Chapter 2: Domestic Facade
The scent of cheap sweet and sour sauce mingled with stale coffee in the cramped apartment. Kim sat hunched on the worn corduroy sofa, the flickering light from the old TV casting jumpy shadows on her face. A half-eaten carton of takeaway sat abandoned on the coffee table beside her phone. On screen, Sarah Daniels beamed, frozen in high definition. Charity gala. Of course. Draped in emerald silk that probably cost more than Kim’s monthly rent, Sarah’s smile was a predatory slash of white. Her hand, those same predatory red nails Kim knew too well, gripped the arm of some grey-haired tycoon with unnerving possessiveness. Digging in. Claiming.
"Long day, angel?" Reece’s voice, warm and slightly muffled, came from behind her. His hands landed gently on her shoulders. Strong, familiar hands. He began kneading the knots at the base of her neck.
Kim flinched, the unexpected touch jarring her out of the hate-fueled trance. "Yeah," she managed, forcing her voice flat. "Usual." She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen, from the nails like drops of blood against the man’s dark suit sleeve. Made him sign it after threatening to leak his wife’s affair. The memory from the dressing room, still raw, pulsed behind her eyes.
"I brought you that noodle thing you like," Reece said, his thumbs working circles into her tight muscles. "The one with the crispy bits?" He sounded hopeful, a small domestic peace offering launched into her warzone.
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Thanks." Kim’s thumb scrolled mechanically. Another photo: Sarah holding a grotesquely oversized cheque, flanked by simpering socialites. Her gaze, even captured digitally, was pure, condescending triumph. The Manchester figures Preston sent were solid. She knew they were. Sarah just needed to twist the knife. Needed to remind Kim who held the power. Who could destroy lives on a whim.
Reece’s hands felt heavy suddenly. The kindness, the normalcy of it, grated. It belonged to a different world. A world before Sarah Daniels became the malignant sun her life revolved around. He shifted his grip, working deeper. "Jesus, Kim, you’re like stone back here. What does that woman do to you all day? Run you ragged fetching her dry cleaning with your teeth?"
A bitter laugh escaped Kim, sharp and unexpected. "Would she? Probably." She leaned forward slightly, trying to escape the soothing touch that felt like an intrusion into her simmering resentment. The cheap fabric of the sofa rasped against her blouse. "It’s just… constant, Reece. The mind games. The undermining. Nothing’s ever right."
He sighed, a soft puff of air that stirred the hair at her temple. His hands moved to her upper back. "You’re smarter than her. Anyone can see that. She’s just… loud. And rich." He paused, then added, quieter, "And frankly, looks like she chews lemons for fun." He squeezed her shoulder gently. "Don’t let her get under your skin, love."
Too late. The words screamed silently in her head. Sarah wasn’t just under her skin; she was in her fucking bone marrow. Every slight, every sneer, every dismissive flick of those red-tipped fingers was a splinter working its way deeper. The image from earlier flashed again – Sarah’s reflection, cold and imperious in the mirror. The sudden, visceral desire to squeeze.
Her phone, face-down on the cushion beside her, buzzed. An insistent, angry little vibration. Kim’s breath hitched. Late emails were Sarah’s specialty. Weapons delivered under cover of darkness.
Reece felt the tension ratchet up under his fingers. "Work?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Probably." Kim didn't move. Didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to know what fresh hell awaited. The flickering TV light painted grotesque shapes on the wall opposite.
The buzzing stopped. A beat of silence. Then another buzz. Longer. More insistent. Sarah wasn’t done.
Groaning inwardly, Kim snatched up the phone. The screen glared in the dim room.
From: Sarah Daniels
Subject: Your Incompetence, Illustrated
Ice water flooded Kim’s veins. The cold, clinical cruelty of the subject line stole her breath. Her knuckles whitened on the cheap plastic case. Reece’s hands were still moving on her back, a gentle, oblivious pressure against the sudden freeze radiating from her core.
"You okay?" Reece murmured, misinterpreting her stillness. "Bad news?"
Kim couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look away from the screen. Her thumb hovered over the notification, trembling slightly. Illustrated? What did that mean? Had she messed up the Manchester figures after all? Was it screenshots? Diagrams highlighting her stupidity? Mocking annotations in digital red pen?
She pictured Sarah composing it. Late night in her minimalist penthouse, maybe still in that emerald gown, those red nails clicking efficiently on a keyboard. A small, cruel smile playing on her lips. Your Incompetence, Illustrated. Crafted specifically to shatter any fragile peace Kim might have scraped together. Delivered to invade her home, her sanctuary, this small space smelling of noodles and Reece’s aftershave.
