Chapter 3The Six Hundred Thousand Dollar Biscuit

The next morning, I walked into Bradley’s office and handed him a printed request.

"What's this?" he asked, not looking up from his coffee.

"My vacation request. I have eight years of accrued PTO. I’m taking three weeks, starting today."

Bradley finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. "You’ve got to be kidding. You're trying to sabotage me on my first week?"

"Not at all, Bradley," I said, putting on my best 'corporate drone' smile. "I’m just burnt out. And honestly, under your 'brilliant' new leadership, I’m sure the team will thrive. I’m just an Associate now, remember? You don't need me. I’m thirty-four, my back hurts, and I need a nap."

He scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair—my leather chair. "Right. The 'big shot' can't handle the grind once the special treatment stops. You probably only closed those deals by wining and dining people on the company dime anyway."

The prejudice was baked in. He thought I was a relic. He thought sales was just about being a "bro."

"You're probably right," I said. "I'm just tired."

He scribbled his signature on the form. "Fine. Get out. But don't expect a paycheck if your 'leads' aren't in the system by the end of the month."

"Understood. I'm not going anywhere."

Because you're the ones who are going to be leaving, I thought.

I left the office and drove straight to the airport. First stop: San Francisco. I had a date with a theater and a very expensive bottle of wine.

Two hours after I landed, my phone started vibrating in my pocket. I ignored it until I got to my hotel. It was a flurry of messages from Cooper.

Jack, Bradley just tried to sign the final paperwork for the Evergreen Holdings renewal. Regina told the board the commission belongs to Bradley now because he 'finalized' it. They’re grooming him for the VP spot.

They’re literally stealing your work, man. Are you really going to let them?

I texted back: They can’t finalize what they don't understand. Watch the show.

I silenced my phone and went to the theater. For two hours, I let the drama on stage wash over me. I laughed. I actually cried during the second act. It was the most human I’d felt in a decade.

When I walked out into the cool night air, I had 114 missed calls.

The most recent was a text from Regina. It was all caps.

JACK MILLER. CALL ME NOW. MR. HARRISON FROM EVERGREEN SAYS THE CONTRACT IS VOID. THEY ARE WITHDRAWING. THAT’S A THREE-BILLION-DOLLAR HIT. IF THIS IS YOUR DOING, YOU’RE NOT JUST FIRED, YOU’RE BLACKLISTED.

I smirked and typed a quick reply: The account was handed over to Bradley. If he can't hold it, why am I the one being threatened? If you want to fire me, Regina, make sure my severance package is ready.

I tucked the phone away. I knew exactly what happened. Evergreen didn't sign contracts with "firms." They signed them with people. And Bradley wasn't the right person.

I spent the next two days eating my way through the city, watching the chaos unfold through Cooper’s "live-reporting."

Apparently, Bradley had tried to "bond" with the Evergreen CEO, Marcus Harrison. He’d shown up with a flashy gift and a bunch of buzzwords. Marcus, a man who built his empire on engineering and grit, had asked Bradley three technical questions about the new automated assembly line Evergreen was installing.

Bradley couldn't even explain the difference between a torque sensor and a load cell.

Marcus got worried. He demanded a site visit to the factory floor. I’d walked that floor with Marcus eighty times. Bradley had never been there.

They arrived at the plant just as one of the primary CNC machines—the heart of the production line—suffered a catastrophic failure. Bradley panicked. He tried to call an engineer.

But the "engineers" Bradley called were the corporate-approved contractors who didn't know these custom rigs. Usually, when things went south, I was the one who called in the specialists.

Bradley, trying to look smart, told Marcus that I must have "sabotaged" the machine before I left.

Marcus Harrison didn't buy it. He told Regina that the firm had become "unprofessional" and "technically illiterate." He pulled the contract.

Thirty billion dollars in projected revenue, gone in an afternoon. The news reached Switzerland. Mr. Kensington was reportedly awake and screaming.

Cooper called me, his voice shaking. "Jack, you need to come back. They’re talking about calling the police. They’re saying you committed fraud!"