Writer’s Prompt
Tonya West had always lived two lives.
By day, she was the flawless executive secretary—punctual, discreet, invisible in the way powerful men preferred. By night, curled up with a paperback thriller, she became someone else entirely: a shadowy investigator, a quiet whistleblower, a woman whose ordinary job placed her at the center of extraordinary danger.
On this particular Wednesday morning, Tonya arrived earlier than usual. The office was silent, the kind of silence that hummed. She slipped into Martin Benson’s office to prepare his coffee and tidy his desk. Benson had worked late—too late—and the evidence lay scattered in manila folders stamped CONFIDENTIAL.
Tonya told herself she was only straightening the papers.
But curiosity has a gravity of its own.
She opened one file. Then another.
What she read froze her breath mid-inhale.
Shell companies. Wire transfers. Legal loopholes threaded together like a spider’s web. Names she recognized from headlines—Russian oligarchs quietly bypassing U.S. sanctions with Benson’s careful guidance. This wasn’t speculation. It was documented. Signed. Dated.
Her hands shook as she photographed every page, angling her phone just so, careful not to disturb the order. When she finished, she reconstructed the desk with obsessive precision. No fingerprints. No suspicion.
Back at her own desk, her pulse thundered in her ears.
The CIA? The FBI? The New York Times?
Every option felt both heroic and suicidal.
At exactly 9:02 a.m., Martin Benson walked in, loosened tie, tired eyes. Tonya stood, smiled, and spoke with the same calm professionalism she had perfected over years.
“Good morning, Mr. Benson. Your coffee is waiting for you.”
He nodded, unaware.
As he passed her desk, Tonya’s thoughts sharpened into something steady and dangerous.
You don’t know what lies ahead for you.
And for the first time, Tonya realized this wasn’t a fantasy anymore.
It was a decision.
Writer’s Question
If you were Tonya, who would you contact first—and what would stop you from doing it?