The urge to hurl the phone across the room, to hear it smash satisfyingly against the wall plaster, was overwhelming. To scream until her throat bled. To drive straight to Sarah’s penthouse and… do it. Wrap her hands around that thin neck, feel the cartilage give way—
Reece’s hand smoothed her hair back. "Kim? You’ve gone pale. What is it?"
She took a shaky breath. The violent fantasy dissolved, leaving behind a cold, hard residue. Pure, concentrated hatred. Not a hot rage, but something deeper, darker. Obsessive. Calculated. The kind that planned.
"Nothing," she lied. Her voice sounded rough, alien to her own ears. She forced a swallow. "Just another Sarah-special." She tapped the screen. The email opened.
Attachment: Manchester_ROI_Analysis_Notes_SD_FINAL.pdf
And beneath it, a single line of text:
See attached. Your failure to grasp basic arithmetic is astonishing. Fix it. On my desk by 9am. Don't disappoint me again.
Fix it. By 9am. Don't disappoint. The commands hammered into her skull. Kim stared at the words until they blurred. The warmth of Reece behind her, the safety of their messy apartment, the scent of the forgotten noodles – it all receded into white noise. There was only the screen. The words. The hatred.
Slowly, deliberately, Kim locked the phone screen. The harsh light vanished, plunging her side of the sofa back into flickering TV shadows. She didn’t move. Didn’t look at Reece. Didn’t open the attachment. Not yet.
The plan wasn't formed. But the resolve? That was solidifying. Ice-cold. Unbreakable. Sarah Daniels had just lit the fuse. Kim felt the timer start ticking, deep inside her chest, right where the insecurity usually sat. Replaced now by something infinitely colder and more dangerous.
Reece’s hands resumed their gentle massage, a world away. "Want me to look at it with you? Might be easier with two heads?"
Kim closed her eyes. "No," she whispered. The single word hung heavy in the small space. "I’ll handle it." Her voice was low, flat. Final.
She would handle it. All of it. Soon.
The Manchester figures glowed accusingly on her phone screen. Kim stared, the cheap sweet and sour scent suddenly cloying, threatening to rise in her throat. Reece’s concerned murmur – "Want a cuppa with that?" – barely registered as a distant buzz.
See attached. Your failure to grasp basic arithmetic is astonishing. Sarah’s words were physical barbs. Kim’s thumb, slick with sweat, swiped open the attachment. Graphs. Columns highlighted in angry red. Sarah’s annotations scrawled digitally across the margins like spider venom: Basic math, Ashmore? Even my gardener could do better. Is your comprehension as flat as your—
She snapped the phone face down so hard the cheap coffee table rattled. The half-eaten noodles swam in her vision. "Christ, Kim, what is it?" Reece leaned closer, his hand finding her knee this time, a warm, grounding weight she wanted to fling aside.
"Nothing," she rasped, the lie tasting like ash. "Just... Sarah being Sarah. Late-night power trip." Her gaze fixed on a water stain on the ceiling plaster, anything to avoid his kind, oblivious eyes.
Reece sighed, a weary puff of air. "That woman. Honestly. Needs a hobby. Or a personality transplant. Still looks like she chews lemons for fun." He squeezed her knee. "Ignore it till morning. Let’s just... watch the telly? There’s that terrible spy thing on."
Ignore it. The absurdity almost choked her. Ignore the meticulous demolition of her competence? Ignore the image of Sarah, all five foot nine and formidable size 18 frame, towering even in digital memory, those red nails tapping impatiently on her chrome desk, savouring this? Kim forced a nod. "Yeah. Okay. Spy thing."
She let Reece pull her gently back against the worn cushions. He flicked channels, settling on explosions and improbable car chases. His arm settled loosely around her shoulders. Kim sat rigid, every muscle taut as a wire. The flickering light from the screen played over her face, but her mind was miles away, dissecting the email’s cruelty. Illustrated. Like she was a child presented with a picture book of her own stupidity. The red pen slashing Preston’s figures she’d defended.
The spy on screen dodged bullets. Kim imagined Sarah dodging consequences. That thick neck. The solidity of her. How much force would it take? Her own slender fingers seemed absurdly inadequate against Sarah’s substantial build, a fact Sarah exploited daily with her imposing presence. Would she even feel Kim’s hands? The thought wasn’t frightening; it was infuriating. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her.
"Gonna scrape the plates," Reece announced during an ad break, heaving himself up. The sofa springs groaned in relief. "Sure you don’t want that cuppa?"
