Chapter 2He Asked Where My Money Went So I Read Him The Bill

The phone screen went dark, and the room returned to the deep black.

I stayed in the same position, lying on the couch, unmoving. My body was exhausted, but my mind was perfectly clear.

That five-minute silence felt like a long, drawn-out battle. I didn’t know what Mr. Davies was thinking—shock, perhaps, shame, or fury. But in that moment, I knew I had won.

Not won against my boss, but won back a sliver of my own dignity.

I sat up, poured myself a glass of cold water, and chugged it down. The icy liquid slid down my throat, dissipating some of the fire that had been burning in my chest.

What now?

Fired? Or would he send the money, only to keep me on the hook like a slave?

I didn’t know, and I couldn’t bring myself to care. The two-month-long tightrope I’d been walking had finally snapped tonight. And with the break came a strange release.

I picked up my personal phone, opened the chat with my girlfriend, Sienna, and typed a line: Babe, I might be losing my job.

I stared at it for a moment, then deleted it, word by word.

No need to worry her yet.

The phone vibrated again. It was Mr. Davies.

I looked at the screen, hesitated, and then answered.

“Leo.” This time, his voice was much calmer, tinged with a weariness I’d never heard before.

“I’m here.”

“You don’t need to go to Charlotte,” he said. “I’ve tasked Marcus, the VP, to figure it out.”

“Understood.” I acknowledged it, feeling no particular emotion.

“You…” He seemed to want to say something, then stopped. “You need to get to the office. Now. Immediately.”

“Now?” I checked the time. Three-thirty a.m.

“Yes, now. Bring all your expense reports, all the original receipts, everything.” His tone left no room for argument. “And take a cab. I’ll reimburse the fare when you get here.”

“I’m on my way.”

I hung up, stood up, and flipped on the lights.

In the harsh light, I saw my own drawn face—deep-set eyes, unshaven stubble.

I walked into the bedroom, pulled open a drawer, and took out a thick manila envelope. I dumped the contents onto the bed.

Invoices, statements, meal receipts, taxi slips—piled up like a small mountain. Each one was paper-clipped to a small note detailing the date and purpose.

I had tried to submit them three times. Each time, Veronica, the finance manager, had found a new, petty reason to reject them.

“The vendor name on this invoice isn’t the full company name. Needs to be a corporate title.”

“These taxi receipts are sequential. That's non-compliant.”

“This dinner receipt lacks an itemized statement. Can’t accept it.”

“Mr. Davies’ signature here is illegible. Auditors will flag it. Get a clearer one.”

Each time, I had to carry the stack of papers around like a supplicant, chasing down executives and department heads for re-signatures, re-attachments, and re-submissions. And each time, she found a new flaw.

I restacked all the documents, put them back into the envelope, and held it to my chest like a ticking bomb.

Downstairs, I called a cab. The night air was cold, making me shiver.

The driver asked, “Where to, boss?”

“The Apex Building.”

Thirty minutes later, the cab stopped outside the office tower. I paid the fare and walked into the deserted lobby. Only the security desk was lit.

I swiped my keycard and went up. Sixteenth floor. The entire floor was pitch black, save for a sliver of light spilling from Mr. Davies’ corner office.

I pushed the door open. Mr. Davies was sitting behind his desk, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. The ashtray was overflowing with butts.

He looked up, gave a slight lift of his chin, and gestured for me to sit.

“Did you bring the documents?”

I placed the manila envelope on the desk in front of him.

He didn't touch it. He just stared at me, his eyes clouded with a complex mix of emotions. “Leo, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I tried to smile, but it felt forced, brittle.

“Mr. Davies, I did. I mentioned it last month—the pressure from fronting funds, the slow reimbursement cycle. You said you knew, and you’d push Finance.”

He froze, trying to recall the moment.

“Do you remember? In the break room, after I finished briefing you on the project, I added it at the end. You were on a call and just waved your hand at me.”

Mr. Davies’ face changed. He remembered.

He crushed out his cigarette, lit another one, and took a long, hard drag.

“Was it Veronica who was holding up the process?”

“I don’t know if she was deliberately holding me up. I just know that the reports I submitted two months ago still haven’t been processed for a single penny.”

Mr. Davies was silent for a beat. He picked up my work phone from the desk and dialed a number.

“Veronica! Get your ass down to the office! Now! I’m giving you thirty minutes. If you’re not here, don’t bother coming in tomorrow!”

He roared into the phone, the veins in his neck bulging.

He slammed the phone onto the desk, his chest heaving.

I watched him. I felt no satisfaction, only a profound sense of sorrow.

Why wait until now?