Seeping Rewards

[Includes attempted murder]

“Hey, Miss Roffe?”

“Hmm?” She asked, looking up from her clutter of paperwork with a kind smile of expectant patience.

“Would you please go make us both a cuppa?” he responded without looking up from his own fortress of ink, staples, and deceased trees.

“Right away, sir,” her voice was pleasant, professional—the perfect blend of sweet and business. Miss Roffe stood at once from the expensive leather couch, straightening her crisp, white blouse. The endless mountains of attitude-riddled ink could wait; it was time for tea.

He licked the pad of his thumb before flipping another page, his eyes trained on minuscule font bordering illegibility. With a flick of his wrist, he scrawled out yet another looping signature. “Thank you,” he replied. She could hear the unfiltered exhaustion in his voice, a result of the countless hours he had devoted to his campaign.

She could also feel the fatigue seeping into her bones, but she knew it would all be over soon. All the long hours would pay off. Every moment spent scheduling, cancelling, and rescheduling Mr Cecil Stutton’s meetings would have meaning. She could only pray that all her efforts would be for the right cause.

She navigated the grand house with practised ease. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor with every step, each one measured with careful precision.

She knew how much the small details mattered. It’s the minor elements of her persona that make her believable. Mr Cecil Stutton never doubted her; she played her part too well.

She eased the kitchen door open, glancing around to ensure the room was empty. The kitchen was a cathedral of culinary refinement—all gleaming marble countertops and polished brass fixtures that glowed with the allure of wealth and power. Mr Stutton was a man of refinement and class, but also a man whose radical ideas posed a threat to the integrity of Parliament.

She moved to the imposing glass-topped stove, deftly heating a burner. She lifted the stainless steel kettle, filling it up at the sink before positioning it over the burner with the precision of someone who understood that even the smallest gestures mattered in a house like this. As the water began the slow process of boiling, she suddenly felt very small, a scuttling servant within the expensive manor. Insignificant compared to the estate, the very picture of grandeur, a place where appearances were everything.

But she embodied her role perfectly, did she not? Heels, a bun, makeup, everything was meticulously planned, so she looked the part. The perfect, doting secretary, pencil skirt and all. Still, she couldn’t shake the sickening feeling that this wouldn’t work out the way she’s been planning.

She brushed those worrisome thoughts aside, busying herself. She opened the drawer, her delicate fingers searching through countless flavors of teabags until she found the one she was seeking. Almond black tea. Not the flavour that she usually gave Mr Stutton, but he didn’t have a preference about what type of tea he drank, as long as it was strong.

Her hand slipped into a near-invisible pocket of her skirt, fingers closing around a tube of lipstick. She pulled it out, looking at her name engraved on the side. Mia Roffe. The design was flawless, perfectly resembling what the untrained eye would assume to be just another weapon in a woman’s arsenal of beauty products.

The true contents inside the canister, if administered with a high enough dosage, could kill a man in seconds. A man like Mr Stutton. Cyanide had no mercy. She slipped the vial back into her pocket.

That’s why she needed almond tea. The aroma would disguise the smell of the poison.

A mix of feelings twisted inside her, a medley of determination, necessity, shame, and bubbled as if her own insides were on the verge of a roiling boil. Mia’s entire career came down to this moment: was she able to complete the mission she was assigned? Would she have the strength to see this year-long mission through until the end?

Mia shook herself free from those thoughts; now was not the time to be having doubts. It was too late. She had come too far to back out now. She shouldn’t have undertaken this case if she was going to have qualms.

Mia opened the cupboard, her keen gaze analyzing the multitude of mugs available for her to choose from. The small details mattered. Having worked for Mr Stutton for nearly a year, and studying his profile months beforehand, Mia carefully selected two identical mugs.

If she were to choose two unique mugs, perhaps one that proudly displayed one of Cecil’s campaign slogans, she couldn’t be sure which one he would choose. It wasn’t worth the risk of him drinking the wrong tea.

Reassured, Mia opened the tea bags and placed them in the waiting mugs. Right on time, the kettle began to boil, releasing a jet of hot steam into the air. She turned the stove off and fished the kettle from the hot surface with an oven glove.

The scalding water drowned the tea bags as she poured, unlocking the distinct scent of almond. She fished the fake tube of lipstick from her pocket once more, unscrewing the lid and emptying the contents into the leftmost mug.

The scent of almonds was slightly stronger, mostly due to the addition of cyanide, which carried its signature scent. Turning away, she began to prepare the milk.

A wry smile twisted her meticulously painted lips. Her confidence returned. Mr Stutton won’t know what happened; he wouldn’t have had time to process that all along, it was her. Part of her wanted to see the look of shock on his face once he realised she’d been an agent of the MI5 all along. But Cecil’s demise would be short, over in the matter of heartbeats.

Mia’s dark satisfaction was short-lived, though. She frowned, watching the tea bags taint the clear, pure water with their inky stain.

Doubts seeped into her mind again, like flavor seeping into warm water; they poisoned her. Was she prepared to sever this year-long relationship? Was she ready to, in some sense, pull the trigger? Could she do it? She was very aware of the fake lipstick tube in the discreet pocket of her skirt. It seemed to weigh more, peculiarly heavy for an empty plastic vial. Her brow furrowed. Perhaps she was more attuned to its presence now that her mind was focused on it.

It was too late. The tea was poisoned. One sip would be enough to trigger asphyxiation, and everything would be over. She just needed to march back to the study and get this over with. The finish line was within reach.

