Chapter 3The Five Thousand Dollar Uber Ride

Monica handed me my monthly pay stub. I looked at the "Net Pay" line and froze.

Five hundred dollars.

"Monica... this has to be a mistake. This isn't even my base salary."

Monica didn't even look at me; she was already handing out envelopes to the other associates, basking in their "thank yous."

"There’s no mistake, Michelle. You know what you did. Or do I need to humiliate you in front of the whole office again? Just take the win of not being fired for fraud and walk away."

I gripped the paper so hard it tore. The rage, cold and sharp, finally broke through. I walked up to her and slammed the pay stub onto her desk—right over her lunch.

"Explain this. Now."

"Michelle, don't be a child," Monica snapped. "Your base is two thousand every two weeks. But you damaged the high-capacity printer last month—that's a fifteen-hundred-dollar repair. You had three unexcused absences when you were 'sick'—"

"I was in the ER with a stress-induced ulcer caused by this job!"

"And," she continued, ignoring me, "your performance bonus for the Henderson deal hasn't cleared because the client hasn't made the first payment. So, after deductions for the 'damages' and your missed time... you get five hundred. Be grateful we didn't charge you interest."

The office was silent. My coworkers were staring at their own shoes, terrified that if they looked up, they’d be next.

"The printer was broken when I got there," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I told you that. I didn't even touch the screen before it started smoking. And my travel expenses were pre-approved by Arthur."

Arthur leaned against his doorframe, smirking. "I never approved a five-thousand-dollar hotel, Michelle. Maybe you should spend less time dreaming and more time reading the employee handbook. If you don't like it... you know where the door is."

I looked at him. Truly looked at him. Then I looked at Monica.

"You're right, Arthur," I said, tucked my hair behind my ear, and gave him a bright, terrifying smile. "The rules are the rules. I totally understand. My mistake."

I grabbed my bag and walked out of the office.

I didn't go home. I took an Uber straight to Ted Henderson’s private club. I found him in the lounge, sipping a neat bourbon.

"Ted," I said, sitting down across from him. "We have a bit of a situation. The dinner last night? It was $5,900 over my firm's cap. Since Arthur is insisting on 'strict policy' today, I’m afraid we’re going to have to split the bill. You owe me $2,950."