Chapter 1The Price Of Being Invisible

The $1,250.00 deduction. Success.

I stared at the paycheck stub, reading the line item three times.

The memo read: Dept. Retreat - Split Cost.

But I never went.

I didn't request time off; I wasn't even told it was happening.

I opened my phone and scrolled through the department group chat.

Nothing about a trip.

Not a single notification.

I switched to Instagram, where my feed was already saturated with colleagues’ posts.

Blue skies, ocean waves, grilling, bonfires.

The captions were all variations of the same saccharine sentiment—

“The Department Family! Love these guys!”

The family.

I managed a small, dry laugh.

* * *

I’d worked in this department for three years.

Three years. I hadn't taken a single sick day, and I’d never once been late.

I was the one who logged the most overtime, the one who handled the messiest, most tedious tasks.

But now, looking at that deduction, I suddenly felt like a punchline.

“Paige Miller, could you sign off on your pay stub, please?”

Ms. Davis from Accounting handed me the paper, her expression utterly neutral.

I pointed to the offending line: “What is this $1,250.00 for?”

“The department retreat. Split cost.”

“I didn’t go.”

Ms. Davis paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “You didn’t? Wasn’t it mandatory for the whole team?”

I stayed silent.

She checked her computer. “The system shows your manager submitted a full roster, including your name.”

“Who submitted the roster?”

“Gillian Shaw. Your manager.”

I nodded slowly, took the stub, and walked out of the accounting office.

Gillian was our Department Head, promoted to Associate VP just this year, five years ahead of me on the corporate ladder.

I stopped by her cubicle.

She was sipping yogurt, and when she saw me, she offered a practiced, bright smile. “Paige, everything okay?”

“Gillian, why wasn’t I notified about the department retreat?”

Her spoon froze halfway to her mouth.

“You were notified, sweetie. It was in the group chat.”

“I didn’t receive a notification.”

“You didn’t?” She put the yogurt down and pulled out her phone, scrolling rapidly. “See? It’s right here.”

She tilted the screen toward me.

It was a separate chat, labeled The Insiders’ Club.

I scanned the member list. Twelve people.

Our department had thirteen employees.

The one missing was me.

“Gillian,” I pointed to the chat. “I’m not in this group.”

She blinked, then laughed, a slightly too-loud sound. “Oh, really? My bad, Paige. Must have slipped through the cracks when we set up the chat. So sorry about that.”

“But the money was deducted from my paycheck.”

“What?” She paused, genuinely surprised this time. “Well, then you need to talk to Accounting and get a refund.”

“Accounting said the roster came from you.”

“Then…” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ll make a note of it. I promise I’ll include you next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yes, next time we have a department outing, you’ll definitely be invited.”

I just looked at her, saying nothing.

She capped her yogurt container, stood up, and patted my shoulder—a gesture that always felt more like a dismissal. “Paige, don’t take this so personally. It was just an oversight. We’re all colleagues, after all.”

“What about the money?”

“The money is an Accounting matter. My end of things was just the standard paperwork.”

With that, she grabbed her yogurt and headed toward the break room.

I stood there, the pay stub clutched in my hand.

$1,250.00.

Not a fortune, but not insignificant either.

It was the equivalent of three full weekends I’d traded my life for.

Now, it was paying for a beach I’d never set foot on.

I returned to my desk and opened my laptop.

An unread email from last week was sitting in my inbox.

Subject: Department Retreat - Travel Details.

I clicked it open.

Recipient: All members of The Insiders’ Club.

I was not on the CC list.

Attached was the itinerary: a three-day, two-night trip to Nantucket.

The per-person cost was $1,250.00.

It covered the charter bus, the seaside hotel, the dinners, and a special evening gala.

I scrolled down to the attendee roster.

My name was there.

“Paige Miller—Fee Paid.”

Who paid my fee?

I scrolled to the very bottom.

There was a line in small print: Fees will be collected via automatic payroll deduction.

I understood.

No one paid for me. It was simply taken from me.

The notification went to a group I wasn't in, and the expense was deducted from a paycheck I’d earned.

It was all perfectly "normal."

So normal it was absurd.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

A memory flashed into my mind.

Last Wednesday, lunchtime.

I was finishing a proposal, so I skipped the cafeteria.

Later, hungry, I headed to the lobby for a snack.

As I passed the break room, I heard voices.

“I booked the hotel in Nantucket. Ocean view, it’s going to be amazing.”

“What day are we leaving?”

“Next Friday. Back on Monday.”

“Perfect, finally a getaway.”

I froze outside the door.

A trip? What trip?

I was about to walk in and ask, but then I heard a warning—

“Keep it quiet, though. Let Gillian handle the rollout.”

It was Tiffany Brooks speaking.

She was the newest hire in the department, fresh out of college, but she was sharp and highly skilled at ingratiating herself with Gillian.

I stood at the doorway and walked away without going in.

I waited three days.

No one said a word to me.

I assumed the plans had fallen through.

Now I knew the truth. It wasn't canceled.

I was.

I minimized the email and opened Instagram again.

I scrolled through the photos.

Tiffany had posted a carousel, all vacation shots.

The first was a group picture.

Sunlight, sand, twelve people laughing.

No me.

The caption: “The Insiders’ Club, family forever!”

I tapped the comments.

Gillian’s comment was at the top: “Our team is the most united!”

Tiffany replied: “All thanks to Gillian’s leadership!”

A stream of back-patting followed.

I kept scrolling and saw one comment from Scott Lewis: “Seriously had the best time. Hope we can do it again soon.”

Someone asked: “Where to next?”

Tiffany replied: “Whatever Gillian plans! I’m tagging along!”

I put my phone down.

Three years.

I’d been here for three years.

No one asked if I was going.

No one even seemed to notice I was missing.

I looked at the group photo and felt an odd kind of emptiness.

Three years. I’d written the most proposals, worked the most overtime, and taken the most undeserved criticism.

Yet, in that picture, I was completely absent.

I had never truly been a part of it.

The office suddenly came to life.

My colleagues were filtering in from lunch.

Tiffany’s voice was the loudest. “Hey, everyone, I finished editing the pictures. Sending them to the chat now.”

“Great, send them over!”

“Me too! Me too!”

They clustered around her, chattering about the trip.

Seafood dinners.

Sunrises.

The beach bonfire.

Sand volleyball.

No one looked my way.

I put my head down and forced myself to work.

The proposal I was working on was still open on my screen.

I had rushed to finish it last Friday.

I’d worked until 2 a.m.

When Gillian presented it on Monday, she’d said: “This proposal is the culmination of our team’s hard work. Great effort, everyone.”

Team.

Culmination.

Everyone.

I looked up at her.

She was shaking hands with a client, beaming.

I looked back down.

A notification popped up in the bottom right corner of my screen.

It was a message from Tiffany in The Insiders’ Club group chat—

“A-Team, let’s aim for Cabo next time!”

A cascade of “Yes!”, “Count me in!”, and “Can’t wait!” followed.

I wasn’t in that chat.

But my name would probably still appear on the expense sheet.

Wouldn’t it?