Work a week later

Emily sat at her desk, absently swirling her fingertip around the rim of her coffee mug, letting her eyes rest for a moment on the skyline beyond her office window. It was her first full week back since maternity leave—extended an extra week thanks to Mr. Levanthal’s generous offer—and she was finally beginning to feel like she had her footing again. The new HR woman had replaced Martin, and she'd been nothing but kind and supportive so far. Everything felt… better. Normal.

Then her inbox pinged.

A small red dot, barely noticeable, caught her eye. One unread message—timestamped three hours ago. She’d been in that team sync then, completely distracted. The subject line made her frown:

Video Survey Proposal

No greeting. No sender name. Just a link. And a password.

Cautious, Emily clicked the link, copying the password into the prompt.

The page loaded fast—too fast—and then her breath caught in her throat.

It was a video. Playing immediately. And it was her.

Her backyard. Clear blue sky. The lounge chair. Her. In the white bikini. And then—no bikini at all. She watched herself take it off, lay back, spread her thighs. The moment her fingers slipped between them, she felt her stomach bottom out.

She could see everything.

And she could tell—immediately—this was drone footage.

The angle, slightly overhead but steady. The way it moved with calculated, gliding precision. Silent. Remote. Hidden. And the quality… God. It was crystal clear. She could see her own face. Her nipples. The flush in her chest. The orgasm when it hit her. All of it. The camera didn’t miss a second.

The realization hit like a wave of ice water.

This hadn’t been recorded accidentally. Someone had sent a drone. Hovered above her yard. Waited. Watched. And now—

The video ended. A screen of text faded in:

“Go to the 7th floor, to the room with the orange X on the door. Be there at 4:15 or this video will be emailed to everyone in your company tomorrow morning.”

Emily’s throat closed.

She snapped her eyes to the clock.

4:10 p.m.

Five minutes. No time to think. Just act—or don’t.

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

What does she do?