Chapter 3He Asked Where My Money Went So I Read Him The Bill

The wait for Veronica was filled with a deathly quiet. Mr. Davies chain-smoked, and the office was shrouded in a gray haze.

I remained silent, watching the sky outside gradually change from inky black to slate-blue.

The events of the past two months played out in my mind like a fast-forwarded film.

The first time I handed the September reports to Veronica. She was in her mid-thirties, well-groomed, with a perpetually polite, professional smile.

She took the stack, briefly flipped through, and smiled. “Leo, your filing isn’t compliant. Look, receipts need to be ordered chronologically, from top to bottom, smallest amount to largest.”

I hadn't thought much of it then, assuming I was inexperienced. I immediately apologized, took them back, and reorganized.

The second time, she smiled again. “Oh, dear. You’ve written the amount wrong. See here? This is three hundred sixty-five dollars and fifty cents. It must be written out fully—Three Hundred Sixty-Five Dollars and Fifty Cents. One misplaced word and our strict compliance rules reject it.”

I took them back to correct the handwriting.

The third time, she finally conceded the formatting was okay, but then pointed to a dinner receipt. “This won’t work. Company policy: any single meal expense over fifty dollars requires an itemized statement.”

I explained, “Veronica, this was a quick meal with the client, no detailed receipt was provided by the restaurant.”

Her smile grew sweeter. “Then I’m afraid it’s unacceptable. Without the detail, the external auditors will flag it. You’ll have to find a way to get one.”

I went back to the restaurant; they said their system couldn't generate one.

I returned to Veronica, and she spread her hands. “My hands are tied. Policy is policy.”

That day, I stood in her office doorway for ten minutes. She just watched me with that serene smile, her eyes entirely devoid of warmth.

In that moment, I suspected she was doing this on purpose.

Later, I had to get a special waiver from Mr. Davies just to clear that single receipt.

But in October, she found new games to play.

“Mr. Davies’ signature is too messy. What if the auditors accuse us of forging a signature? You need to go get a clean, clear one.”

I waited outside Mr. Davies’ office for two hours until his meeting was over, then carefully asked him to sign the form again.

Once submitted, she returned it again. “Wait. Your approval flow is incorrect. The department head signs first, then Mr. Davies. You reversed the order. Do it over.”

I wanted to smash the stack of papers in my hand against her face.

But I held back. I needed this job. I needed the paycheck.

I even wondered if I had offended her somehow. I’d brought her a gift from an out-of-town trip; she smiled and accepted it, only to tell me during my next reimbursement attempt that my long-distance train ticket was handwritten and non-compliant—it had to be machine-printed.

Meanwhile, another colleague, Mitch—a distant cousin of Mr. Davies’ wife—walked in. I personally witnessed him handing Veronica a crumpled, handwritten slip of paper that read: “Office supplies: Five hundred.”

Veronica didn't even look at it. She simply pulled five hundred dollars in cash from her drawer and handed it to him, saying with a wink, “Mitch, try to write legibly next time, okay?”

Mitch pocketed the cash and gave me a smug look.

In that split second, all the humiliation and fury boiled to the surface.

Why?

Just because I lacked connections, lacked a safety net, just because I was an ordinary guy trying to make it in the city—did that mean I deserved to be abused like this?

I started secretly collecting evidence.

The time of every submission, the reason for every rejection, every instance of her differential treatment—I used my phone to record audio or take screenshots.

I wasn’t sure what I’d use them for. I just knew, instinctively, that they might be necessary someday.

I even considered reporting her to Mr. Davies, but like in the break room, he was too busy. Too preoccupied to listen to the grievances of a low-level employee. In his world, there were multi-million-dollar contracts and projects a hundred times more important than my little problem.

He wasn't evil. He was just indifferent.

Just like his questioning on the phone, “Where the hell has your money gone?” He never considered that his employee might be financially ruined because he was fronting the company’s operating costs.

Creak—

The office door opened, and Veronica appeared in the frame.

She had obviously rushed here; her hair was a mess, and her face showed remnants of sleep and annoyance.

When she saw me, her eyes flashed with surprise, but she quickly masked it with that familiar, professional, fake smile.

“Mr. Davies, calling me in so late? What’s the emergency?” she asked in a saccharine tone, acting as if she were completely unaware of what was happening.

I looked at her and felt that the woman was terrifying. She was like a snake—beautifully colored, but utterly poisonous.