Chapter 1
As always, the first chapter will be free for all, but chapter two moving forward is exclusively for tier 2 & 3. It will not be published elsewhere. The blurb is below and then it jumps right in to chapter one.
Sasha Martin thinks she’s in the perfect relationship. That is, until she finds out her boyfriend Ryan is sabotaging her career behind her back. His betrayal? Telling their boss she’s not promotion material.
So Sasha does what any underestimated woman would do: she pretends nothing’s wrong, recruits her best friend, and launches a quiet, devastating revenge campaign right under Ryan’s nose.
While he scrambles to keep up his golden-boy act, Sasha plays the supportive girlfriend and watches him slowly unravel. When Ryan finally confesses and begs forgiveness, Sasha reveals the truth—she’s known all along.
Heartbreak meets calculated justice in this sharp, emotionally charged story of power, deception, and self-reclamation. Because Sasha’s not just walking away, she’s walking tall.
Conflict of Interest is a revenge-with-a-smile, workplace drama romance with sharp edges and no apologies. It’s a complete standalone and features:
😼 Workplace betrayal 😼 Overheard 😼 Revenge romance 😼 Best friend partnership 😼 Gaslight turned firestorm 😼 Emotional growth & empowerment 😼 Angst with a payoff 😼 No cheating
This will not be published elsewhere. It’s published exclusively for Tier 2 & higher on Audrey’s Patreon, Inkitt, and Ream Stories platform.
Please note: Patreon, Inkitt, and Ream offer the same tiers and same price between the three. In other words: you’re not missing one over the other!
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Sasha:
I wake up at 6:17. Three minutes before my alarm, five before Ryan’s. We don’t live together, but I still know his rhythm like a second heartbeat.
Today I’m either getting promoted or humiliated in a white blouse.
The kitchen is bathed in that sickeningly hopeful Monday sunlight—the kind that flatters everything, even the rotting basil on the windowsill. I study my reflection in the chrome kettle while the Keurig coughs out six ounces of liquid motivation.
I check my phone. No new emails. Just a passive-aggressive, team-wide calendar invite from Jerry—our fiftysomething director who smells like stale cigars and gets high on metaphors about moving the ball forward.
My apartment is a shrine to false starts and do-overs.
On the entry table is a photo of me and Ryan at a wine tasting, our smiles as cropped as the background. We’ve been together six months and still live separately. Honestly, I think we both like it that way. A few feet away, on the balcony shelf, another frame: the company holiday party. Ryan in one of three navy suits. Me in a one-size-too-forgiving dress.
I keep the frames near the door so visitors will know, before anything else, that I’m part of a set. Sasha and Ryan. Upwardly mobile. Extremely photogenic. And, quietly, dissolving.
I set my mug on a coaster shaped like a fortune cookie—Nicole’s gag gift, though weirdly accurate—and face the warzone that is my desk.
The latest marketing proposal sprawls across it like a dissected frog: color-coded tabs, red-pen carnage, and Post-its breeding bacteria from day-old coffee stains.
I flip to the executive summary and whisper my bullet points under my breath.
Revenue growth exceeded projections by 14.6 percent following the influencer rollout.
Engagement is up across all target demographics, except, regrettably, Boomer males.
Lastly, as acting team lead, I initiated the cross-functional sprint and delivered ahead of schedule.
Above my monitor, taped at a crooked angle: BE THE CEO OF YOUR OWN LIFE.
Nicole wrote it after our third happy hour and too many cocktails, right after I confessed that self-sabotage felt like a brand. I left it there. Part dare, part threat.
In the bathroom, the mirror becomes battleground. I line up my soldiers—concealer, foundation, brow gel—in neat formation. My hands are steady. My face is not.
Lower lip: bitten red. Left cheek: wine-flushed. Another night of overthinking instead of sleeping.
I rehearse the pitch again, this time through my reflection.
“Jerry, I’d like to talk next steps on the leadership track.”
Too aggressive.
“I’m excited about the team’s progress and would love to take on more responsibility.”
Too beta.
Third try. “I think I’m ready for a bigger role here.”
I force a smile. Confident, but my eyes dart to the sink.
My phone buzzes.
It’s Ryan.
“Hey,” I answer, flipping to front-facing so I can continue assessing my expression.
He’s still in bed, his hair perfectly tousled. The kind of disorder that requires effort.
His voice is low and gravelly with that Midwestern drawl he can weaponize at will.
“Good morning, beautiful. Big day?”
I hate when he asks questions he already knows the answers to.
“Yes. I’m going to ask for the promotion.” I scowl. “Or die trying.”
“That’s my girl,” he says, his grin slow and sure. “You’ve got this. No one deserves that promotion more than you.”
He pauses. “Seriously. You’ve put in more work than anyone there. Just go in and own it.”
I smooth my skirt. Fourth time.
“Jerry’s been hinting for weeks. If I don’t push now, I’ll get leapfrogged by someone who can barely run a Mailchimp campaign.”
Ryan’s eyes narrow—not dramatically, but enough.
“You’re already running circles around everyone there, babe. But maybe ease into it? Jerry likes when people know their place.”
It lands cold.
I dab foundation into the hollow of my throat.
“I’m not gunning for his office. Yet.”
“Good. Just be yourself,” he says, then adds with a smirk, “The one who terrifies people in meetings. That’s the version I fell for.”
I forcibly laugh. Ryan’s the king of not-so-compliment compliments.
My shoulders are hunched in the frame until I deliberately straighten them.
“You coming home for dinner?” I ask.
He hesitates a fraction too long.
“Or are you stuck with the team again?”
