Chapter 2The Five Thousand Dollar Uber Ride

Being summoned by Monica was never good. The office went quiet, the vultures in the neighboring cubicles perking their ears up. I had intended to go to her office to calmly explain the situation, but she didn't give me the chance. She started shouting right there in the middle of the floor.

"Twelve thousand dollars for a three-day trip to Chicago? Who do you think you are, the Queen of England?"

Her voice was a piercing siren. I felt my ears ringing.

"You’re young, you’re clearly struggling with the basics of the job, and now you’re using the company as your personal piggy bank? You spent five thousand dollars on a hotel stay? Was the bed made of solid gold?"

The whispers started instantly.

"Wait, did she say twelve thousand?"

"God, she looks so innocent, but she’s totally padding her expenses."

"I heard she tried to bill nine grand for a single dinner. She thinks she owns the place."

Arthur stepped out of his office, a cloud of expensive cigar smoke trailing behind him. He looked at the commotion with choreographed boredom.

"What is it now, Monica?"

"It’s her, Arthur!" Monica pointed a manicured finger at me. "She spent four thousand on Amtrak tickets for her and the client—first class, obviously—and five thousand on a hotel! This is egregious!"

Arthur’s face darkened when he heard the hotel figure. He took his cigar and dropped it, still lit, right onto the toe of my shoe. He didn't apologize. His eyes were cold.

"Five thousand for a hotel, Michelle? Really?"

"Arthur, I told you—"

"Give her the standard rate," Arthur interrupted, looking at Monica.

Monica smirked and handed me a revised approval slip. The reimbursed amount for the hotel: $500.

"We have policies for a reason, honey," Monica said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You can’t just treat the firm like a revolving credit line because you signed one big contract. Try using your brain next time. Maybe then you wouldn't be so 'incompetent.'"

I stared at the $500 figure. I felt a laugh bubbling up in my throat—a jagged, dangerous thing.

The ten-million-dollar deal I just brought in would keep this firm's lights on for the next year. My commission was a measly twenty-one thousand dollars. I had worked eighteen-hour days for a month. I had missed my best friend’s wedding. I had developed a stomach ulcer that had me on prescription meds.

And Arthur had been there every step of the way, nodding when I told him the requirements.

"Arthur, the client is high-maintenance. He won't stay anywhere but the Ritz-Carlton. It’s way over the per diem..."

He’d waved me off back then. "Michelle, the rules are for the people who aren't closing ten-million-dollar deals. Just get the signature. I’ll take care of the rest. Money is no object when it comes to Ted Henderson."

I had a recording of that conversation on my phone. I’d started recording him months ago because I knew he was a snake. But standing here, watching the smug satisfaction on Monica’s face and the cowardice in Arthur’s eyes, I realized they didn't care about the truth. They cared about the power.

Twelve thousand dollars was two months of my salary. Between my rent in Manhattan and the money I’d already shelled out for this firm, my bank account was nearly empty.