Kim shook her head, mute. She watched him shuffle towards the tiny galley kitchen, the comforting domesticity feeling like a suffocating blanket. As he passed the cheap wooden knife block near the sink, her eyes lingered. The smooth handle of the largest chef’s knife gleamed dully under the fluorescent strip light.
Fix it. Sarah’s command echoed. Don't disappoint me again. Fix Preston’s figures? Or fix the source of the poison? Fix her? The knife handle seemed to pulse in her peripheral vision. Not the weapon. Too messy. Too traceable. Too... physical. Sarah’s strength was an obstacle Kim hadn’t fully factored. She needed something smarter. Something that wouldn’t require matching Sarah’s physical power. Something clean.
Reece hummed tunelessly, rinsing a plate. The sound scraped against her nerves. Kim stood abruptly, the sudden movement making him glance over. "Headache," she mumbled, avoiding his eyes. "Think I’ll just... lie down."
She fled to their cramped bedroom, leaving the TV’s blare and Reece’s quiet domesticity behind. The cool darkness was a relief. She didn’t turn on the light. Leaning against the closed door, she slid down until she sat on the thin carpet. The faint, greasy smell of the alley below drifted through the single window.
Her phone buzzed again in her pocket. Another vibration. Like a persistent insect. Sarah? More instructions? Another sarcastic annotation? Kim didn’t look. She pressed her forehead against her drawn-up knees, breathing in the dusty carpet smell. The hatred was a cold, hard stone in her gut now. Obsessive. All-consuming.
Reece would come to bed soon. He’d find her ‘asleep’. He wouldn’t see the furious calculation happening behind her closed eyelids. Not Preston’s figures. Not the knife. Something else. Sarah Daniels was a fortress. But fortresses had weak points. Supply lines. Foundations. Reputations. Kim just needed to find the crack.
A tiny, bitter smile touched her lips in the dark. Fix it. Oh, she’d fix it. She’d fix Sarah Daniels permanently. The specifics were still smoke, but the resolve was forged steel. The timer in her chest, the one Sarah ignited with her ‘illustrated incompetence’, ticked louder in the silence. It wasn't counting down to nine a.m. anymore. It was counting down to something far more final.
The cheap carpet fibers dug into Kim’s bare legs as she sat slumped against the bedroom door. Reece’s muffled footsteps padded into the bathroom, followed by the rush of the tap. He’s brushing his teeth. The mundane sound scraped like sandpaper across her raw nerves. Sarah’s email, that vicious digital shiv labelled 'Your Incompetence, Illustrated', pulsed behind her closed eyelids. The red annotations swam – Basic math, Ashmore? mocking her over Preston’s figures she’d actually defended. Even my gardener could do better. That familiar, corrosive heat flooded her cheeks, but beneath it, deeper now, was the glacial certainty that had settled in her gut. This couldn't continue. Not like this.
The bathroom door clicked open. Light spilled into the hallway, then vanished as Reece entered the bedroom, a comforting silhouette against the dim city glow seeping around the cheap blinds. "Alright, love?" he murmured, his voice thick with impending sleep. The mattress springs groaned softly under his weight. "Come to bed. Forget her for tonight."
Kim didn’t move from the floor. "In a minute," she whispered, the lie tasting like dust. "Just… need a sec." She heard the rustle of sheets, the soft sigh as he settled. Within minutes, his breathing deepened into the rhythmic cadence of sleep. Oblivious. Safe. Kind. Everything Sarah corroded just by existing.
The silence in the tiny room amplified the ticking inside her skull. Far more final. The knife block in the kitchen was a blunt, messy idea. Sarah’s physicality – that solid size-18 frame, the predatory confidence – was an obstacle Kim’s slender build couldn’t reliably overcome face-to-face. She needed precision. Leverage. Something that wouldn’t scream ‘Kim Ashmore’ when the dust settled. Something Sarah wouldn’t see coming until it was far too late. Reputations were fragile things, especially when built on ruthlessness and secrets. Supply lines, she’d thought earlier. Foundations.
A name surfaced, sharp and clear amidst the swirling hatred: Hans. Marcus Hansford. An old university friend. Brilliant, chaotic, and deeply cynical about the corporate world he navigated with unsettling skill from the shadows of IT security. They’d stayed in touch, sporadic emails and the rare awkward pub meet where he’d scan the exits more than her face. He’d hinted, once, over lukewarm beer, about his ‘side projects’. Things that existed in the grey spaces networks forgot. "People leave surprisingly wide doors open, Kimmy," he’d said, his smile thin and knowing. "Especially the powerful ones who think they’re untouchable." She’d laughed it off then, back when Sarah was merely unbearable, not yet the obsessive focus of her every waking thought.
