Chapter 1Your Future Belongs in My Trash Can

I was sitting in the bathroom stall when I heard the new hire, just outside at the sink, loudly telling his family the good news.

He’d officially been made permanent. Base salary: one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.

I went silent.

I’d been at this company for six years.

Year one: sixty thousand dollars a year. No raise.

Year two: sixty thousand dollars. A five percent raise at the end of the year. Three thousand dollars.

Years three, four, and five: sixty-three thousand dollars. No change.

Year six: HR just finished my review today. Next year’s raise would be five percent. Sixty-six thousand one hundred and fifty dollars.

I currently manage the liaison work for five key projects. Because I was swamped, they hired three new people to report to me.

The newest one, just confirmed as permanent, makes one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.

It’s nearly double what I make after six years of grueling work.

I walked out of the stall, went straight to Dahlia Stone's office—our HR Director—and resigned.

Dahlia looked genuinely shocked. “Why?”

“Underpaid. Overworked. Disrespected.”

* * *

Dahlia Stone stared at me for a good thirty seconds.

“Jenna, don’t be impulsive.”

“I’m not impulsive,” I said. “I should have said this six years ago.”

Since graduating, I had spent six years of my life inside the walls of this company. From a scrappy intern to the woman running point on five of our most critical accounts. The flow of business, the client relationships—they all hinged on me. They’d even hired three new assistants this year just to help me keep up.

Yet, my dedication had earned me a starting salary of sixty thousand and a current salary of sixty-six thousand one hundred and fifty.

The entry-level male hire, fresh out of his probationary period, was on a one hundred and twenty thousand dollar base.

“Dahlia, I don’t want to debate this. Please start the exit process immediately.”

Her face hardened. “Jenna, you have five major projects on your desk. Walking out now—isn’t that a little… low?”

“Low?” I gave a short, bitter laugh.

When I started, this company barely qualified as a legitimate office. Rich Kingsley, the employees, all ten of us, crammed into a twenty-by-twenty-foot shoebox. No AC in the summer, no heat in the winter, and endless, unpaid overtime.

I took it all. Fueled by that naive, post-graduate ambition, I helped drag this near-bankrupt operation to the point where we now occupy four full floors of a high-rise.

But today, I knew the truth. An intern’s starting salary was double mine.

“Dahlia, do you know how much I make in a month?”

“Six thousand six hundred and fifteen dollars.”

“For that money, I’ve averaged three hours of overtime a day. I’ve revised proposals in the middle of the night. I’ve taken calls on the train during my holiday break to get projects finalized.”

“Meanwhile, the new hire, who’s been here three months, clocks in exactly on time and is out the door the minute the clock strikes five. Last week, he messed up a scheduling conflict that brought five department heads to my office complaining.”

“And even then, his base is one hundred and twenty thousand. You want to talk to me about ‘low’?”

Dahlia finally dropped her gaze. After a long, painful silence, she offered a single, devastating sentence.

“Who told you you’re a woman?”

“Excuse me?” I stared, certain I’d misheard.

Dahlia pursed her lips and sighed, a gesture of weary, female complicity. “I honestly thought you understood the landscape, Jenna.”

“You’re a woman. You’re twenty-eight. You’re about to get married, which means a honeymoon, and then a maternity leave, and then a parenting leave… that’s almost a year out of the business, combined.”

“The research shows, women’s focus shifts after marriage. Rich Kingsley worries you won’t be able to balance the firm and a family. You have to consider the company’s bottom line.”

The words felt like a surgical knife, plunged directly into my chest. The absurdity was so profound I barely processed it. I could only ask the most obvious question.

“What about you, Dahlia? You’re five years older than me. Your second kid is in kindergarten. What’s your salary?”

Dahlia shrugged, a light, dismissive motion. “Eighty thousand. But Rich is my cousin.”

That single statement annihilated my protest.

I thought of the countless all-nighters I’d pulled for projects over the last three years. The instant noodles I’d eaten at my desk to meet deadlines. The courses and certifications I’d paid for myself to improve my skills. I’d worked this hard, sacrificed so much, only to be dismissed by Rich Kingsley with five words:

You’re a woman.

Because I was a woman, my tireless dedication meant less than a new, unproven man. Because I had no connections, the fact that the company would grind to a halt without me still didn’t qualify me for a market-rate salary.

It all came down to a single, infuriating biological detail.

I finally smiled. “Got it,” I said, standing up.

Dahlia flinched. “Got what?”

I didn't answer. I just pushed the door open and walked out.

I understood that this company was rotten to its core, and had been for six years.