Chapter 2The Six Hundred Thousand Dollar Biscuit

I got the message loud and clear.

As Director, I’d sat at the head of the row—a desk with a view of the skyline and the entire floor. Now, Bradley was shoving me into the "dark corner"—a tiny cubicle right against the south-facing window.

In the summer, the sun baked that corner. The management had a "no-blinds" policy to maintain the "aesthetic" of the building’s glass facade. The glare on the monitor was blinding, and the heat was stifling, even with the AC on.

I didn't argue. I packed my personal photos and my lucky pen and moved. Bradley followed me, hovering like a vulture. "Not so fast. I need to audit your laptop. I can't have you walking off with proprietary data."

"Be my guest," I said, stepping aside.

I'd been hand-picked by Mr. Kensington. He’d told me, “Jack, you have carte blanche. Just keep the engines running.”But Kensington was in a private clinic in Switzerland for his health, and the vultures were finally picking at the carcass of his leadership.

I knew Regina’s game. She wanted to cut "overhead"—meaning my salary—and replace me with a puppet who would do what she said. She didn't realize that in this business, the overhead is what keeps the roof from caving in.

Bradley found nothing on the laptop. I'd wiped it clean of everything but the standard software. He waved me off with a grunt of frustration.

Cooper pinged me again: We’re with you, Jack. This is bullshit.

I sent back a smiley face. With me? Maybe. But they wouldn't stand up for me. The executives on the 23rd floor had to have signed off on this. Even Kensington must have been briefed, and if he didn't stop it, then the old man was further gone than I thought.

Fine. I’d play by their rules.

When the clock hit 5:00 PM, I stood up and clocked out. In eight years, I had never clocked out at five. Usually, I was heading to a steakhouse with a client or sitting in a lounge listening to a CFO vent about his divorce.

Not today.

I drove home, the late afternoon sun painting the city in gold. I laid on my bed—a bed I usually only saw for six hours of restless sleep—and watched the shadows stretch across the ceiling. I felt incredible.

I opened my phone and did something I hadn't done in years: I bought a ticket to a play. There was an actor I’d followed for a decade, someone who had performed hundreds of shows in the city, and I’d never seen a single one.

While I was waiting for the curtain to rise, I was added to a new Slack channel: SALES_FORCE_V2.

The first message was from Bradley.

@All: Starting tomorrow, everyone will submit a daily activity log. Every call, every coffee, every 'vibe' check must be documented. I want five new qualified leads from every rep per month. Failure to hit these KPIs will result in a 20% salary deduction.

Cooper messaged me privately, ranting: Is he serious? Five leads a month? In this economy? The only reason this firm stays afloat is the legacy clients you brought in! Nobody is buying right now. He’s going to kill us.

I replied simply: Just give the man what he wants, Cooper.

Jack, how can you be so calm? If I were you, I’d have walked out and taken half the clients with me!

I laughed and put the phone on Do Not Disturb. The lights dimmed. The play began. I didn't care about the leads. I knew what was coming.