The Harrington building rose before Anli like a glass monument to everything she hated. Its modern facade pretended to be artistic—all sharp angles and reflective surfaces—but really it was just expensive. The kind of building that housed the kind of company where people like Penny thrived and people like Anli disappeared.
Anli pushed through the revolving doors, nodded to the security guard, and took the lift to the fourth floor. Her heart was steady. Her hands were calm. She'd spent the morning commute reviewing the system's information, memorizing file paths and email dates and victim names. She was ready.
The bullpen was already buzzing with activity. Sarah hunched over her keyboard, typing furiously. James was on yet another personal call, his voice a low murmur in the corner. Priyanka sat at her drawing table, charcoal in hand, her dark eyes lifting briefly to meet Anli's before darting away. Guilt, Anli recognized. Priyanka knew what Penny did. They all knew. And they'd all done nothing.
But Anli couldn't blame them. She'd done nothing too, for three long years. Silence was survival in a place like this.
And then, through the glass walls of her corner office, Anli saw her.
Penelope Fenchurch sat at her massive desk, blonde bun perfectly in place, tapping away at her laptop like the queen of all she surveyed. Even from here, Anli could see the satisfaction on her face—the smug contentment of someone who had never once faced consequences for her actions.
Anli paused at the entrance to the bullpen, watching Penny through the glass. The rage was still there—she felt it flicker in her chest—but it was controlled now. Channeled. Transformed into something colder and more useful.
You have no idea what's coming, Anli thought. You think I'm still your doormat, your workhorse, your invisible little junior designer. You think you can steal from me forever and I'll never fight back.
She smiled, small and private.
Wait until you see what I've become.
The morning passed in a blur of mundane tasks. Emails to answer. Meetings to attend. Sketches to revise. Penny called her in twice—once to discuss a "minor adjustment" to a design that was clearly Anli's original work, and once to demand coffee because the machine on the fourth floor was broken.
Anli brought the coffee with a smile. She said "of course" and "right away" and "I'll fix that immediately." She played her role perfectly, the compliant junior, the grateful mentee, the invisible woman.
But all the while, her mind was elsewhere. She was cataloging the office layout, noting the position of security cameras, timing the IT department's lunch breaks. She was planning.
At 12:15, Penny swept out of her office, designer handbag dangling from her elbow. "Lunch meeting," she announced to no one in particular. "Back by two. Anli, those Bristol revisions had better be on my desk."
"Of course, Penny," Anli said. "Have a good lunch."
Penny didn't acknowledge the sentiment. She was already gone, her heels clicking toward the lift.
Anli waited exactly seven minutes—long enough for Penny to clear the building, short enough that no one would wonder where she'd gone. Then she rose from her desk and made her way to the stairwell.
The IT department was on the third floor. Anli had never had reason to visit it before—IT was for people with technical problems, and her problems had always been of a different nature. But the system had provided directions, and she followed them now with quiet precision.
The door was open. Inside, a young man with unfortunate facial hair was hunched over a sandwich, scrolling through his phone. He looked up as Anli entered, his expression shifting from boredom to mild interest.
"Can I help you?"
Anli smiled her most harmless smile. "Hi. I'm working on a project that needs some historical design references. Penny—Penelope Fenchurch—suggested I look through the archives, but I'm not sure how to access them."
The IT guy—his name badge read "KEVIN"—nodded slowly. "Archives are on the server. You need access permissions."
"I think Penny was going to arrange that, but she's in meetings all afternoon. Is there any way you could help me? It would really save me." Anli widened her eyes slightly, projecting just the right amount of helplessness. "I'm on a tight deadline."
Kevin hesitated. Anli could see him weighing the request—company policy against the chance to help a pretty girl who clearly needed assistance. Company policy, as it so often did, lost.
"Alright. Let me set you up with read-only access to the design archives. You won't be able to download anything, but you can view and take notes."
Perfect, Anli thought. I don't need to download. I just need to see.
Ten minutes later, she was seated at a spare terminal in the IT office, a folder of "notes" beside her and her phone strategically positioned to photograph the screen. Kevin had returned to his sandwich and his phone, scrolling through social media with the complete absorption of someone who had long ago stopped caring about his job.
Anli navigated the server with practiced ease. The system had provided file paths, and she followed them methodically, opening folder after folder, document after document. What she found made her blood run cold even as it fueled the fire of her determination.
There, in a folder labeled "PENELOPE FENCHURCH - PORTFOLIO 2020," were designs she recognized. Not just hers—though hers were there, dozens of them, dating back three years. She saw the Bloomsbury collection, the one Penny had presented as her own just days ago. She saw concepts she'd sketched during her first year at Harrington's, rough ideas she'd shared with Penny in confidence, now polished and perfected and filed under someone else's name.
But it wasn't just her work. There were designs by Sarah—a series of botanical prints that Sarah had been working on for months, now sitting in Penny's portfolio folder. Designs by James—his geometric patterns, his color studies, his experimental textiles. Designs by Priyanka—delicate floral illustrations that Anli had admired at her desk, now claimed by Penny as her own.
And alongside the designs were emails. Anli opened one, dated 2019, from Penny to a junior designer named Emma Wright:
"Lovely work on the spring concepts, Emma. I'd like to present them to the creative director as a team effort—it looks better coming from a senior, and I'll make sure you get full credit in the meeting notes. Let's discuss on Monday."