Mia compiled the mugs and milk onto a tray before steadily walking back to the study. Should she feel guilty that she is about to end his life? He was a fair boss, even if he was a corrupt politician, but weren’t all politicians corrupt? Was it really her place to kill Stutton? Was she the right person for the job?

She reached the study quicker than she anticipated. Mia’s heartbeat thrummed in her ear, anticipation coiled inside her, a taut wire stretched to the breaking point. She was on the verge of unravelling, and every second she wasted only intensified the sound of the doubts in her head.

In the spur of the moment, she gingerly shouldered the door open, marched inside, and set the tray down on the coffee table.

Cecil spared Mia a grateful glance as he grabbed a mug and added milk. He stirred in carefully before inhaling the comforting aroma.

“Almond?” He asked, and Mia smiled. “You are truly the best secretary.”

She eased herself into the leather couch. “Thank you, sir.” She wrapped her own fingers around the other mug, copying Mr Stutton’s action by adding her own milk and stirring.

Mia froze. Her heart plummeted sharply into her stomach, a sickening wave of nausea crashing over her.

She forgot which mug she poisoned. She forgot which mug on the tray contained the cyanide and which one Stutton claimed for himself. The fear flooded back to plague her mind, the manifestation of her doubts.

“Mia?” Cecil’s voice startled her, making her heart rate spike even more.

“Y-y-yes?” She asked and silently cursed herself for being scared.

“Drink your tea, it will make you feel better. I know, we’re all tired, but the finish line is within reach. All this hard work will be rewarded soon enough. It will all be worth it.”

Cecil’s words eerily echoed her own doubts. She shifted her grip on her mug and stared into its foggy depths. She knew Mr Stutton wouldn’t drink his own tea until she took the first sip; she had planned for that. But she had never thought about the situation that would occur should she no longer remember which tea was laced.

She could die.

Stutton could die.

Fifty percent chance.

Her superior, Agent Gerard Warren, would yell at her to take the risk. Tentatively, Mia raised the mug to her lips and drank.

There was no flavour difference that she could discern, but she couldn’t be certain until one of them showed the symptoms of cyanide poisoning. Cecil sipped his tea before returning to the urgent paperwork.

Mia watched him with fearful eyes, waiting in agony for him to mention feeling discomfort or pain. Her chest felt tight, constricting as the anticipation and dread consumed her from the inside. She didn’t want to die; with every fiber of her being, she wanted to be miraculously spared from the consequences of her own mistake.

Her heart fluttered like a caged bird, so much so that Mia could feel it without pressing a hand to her chest. Her breaths came in wheezing, desperate gasps, frantic pleas for forgiveness hidden within every exhale.

She shifted around some paperwork, but it felt like she wasn’t entirely there; as if someone had pulled her far away and underwater. Why did she want to barf? Was a headache coming on? The stress was too much.

“Mia! Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Cecil was looking down on her, worry marring his already exhausted features. The bags underneath his eyes were very pronounced.

Wait, why was he looking down on her? Had she fallen? Wasn’t she just sitting up perfectly fine on the couch? Why was she lying down now? What was happening?

“Dammit.” She muttered. She didn’t feel right. Why was..? Was she...?

All her doubts faded away.

***

“Sir?” The young agent’s head peeked into the room, his unclipped tie swinging like a pendulum.

“What?” Agent Gerard Warren snapped, already infuriated that he had lost an agent for a child’s mistake. Bloody poisoning yourself. Agent Roffe passes training with flying colours, and she gets killed by her own mistake? A lapse in judgement? It was unbelievable. And yet, Gerard was looking at her death certificate, fixated on the three words: Acute cyanide poisoning.

“S-sir, I have the final police report from the crime scene. Th—”

“Spit it out, Agern Hartley! I don’t have all day, and we need to get this man behind bars!” Warren’s patience was in short supply now that he’s tangled in this shitshow, or maybe there was always a shortage of it. He couldn’t tell, but he didn’t have time to dwell on his temper.

“Um—” began Agent Jasper Hartley, still stupidly peeking around the door. “The police believe there is enough circumstantial evidence to arrest and charge Mr Cecil Stutton with the murder of Mia Roffe, especially considering that there isn’t another person who can verify his alibi. Should I bring him in for questioning, sir?”

Relief washed over Warren with the same glory as a morning coffee. He sighed, wiping his palm on his face. He wanted to smile. Stutton was nearly out of the picture, despite the original plan backfiring horrendously.

But the battle was far from over. With his well-lined pockets, Cecil could enlist the best lawyer in all of Europe to weasel himself out of the situation. Warren would have to make a few calls and call in a couple of favours, all to make sure the prosecution had an equally powerful lawyer. The agency could not afford to lose this case. Stutton needed to face jail time even if Roffe was the one who poisoned herself.

“Sir?” Hartley interrupted.

“What?!” Any residual patience Agent Warren may or may not have had went out the window.

“I asked if we should bring him into custody.”

“Yes! Bloody hell! You’ve been working on this job for years, Hartley! Of course, we bring Stutton into custody!”

Hartley muttered some apologies and excuses before clumsily closing the door in his haste. Gerard shuffled the files on his desk before he began to file the first-degree murder charge.

He would not let Cecil Stutton walk free. This mission had already cost too much time, resources, and personnel.

He would be victorious.

And somebody needed to either fire or transfer Agent Hartley before he drove Warren mad.