The noise of someone typing furiously echoed around the room, their fingers pounding the keys as if the weight of the world rested on the next line of text. A low murmur of voices floated through the air—colleagues gossiping about weekend plans, last night's television shows, or the latest gossip about the boss and colleagues. The telephone rang incessantly, its shrill tone cutting through the noise, unanswered, relentless.
And then, there was the sound of the printer—always the printer. The rhythmic clunk of paper feeding, followed by the steady hum of the machine working tirelessly to produce endless sheets of reports and memos. The noise felt distant, almost surreal, but it pierced through the haze of her dreams like a cold splash of water.
Luna's eyes snapped open, her heart thudding in her chest as the cacophony of sounds suddenly assaulted her senses. The office, with its harsh fluorescent lights and cluttered desks, felt alien to her. She blinked, confusion clouding her mind as she tried to make sense of her surroundings.
She wasn't sure how much time had passed or what had happened—had she fallen asleep at all? Was she still dreaming? The voices, the noise—it all seemed like a distant memory, like someone else's life.
A sudden surge of panic gripped her, and before she could stop herself, she shouted, "Ah!!!!! What's going on?!"
The office went quiet for a brief moment. The typing stopped. The printer ceased its hum. Even the phone's ringing seemed to fade into the background. All eyes turned to her—some curious, some confused, others unsure of how to react.
Luna's face flushed with embarrassment, but the panic didn't fade. She stood frozen, her breath shallow, as the world around her seemed to shift into focus. The reality of the office—her reality—felt so distant, so unreachable.
She had no idea how she had gotten here, or how long she had been asleep at her desk. But one thing was certain—something was off. Something she couldn't quite understand.
"Are you alright?" worriedly asked by her best friend Maise Winters whose cubicle is next to her.
She nodded her head out of embarrassment and slowly went back to her seat. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow propped up on the table trying to remember what happened and how she came here. Many questions pop into her mind but cannot find any answer. Her deep thoughts were interrupted when a very manly lower yet intimidating voice called her.
"Ms. Hawthorne, come into my office right now." said Bartholomew Montclair, the President of the company and the father of Braxston Montclair.
The harsh glares of her colleagues pierced through her, leaving her to wonder what she could have possibly done wrong to be summoned to the President's office. Murmurs floated in the air, their words barely audible, but the weight of the rumors was unmistakable—"She might be fired." The mere thought of it sent a chill crawling up her spine.
"Yes, sir," was the only response she could muster, her voice barely a whisper, the tremor in her tone betraying the fear she felt. As she made her way toward the door, every step felt heavier. When she reached the door, she followed him silently, her heart pounding in her chest, her footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway as she walked behind him into his office. The air inside felt thick with anticipation, and she couldn't help but wonder what awaited her behind the closed door.
"Take your seat." uttered by Mr. Bartholomew as he also sat on his chair.
Her eyes scanned the space, taking in the sparse furnishings. The room smells like lavender. On the desk, a pen holder sat on the far right, its sleek design simple yet elegant, holding a few pens and pencils, each perfectly aligned. Next to it, almost like an afterthought, was a small metal plaque—engraved with his name, a subtle, permanent reminder of the person who occupied this space. The black curtains hung heavily by the window, their folds deep and unyielding, blocking out the last traces of daylight. They seemed to drape the room in a quiet, protective shadow.
""I called you here because you were recommended to me by your supervisor," Mr. Bartholomew's serious opening words as he handed over the folder.
"What is this?" She asked, filled with curiosity, wondering what it contained.
"I want you to investigate it. You can choose one person to help you on this matter. Ensure that everything remains confidential. Any information that you get, report it directly to me. If you have further questions you can ask my assistant for it."
She carefully flipped through the pages, one by one, pausing briefly on each as if weighing the significance of the words in front of her. She scanned the contents, moving swiftly but methodically, she brow furrowing slightly as she processed the information. Each page revealed more, but she continued turning, determined to find the exact details she was looking for.
"I'll see what I can do about this Sir." unsure answer of Luna with full of confusion for everything.
"Ok. You can start tomorrow. You may now leave."
"Noted sir. Thank you."
As she stepped out of the office, she felt as if the very earth itself had dropped, pressing down with an unspoken pressure. The responsibility of the investigation, the secrecy, the uncertainty—it all felt overwhelming. Her steps were slow, her mind racing with the enormity of the task Mr. Bartholomew had assigned her.
When she reached her cubicle, the familiar sight of her cluttered desk felt almost foreign. She took a deep breath and she pushed papers aside, sorting through the mess. The act of cleaning her desk, of putting things in order, felt almost like a way to regain control over the situation, even if just for a moment. Without another thought, she grabbed her bag, turned off the computer, and headed home.