“Late night,” he says, eyes softening. “But I’ll call you after. I want to hear how it goes. I’ll bet you nail it.”
I want to ask if he’s still mentoring Cassidy—the intern with the legs and the disturbingly advanced bourbon palate—but I swallow it.
If I don’t trust him, what’s the point? And if I do, there’s no need.
He blows a kiss and hangs up before I can say goodbye.
I return to the mirror. Practice my smile.
It almost looks genuine.
By 7:50, I’m wearing a navy pencil skirt, white silk blouse, and nude pumps that elongate my legs but punish my arches.
Then I make one final pass through the proposal.
On the way out, I triple-check my tote. Laptop—check. USB drive—check. Three types of breath mints—check, check, check.
I’ve got this.
The hallway is quiet as I walk to the elevator, each step echoing like it’s already preparing me for my raise by giving me the calm I desperately need.
In the lobby, I pause.
This morning holds a kind of potential that won’t repeat itself.
Today, I will get what I deserve.
***
The break room is a petri dish for human behavior. There’s a tang of burnt coffee in the air, ancient pastries sweating under a plastic dome, and a bouquet of dying flowers in a vase probably meant to brighten the place. Instead, they look like someone’s making a point about impermanence.
Nicole is already seated at the table, immaculate in slate gray, her posture as sharp as the line of her jaw. She’s the only person I know who makes business casual look predatory. Two steaming cups sit in front of her—mine is the one with a splash of almond milk, no sugar. She gestures for me to sit, then passes it over like a peace offering.
“You’re late,” she says, glancing at her watch, “but only by a statistically insignificant margin.”
I laugh, nerves bleeding through the sound. “You would quantify it.”
She tilts her head, dark eyes scanning for damage. “You look good. No, really, like you’re about to eat the competition for breakfast.”
“I already did,” I say, thinking of Ryan’s eggs Benedict and how I left him mid-scroll at the café. “But thanks. I need all the confidence I can fake.”
Nicole flips open her notepad, pen poised. “So. Let’s review. Why do you deserve this promotion? And why should Jerry trust you not to fuck it up?”
I smirk. “That’s your opener?”
“Time is money, babe. I’m not here to coddle you.”
The truth is, I don’t want to be coddled. I want to be forged. I launch into my case—all the bullet points, all the metrics—and she counters with follow-ups sharper than cross-examination. We’re a well-oiled machine, but her questions push me past the surface.
“You’re still leading with the team wins,” Nicole says. “Don’t forget to stake your own claim. Jerry respects confidence.”
“I know. I just…” I glance around at the frosted glass, paper notices curling at the edges. “I don’t want to seem like I’m throwing anyone under the bus.”
Nicole snorts. “No one cares about the bus, Sash. They care about the driver. If you hesitate, someone else will take the wheel.”
She’s right, and I hate that I need reminding. I drain half my coffee, grip the ceramic until heat imprints my palm. “I practiced the pitch in the mirror this morning. Three times.”
“And?”
“By the third time, I believed it.”
Nicole’s smile is small and strategic. “That’s the trick. Fake it until your nerves shut up and let you lead.”
I laugh, warmth creeping into the parts of me I hadn’t realized were frozen. “Ryan thinks I’m a sure thing.” Which is rich, considering how little Nicole thinks of him.
Her brows arch. “Even though Jerry’s old school?”
“Yup.”
Nicole clicks her pen three times—calculating, always. Then, with surgical precision, “Mm. Or maybe your boyfriend is, too.”
It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have brought him up. She’s been suspicious of him ever since she caught him asking Cassidy for a cup of coffee. I mean, I get it, Cassidy’s not a secretary, but I also don’t think he meant it as a maliciously and sexist as Nicole assumes.
Either way, she’s my best friend, so I nod, swallowing the compliment and warning in one gulp. “Thanks for the consult. I owe you one.”
“You owe me twelve,” she says, then grins. “But who’s counting?”
Before I can reply, the room fills with the dull thunder of colleagues. Cassidy breezes in, all nervous energy and earnest chatter. She looks at me and Nicole with the reverence of a new hire hoping proximity will breed success.
Then, as if summoned, Ryan enters in his standard flawless navy suit. Smile dialed to good-natured. He nods at Nicole, then me. Our eyes lock, and he gives a thumbs-up. It feels supportive, practiced, and somehow a little hollow. Ugh, no. I only think it because of Nicole’s comments. He’s been nothing but supportive.
“Break room summit?” he says, sliding behind me with the confidence of someone who assumes there will always be space for him.
“Just a check-in before the big pitch,” Nicole says, voice cool but polite.
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” Ryan says.
He stands behind me, hands on my shoulders, a little too firm. “You’re going to be amazing. Remember what we talked about.”
Nicole looks at me, then at Ryan’s grip, then back to me. Her judgment hums beneath the smile.
“Don’t worry,” I say, louder than necessary. “I’ll remember.”
Ryan’s hands linger before he releases me and moves toward the fridge, already engaging Cassidy in small talk. I catch Nicole’s eye. She gives the faintest shrug. Some things can’t be coached out.
I gather my things, squaring my shoulders like armor. “Wish me luck.”
Nicole stands, straightening her blazer. “You don’t need luck. Just a good exit strategy.”
I snort. The anxiety fades, replaced by a slow surge of power. I’m capable, smart, and a complete asset to my company.
I’m halfway out the door when I see it. Jerry, leaning in. Ryan, nodding.
Jerry laughs and then claps him on the shoulder. It’s the laugh that does it. They’re in on something.
And that something doesn’t include me.
