The message had been sent in the main project group chat.
Everyone was in that chat. Me, Mr. Dickerson, Darrell Finch, Max Whitney, and that newly promoted Narelle.
Dead silence.
A full two minutes passed before Max finally jumped in with a reply:
"Please don't worry, Mr. Dickerson! Narelle is new to the team and accidentally sent the wrong version. Manager Henson is just taking a few days off for health reasons. She's still overseeing the project. Everything is under control!"
A second later, my private messages pinged.
It was Max.
His tone had completely changed. Gone was the smug condescension from the office.
"Edwina, stop being dramatic. Mr. Dickerson's project is the company's top priority for the year. You don't want to see it fall apart because of your personal feelings, do you? That wouldn't look good for your reputation in the industry either."
"How about this: come back and see this project through to the end. I'll put in a word with Mr. Finch on your behalf, get him to keep your P3 level. Your salary... I'll try to make sure it doesn't get cut. That's fair, right?"
I stared at the words on my screen, and all I felt was the bitter sting of irony.
Five minutes ago, they wanted to blackball me. Now that the fire was licking at their heels, they wanted me to come put it out?
Try to make sure my salary doesn't get cut?
Was I some beggar they were tossing scraps to?
I didn't reply.
Five minutes later, Darrell Finch called me directly.
"Edwina," he began, his voice dripping with that warm, fatherly tone he did so well, "Max just filled me in. He says there's been a little misunderstanding between you two. You're still young. A little adversity is normal. No need to go throwing around resignation letters over every bump in the road."
"Mr. Dickerson's project still needs you at the helm. Narelle is... well, she's a bit green. She can't handle something this big on her own."
"Here's what I'm thinking. Come back to work tomorrow. We'll give you a Senior Consultant title. It won't come with any real authority, but it sounds impressive, doesn't it? And once the deal closes, I'll personally hand you a three-thousand-dollar bonus. How does that sound?"
Three thousand dollars.
Was he tipping a valet?
This project was worth one and a half billion dollars. Under the standard commission structure, my cut alone would have been eight hundred thousand.
Now he wanted to buy out every last ounce of my value for three grand, and hand Narelle the credit for closing the deal of the decade on a silver platter.
All I had to do was go back and get the contract signed. The glory would belong to Narelle and her "brilliant leadership," while I'd be nothing more than a glorified assistant.
Used up and thrown away.
"Mr. Finch," I said, my voice even, "every risk assessment model for Mr. Dickerson's project was built by me. The core contract terms were hammered out over three all-nighters between me and the legal team. That version Narelle just sent out? If I had to guess, it was the earliest draft. The one riddled with holes."
The breathing on the other end hitched.
"If that version gets signed, Oceanfront Group would be exposed to at least fifty million dollars in tax liability. If Mr. Dickerson finds out you tried to pass off that kind of garbage as a finished product..."
"Edwina!" Finch's voice dropped low, the fatherly warmth gone, the mask ripped clean off. "Are you threatening this company? Let me remind you, your resignation hasn't been processed yet. If you breathe one word of this to the client, if you leak a single piece of confidential information, I will bury you. I will make sure you see the inside of a prison cell."
"And don't forget about your father's condition." His voice turned to ice. "All it takes is one phone call from me. One word to the right people, and no firm in this city will touch you. Without a job, how exactly do you plan to pay for his dialysis?"
The same old playbook.
Once upon a time, that threat might have worked.
But I already had my offer from Apex Capital.
And every word of his conversation, along with Max's, had just been recorded. Including everything from the coffee shop.
"Mr. Finch, you give me too much credit." I let out a quiet laugh. "I wouldn't dare. I'm just a middle-aged woman scrambling to keep up with her mortgage and her father's medical bills."