The meeting notes, Anli knew, would have shown only Penny's name. The credit would never materialize. And Emma Wright—whoever she was—would have learned the same painful lesson Anli had learned: that at Harrington & Co., your work belonged to whoever had the power to take it.
Anli opened another email. This one was dated 2020, addressed to HR:
"I'm writing to formally report that Penelope Fenchurch has repeatedly presented my designs as her own. I have documentation including email trails and dated sketches. I request a formal investigation into this matter."
The sender was Sarah Kapoor. The same Sarah Kapoor who now sat three cubicles away from Anli, typing furiously at her keyboard, never meeting anyone's eyes.
Anli scrolled down. There was a response from HR, dated two weeks later:
"Dear Ms. Kapoor, thank you for your report. We have investigated the matter and found insufficient evidence to support your claims. We appreciate your commitment to the company and encourage you to focus on your excellent work. Please let us know if you have any further concerns."
Insufficient evidence. Of course. Penny had been careful—always careful. She'd never left a trail that couldn't be explained away, never stolen from anyone who had the power to fight back. Until now.
Anli photographed everything. Every design, every email, every folder name. She worked quickly and quietly, her phone capturing image after image while Kevin scrolled through his feed, oblivious. When she'd gathered enough evidence to bury Penny a hundred times over, she logged out, thanked Kevin with another harmless smile, and returned to the fourth floor.
The bullpen was still quiet, most people not yet back from lunch. Anli settled at her desk and pulled up the Holt Prize website on her computer. The submission guidelines were clear: original work only, never before published, with a statement of artistic intent. Winners would be announced in December, with the exhibition opening the following spring.
She could do this. She would do this.
"Anli."
The voice came from behind her. Anli's fingers paused on the keyboard. She'd been so absorbed in the competition website that she hadn't heard anyone approach. Slowly, she turned.
Penny stood there, a folder in her hand, her expression a careful mask of pleasant authority. She must have returned early from her lunch meeting—or perhaps there'd never been a meeting at all. Perhaps she'd been watching, waiting, looking for any sign of insubordination.
"I need you to stay late tonight," Penny said. "The Bristol account needs revisions, and I have dinner plans. Shouldn't take more than a few hours."
Anli looked at her. Really looked at her. At the expensive clothes that her stolen work had paid for. At the confident posture that her stolen confidence had built. At the smile that had never, not once, been genuine.
For a moment—just a moment—Anli considered pulling out her phone, showing Penny the photographs, watching that smile crumble into horror. The evidence was right there, in her pocket. Dozens of images. Years of theft. Mountains of proof.
But no. Not yet. The timing wasn't right. A confrontation in an empty office, with no witnesses, no allies, no backup—Penny would find a way to twist it, to make Anli the villain, to protect herself as she always had. She needed to be destroyed completely, publicly, irreversibly. And for that, Anli needed a plan.
"Of course, Penny," Anli said. Her voice was sweet, compliant, the voice of the invisible woman Penny had always known. "I'll stay as long as you need."
Penny's smile widened. "Good girl. I knew I could count on you."
She turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, her perfect bun never wobbling. The glass door of her office closed behind her with a soft click.
Anli watched her go. And when Penny was safely ensconced in her corner office, Anli pulled out her phone and scrolled through the photographs she'd taken. Dozens of images. Years of theft. Mountains of evidence.
Good girl, she thought. Yes, Penny. I'm a very good girl.
Good at waiting.
Good at planning.
Good at revenge.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[EVIDENCE CATALOG UPDATED: 147 ITEMS]
[PENELOPE FENCHURCH - CASE FILE: 78% COMPLETE]
[RECOMMENDED NEXT ACTION: IDENTIFY ALLIES. EMMA WRIGHT (FORMER VICTIM) CURRENTLY WORKS AT STUDIO 212. CONTACT INFORMATION AVAILABLE.]
[HOLT PRIZE OBJECTIVE: 2% COMPLETE]
[CURRENT STATUS: PROGRESSING SATISFACTORILY]
Anli tucked her phone away and turned back to her computer. The Bristol account revisions could wait a few more minutes. Right now, she had a competition to research and an ally to contact.
She opened a new email window and began to type:
Dear Emma Wright,
You don't know me, but we have something in common. We both worked at Harrington & Co. We both crossed paths with Penelope Fenchurch. And we both had our work stolen.
I'm writing because I'm building a case against her. Real evidence this time—enough to make it stick. I have documentation, emails, design comparisons. What I need is witnesses. People who can speak to what she did.
Would you be willing to talk? Coffee, maybe, at your convenience. No pressure, no obligation. Just a conversation.
I hope to hear from you.
Anli Sharma
She read it over twice, then added her contact information and hit send. The email whooshed away into the digital ether, carrying with it the first move in a game that would, she hoped, end with Penny's downfall.
Outside the window, London gleamed in the afternoon sun. Somewhere in Cornwall, her mother was enjoying her honeymoon with a monster. Somewhere in the city, Marcus was planning his next move, believing himself invincible.
And here, in a glass office building in Covent Garden, Anli Sharma was building a weapon.
Not a weapon of destruction.
A weapon of justice.
A weapon of revenge.
She turned back to the Bristol account revisions and began to work, her mind already racing ahead to the next move, the next step, the next piece of the puzzle.
The game was just beginning. And this time, Anli intended to win.