Now, the memory felt like a key sliding into a lock. Hans understood systems. Weaknesses. And he despised bullies. Her phone glowed coldly in the dark as she swiped it open, bypassing the Manchester report entirely. She navigated to her contacts, fingers trembling slightly. Not with fear. With something else – a terrifying, focused energy. She found the number simply labelled ‘H’. Took a breath that shuddered in her chest. The alley air drifting through the window smelled faintly of damp brick and overflowing bins. Downstairs, a car alarm whooped briefly then died.
She pressed call. It rang twice. A click. Static. Then a voice, low, alert despite the hour. "Kim? Bit late for social calls, isn’t it?" There was no surprise, just a flat readiness.
"Hi, Hans." Her own voice was a rasp, stripped bare. She kept it low, eyes fixed on Reece’s sleeping form. "Remember that conversation? About wide-open doors? And people who deserve a… fall?"
A beat of silence stretched taut. She could almost hear him processing, reassessing. The static hissed softly. "Vaguely," he said finally, his tone carefully neutral. "The context is a bit clearer now, though. Considering."
"Yeah." The single syllable held everything – the dressing room humiliations, the gala photos, the email’s vicious subject line burning in her inbox. "It’s time. I need to… explore some options. Thoroughly."
Another pause. Shorter this time. Then a soft, humourless chuckle vibrated down the line. "Exploration requires maps, Kimmy. And tools. Untraceable ones. You understand the terrain?"
"Better than I ever wanted to," she breathed, the image of Sarah’s sneering face sharp in her mind. "She’s got skeletons. Big ones. Leverage. I know where she keeps them. Digitally." The Albright acquisition threat whispered through her memory. Leak his wife’s affair. Sarah documented her ruthlessness, she was sure of it. Insurance, maybe. Or trophies. "I just need a way in. A quiet way."
Hans exhaled slowly. "Quiet costs. And patience. This isn't pressing a button." His voice held no judgement, only calculation. "You're sure? Once the path opens..."
Kim’s gaze didn’t waver from the dark outline of Reece. Safe. Oblivious. Her anchor in a world Sarah polluted. The cold stone of hatred pressed against her ribs. "I’m sure, Hans. I’m done waiting. I want her gone. Properly gone." The word hung, heavy and final, in the phone's tiny speaker.
A final, decisive silence. Then Hans spoke, his voice dropping another notch, businesslike and chillingly calm. "Alright. Clear your schedule tomorrow lunch. That dodgy cafe near Old Street station. The one with the bad coffee and worse Wi-Fi. Bring cash. A decent wedge. And Kim? Don't be late." The line went dead.
Kim lowered the phone. The glowing screen cast ghastly shadows on her face. Outside, the city hummed its indifferent night song. Reece murmured softly in his sleep, turning over. The cold certainty in her gut had solidified into ice. She looked at her hands in the dim light. Slender. Capable. Empty. For now. Hans had the tools. She had the target. And the hate.
It starts tonight.
The scent of stale coffee and frying grease hung thick in the cramped cafe near Old Street station. Kim stirred her lukewarm, bitter brew, the spoon clinking a nervous rhythm against the chipped mug. Across the sticky Formica table, Hans Sawrin watched her with unnerving stillness, his fingers steepled. His eyes, pale and assessing, missed nothing – the tremor in her hand, the tight set of her jaw, the way her gaze kept flicking to the grimy window overlooking the rain-slicked street.
"She keeps trophies," Kim said abruptly, her voice low and tight. She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. Hans merely lifted an eyebrow, a silent prompt. "Digital ones. Emails. Recordings. Things she’s used to break people." The image of Sarah’s red nails tapping her hip bone as she described destroying Jankowski flashed vividly. Signed the revised termsheet yesterday. After I suggested how his wife’s little art retreats...
Hans nodded slowly, pulling a nondescript tablet from his worn messenger bag. "Trophies imply storage. Access points. Weaknesses." His voice was devoid of inflection, professional. "You know the crown jewels. Where does she keep them? Her sanctum?" He meant the office, the fortress Sarah ruled with iron and venom.
"Her personal drive," Kim confirmed, leaning in slightly despite herself. "Heavily encrypted. But… there’s a backdoor. A hidden folder she accesses via a specific key sequence on her secondary laptop. The one she uses in her dressing room." The plush sanctuary, the unforgiving mirrors, the air thick with La Vie Est Belle. "She thinks it’s secure. She’s arrogant."
