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“Are you sure? There’s no need to be afraid to speak up. I want to make sure you’re comfortable and supported here.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m fine.”
“Very well, then. If that’s all, you can go, but just know that I’ll back you up if you ever need anything.”
“Thanks, Clara.” I stood up to leave.
“Nice meeting you, Ms. Crook. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
I felt the colour drain from my face.
Crook.
“Thanks. You too,” I squeaked.
I hurried away, hoping she didn’t catch my startled reaction.
As I made my way back to my desk, I wondered whether I should have told Clara the truth. How long would I leave things as they were, hoping it would all blow over?
I reminded myself that this wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t my mess to sort out. Besides, I needed to keep this job, no matter what.
Since the login mix-up, I had taken over Amelia Crook’s accounts as my own. It only made sense that the email address with the proper naming convention should belong to me now that Amelia Crook had left.
My inbox, as usual, overflowed with emails intended for Amelia Crook instead of me. I labelled them, then forwarded them, one by one, to the marketing department. I had just about cleared my inbox when a new email came in. Yet another message for Amelia Crook. This time, a red exclamation mark stood at attention by the subject line. I read the email.
Hi Amelia,
Can you please urgently send through the final report for the March dishwasher campaign?
Kind regards,
David
I was about to file and forward this message too when I realised the report he was asking for was the same one I had just received in an earlier email from the media agency.
The red exclamation mark flashed in my vision.
I have the report. I’ll just send it through. What harm could it do?
Before I could talk myself out of it, I typed a brief reply, attached the report, and pressed send.
A disastrous mistake.
Chapter Seven
This might be the craziest thing I’ve done in my entire life.
I hadn’t intended to impersonate Amelia Crook, but that’s what happened, and now I was in too deep.
Responding to that email had triggered a chain of events that ended with me here, standing in the corridor outside the boardroom on the twentieth floor, clutching a stack of printed reports, about to present a media report to the COO and an unknown number of other staff members.
I’m so dead.
Through the transparent glass wall into the boardroom, I saw two people sitting at the long, rectangular table—David Green and a brunette woman beside him. He caught my eyes and gestured for me to come inside. I couldn’t turn back. I couldn’t run away. I had to face my fate, surrender to the inevitability that at least one person would recognise me for the imposter I was.
I sucked in a deep gulp of air before stepping into the boardroom. The table dominated the space, with a whiteboard at one end of the room and a large-screen TV at the other. On the external wall, large windows overlooked the city centre.
David and the woman stood when I entered. I avoided their eyes, certain they’d be looking at me with suspicion.
