My Boyfriend and His Dumb Blonde

My fingertips touched the icy table, and I suddenly snapped my eyes open. The fingers still trembled slightly—the weightless sensation from being pushed over the guardrail in my dream hadn't faded yet. The familiar office cubicle, my phone screen lit up, and I pressed the power button again to confirm it was exactly 2:15 in the afternoon. My heart suddenly clenched—there was still a whole hour before Miranda would destroy my project plan. The sharp pain from my last life still haunted my bones. The day I was fired, Miranda even came over to pat my shoulder and said, "Vanessa, don't be upset, you can always find another job." When George shoved me into the guardrail, he shouted at me, "You're so hard to get rid of!" Lying on that hospital bed at the end, I heard them laughing outside the door, saying, "She's finally gone. No one will stand in our way anymore." "Vanessa, you look terrible." A sickly sweet voice whispered in my ear as Miranda leaned over, holding a mug. "Did you stay up too late reworking the plan? I told you not to push yourself so hard." She smiled, a faint but unmistakable smugness flickering in her eyes. George was right behind her, reaching out to touch my forehead, his fingers nearly grazing my skin. "Are you too exhausted? Want me to tell the boss for you so you can take half a day off?" His tone was gentle—completely different from when he pushed me later. I tilted my head to avoid his touch, deliberately pressing my fingertips to my temple, my brows knitting tighter. "My head suddenly hurts badly," I said weakly, giving my body a slight shake. "Is there ibuprofen at a nearby pharmacy? Could you please go get some?" Miranda hesitated for a moment, tugging on George's arm. "But George, we still have a team meeting later, maybe..." "It's fine if the meeting starts late," George interrupted her, then looked at me. "Sit here and don't move. We'll be back in ten minutes." He dragged Miranda, who was still trying to stall, toward the exit. The footsteps faded at the end of the corridor. I immediately sat up straight, frantically rummaging through the drawer for the USB drive. The moment I touched the USB drive, half the weight in my chest finally lifted. I plugged the USB drive into the computer. Only when I saw the plan document open without a hitch did I let out a relieved breath. The indicator light glowed green; that plan, edited countless times, was perfectly intact. I sneered coldly, pulled out the USB, slipped it into the hidden compartment of my bra, and then dug a tiny camera out of my bag. I glanced around to make sure my colleagues were all busy with their own work, then quickly stuck the camera under the desk. After adjusting the camera angle to capture the entire desk, I brushed the dust off my hands. Miranda Scott, George Frank, this time, it's your turn.