A ghost of a smile touched Hans’s thin lips. "Arrogance is the best firewall… until it isn’t." He tapped the tablet screen awake, pulling up a complex interface. "This," he slid it towards her, showing a diagram that looked like a nervous system made of code, "is a digital skeleton key. It whispers. Finds cracks. Opens doors without leaving boot prints." He named a price. It was steep. Enough to make Reece notice if she wasn't careful with their joint savings.
Kim didn’t flinch. The cold stone of hatred in her gut was worth every penny. She pulled an envelope of cash from her bag and slid it across the table. It vanished into Hans’s bag with practiced ease. "How long?"
He shrugged. "Depends on the lock. And the watchdog." A meaningful look. Security systems. "Send me the specifics. The laptop model. The OS. Any patterns you’ve seen." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "This isn't just about stealing dirt, Kimmy. You understand? Once I open the door, you walk through it. You plant the seeds. You make the mess that sticks. I just provide the key… and perhaps a little fertilizer." His implication was clear: fabrication, manipulation, lies woven seamlessly into the truth Sarah had already documented.
Before Kim could respond, her work phone buzzed violently in her pocket. The specific, jarring tone reserved for Sarah’s direct line. Ice water doused the thrill humming through her veins. Hans’s eyes flicked to her pocket, then back to her face, reading the sudden tension.
Kim excused herself, weaving through the cramped tables to the grim toilet corridor. She answered, bracing. Daniels?"
Sarah’s voice crackled, sharp and impatient, despite the faint echo suggesting she was in her vast marble bathroom. "Ashmore. Where is the revised Carlton presentation? I distinctly recall requesting it before my lunch meeting. Which," a pause filled with the clink of glass, perhaps perfume, "concludes in precisely twenty minutes."
Kim’s mind blanked. Carlton? What revised presentation? Sarah had only mentioned Preston’s figures… Your Incompetence, Illustrated burned in her memory. "The… Carlton presentation?" she stuttered.
"God, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that too?" Sarah’s sigh was pure theatrical exasperation. "Must I spoon-feed you every single task? The updated market penetration slides? The ones you were supposed to integrate yesterday? Or was gazing at your reflection in the lift doors more captivating?" The familiar dig at Kim’s vanity, specifically weaponized against her insecurity. Flat chest, forgettable face. My. Desk. In fifteen minutes, Ashmore. Or find another reflection to admire permanently."
The line went dead. Kim leaned her forehead against the cold, damp tiles of the corridor wall. Fury, white-hot and familiar, warred with the cold purpose Hans had ignited. Carlton. Carlton was ancient history, a project Kim had completed perfectly weeks ago. This was pure sadism. A reminder. A flex.
She pushed off the wall, smoothing her expression into something neutral before returning to the table. Hans watched her approach, sipping his own terrible coffee. "The dragon breathes fire?"
Kim sat down, the cheap plastic chair groaning. "Just a reminder of my place." Her voice was flat. Dead. She picked up her cold coffee, the bitterness matching the taste in her mouth. "Send me the key, Hans. As soon as it’s ready." She needed access. Now. The need to strike back, to expose the ugliness Sarah documented with such pride, was a physical ache. The humiliation crystallized, hard and sharp: Sarah Daniels laughing with the Head of Marketing as Kim stumbled over her words in the quarterly review. Sarah’s casual phone call, minutes after Kim confided about a promising interview at Sterling Consulting – "Oh, Marcus? About that position... Kim Ashmore? Absolutely not. Liability. Trust me." The job offer vanished like smoke. Sarah wasn't just a woman. She was a parasite that made everyone forget the host. She didn't just want Kim's attention... she wanted her gone.
Hans nodded, gathering his things. "It’s already compiling. You’ll have it tonight." He stood, pausing. "Just remember, Kimmy. Dragons hoard gold. But they also guard it fiercely. And this one? She breathes actual fire. Don't get scorched."
He left her sitting there, the taste of cheap coffee and cheaper revenge thick on her tongue. The cold hatred had shape now. Teeth. It wasn't just about escape anymore. As Kim walked back towards the office, the rain starting to mist against her face, the plan unfolded in her mind with terrifying clarity. Access the drive. Find the trophies. Twist them. Amplify them. Leak them. Ruin her. Shatter the perfect, ruthless image Sarah polished before her mirrors. Make her the illustration of incompetence, of corruption, of ugliness laid bare.
Her phone buzzed again. Probably Sarah, demanding the non-existent Carlton file. Kim ignored it, a tiny, hard smile touching her lips for the first time in months. Soon, she thought, her steps quickening on the wet pavement. Very soon, Sarah. Let’s see how you sign your name when your whole world burns. The skeleton key was coming. And Kim was ready to turn it.