! How could you hit send without checking?!”

But it was too late. The email was gone — and the damage was done.

She could already hear his voice in her mind, cold and cutting, saying the one word she dreaded most:

> “Unacceptable.”

---

Minutes later, the phone on her desk rang.

She looked at the display, and her stomach dropped.

Ethan Cross.

Swallowing hard, she picked up the receiver, her voice shaking:

> “Y–yes, sir?”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

> “My office. Now.”

---

When she entered his office, he was standing behind his desk, eyes sharp as blades.

On his screen, the email was open — her name glaring back at her in bold.

His voice came out low but edged with steel:

> “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Her words stumbled out in panic.

> “Sir, I’m so sorry, I hit send by mistake, I didn’t mean to—”

> “By mistake?” he cut in, his tone slicing through hers.

“You sent executive reports to every employee in the company… and you call that a mistake?”

“Is this how you plan to work here?”

She couldn’t speak. Her eyes glistened with tears as she tried to hold herself together.

He stepped closer — slow, deliberate — each step breaking what little composure she had left.

> “This company doesn’t tolerate mistakes,” he said, his voice like ice.

“And it certainly doesn’t tolerate excuses.”

He paused, watching her in silence before speaking again, his tone final.

> “You have twenty-four hours to fix this. Otherwise, don’t bother showing up tomorrow.”

Her eyes widened.

> “Sir, please, just give me a chance—”

> “We’re done talking.”

He shut his laptop, grabbed his jacket, and walked toward the door.

Before leaving, he stopped, voice low but razor-sharp:

> “You’re lucky I didn’t fire you on the spot.”

Then the door closed behind him with a heavy thud, his footsteps fading down the long corridor.

Olivia stood frozen, her face pale, tears threatening to spill.

His words echoed in her mind like a verdict with no appeal:

> Twenty-four hours… or don’t come back.

She sank into the chair, burying her face in her hands. Her first day at the new job…

had officially become a nightmare.

---

Her breath came out uneven, her mind racing in circles.

> “Twenty-four hours… only twenty-four… how do I fix something like this in a day?”

She suddenly looked up, eyes wet but burning with panic.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, trembling as she searched every possible option —

anything that could undo the email, recall it, erase it — anything that could pull her back from the edge.

But the messages were still there. Sent. Delivered. Spread across every inbox like a wildfire.

> “No, it can’t be over! There has to be a way!”

She scoured tech forums, company manuals, even old internal notes, hunting for any line that said the email could be recalled.

Her eyes darted frantically between the text on the screen, whispering to herself:

> “Think, Olivia, think… it can’t all end because of one stupid click…”

But every attempt ended with the same cold message:

“This action cannot be undone.”

She leaned back and let out a broken, bitter laugh — half disbelief, half collapse.

> “Perfect… just perfect, Olivia. First day on the job and you’re already about to get fired before you even know your office number.”

She jumped up, pacing the room, hands fidgeting as her breathing quickened.

> “There has to be a way… I can’t go to him tomorrow and say I failed…”

She walked to the window and looked out at the city — cars, lights, people — life going on as usual, while hers was falling apart.

Returning to her desk, she began typing a new email, a desperate apology asking everyone to ignore the earlier one.

Then she froze mid-sentence.

> “No. If I send that, I’ll just look even dumber.”

She dropped her forehead onto the desk, whispering weakly:

> “God… what do I do now?”

A tear fell onto the paper beneath her hand, then another, blurring the ink as she muttered between shaky breaths:

> “Twenty-four hours… only twenty-four…”

The clock ticked steadily in the corner of her desk —

each second pushing her closer to the end.

---

Hours passed painfully slow.

By now, the lights on the upper floors were all out, except for one — hers —

a lone glow in the dark, flickering like a candle fighting the wind.

It had been six in the evening when she sent the email.

Luckily, most employees had already gone home.

No one had noticed. Yet.

That small delay in discovery was the only thing giving her a sliver of hope.

Olivia sat slumped before her computer — hair messy, glasses sliding down her nose.

Empty coffee cups crowded her desk; papers were scattered everywhere like the aftermath of a lost battle.

Every attempt to recall the email had failed.

Every idea met the same wall of strict company protocols.

> “I can’t… I can’t just give up,” she whispered.

She opened her email again, scrolling through the recipients one by one, searching for any possible way to delete or track the messages before they were opened.

Her eyes were swollen from exhaustion, her voice barely a whisper:

> “Someone must not have opened it yet… if I could just access the internal system…”

Her pulse quickened as she tried to enter the IT administrator’s console using an old set of credentials she’d found in the archive.

She typed fast — passwords, codes, anything she remembered.

But the system flashed back coldly:

“Access denied.”

She slammed her palm against the desk, her voice breaking:

> “Damn it!”

She shut her eyes, breathing deeply, forcing herself not to cry again.

The clock on the wall showed 3:00 a.m.

> “Less than a day… I have less than a day left…”

She rose from her chair and walked slowly through the dark, empty office.

Her shadow stretched across the polished floor, and the echo of her heels sounded like a heartbeat in the silence.

She stopped before the glass wall overlooking the city — lights twinkling below while she stood in darkness.

Pressing her hand to the cold glass, she whispered:

> “If I lose this job… it won’t just be a job. It’ll be the end of everything.”

Back at her desk, she began scribbling on a sheet of paper —

trace system – delete copies – recall mail – admin excuse – contact IT in the morning…

Then she stared at the page, her tears dripping onto the ink until the words blurred away.

Her head dropped onto her arm, her eyelids heavy, exhaustion pulling her down.

But even as she drifted, she muttered like a vow:

> “I won’t let him fire me… I won’t let him win…”

The glow of the monitor bathed her in pale light.

Her inbox remained open. At the top — his name: Ethan Cross, flashing on the screen like a threat.

And as she fell into uneasy sleep, her mind echoed the same dreadful thought:

> "Tomorrow, when everyone opens their emails… your career will be over."