Chapter 3

"Ethan, you've been absent for seven days. Under Section 14 of your contract, the company has the right to demand liquidating damages for breach of contract."

The call was from HR. Sweet voice, razor-sharp attitude.

I stared at my phone, wondering if I was dreaming.

"I handed in my physical resignation letter to Richard last Friday. The front desk saw it, and Richard was right there."

"I just checked the system, and there's no record of any resignation request. Furthermore, your attendance sheet shows you were absent Monday through Friday without any approved leave."

I froze.

"Excuse me?"

"Ethan, you have consecutive unexcused absences. Richard has already reported this to corporate headquarters. If you don't cooperate, our legal team will proceed with a lawsuit."

I pulled the phone away and stared at the HR rep's contact name.

Falsifying attendance.

They didn't just steal my clients; they wanted to financially ruin me on my way out.

"How much are these 'damages'?"

"Three months' salary, plus the training and certification costs the company sponsored for you. A total of forty-two thousand dollars."

I laughed.

"Tell Richard to call me himself."

The HR rep hesitated. "Mr. Sterling is very busy. He asked me to—"

"Busy doing what? Busy helping his nephew take pictures of my client list?"

The line went silent for three seconds, then clicked off.

I tossed my phone onto the squeaky desk in my rented apartment.

Outside the window was a dusty, gray street. Downstairs, a food truck was packing up, the smell of grease wafting up.

My phone buzzed.

It was a screenshot from Lily, my former cubicle neighbor. She had screenshotted the department chat.

Tyler had posted: "Good riddance to Ethan. All his commissions are officially mine now! 🤪"

A few people replied with thumbs-up emojis.

Lily added a text message: *Ethan, this guy has absolutely no shame.*

I stared at that stupid emoji for a long time.

My phone buzzed again.

David Harrison.

"Ethan, that Tyler kid called me again. This time it's even more ridiculous. He claimed you falsified contract data during your tenure and asked me to re-verify the terms. He even asked if we could cancel the deposit and sign a new one."

My temples began to throb.

"Mr. Harrison, every single digit on the contract I signed with you is fully backed up. You don't have to worry."

"I trust you, Ethan, but this guy is harassing me day and night. Is this how your firm does business?"

"Mr. Harrison, I will handle this."

"How? You don't even work there anymore," David said, his voice laced with frustration. "Ethan, look, you should've cleaned up this mess before you left."

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He was right. I had walked away, but the fallout was crashing down on my clients.

Right after David, Marcus Sinclair called.

"Ethan, your colleague sent me a new contract. The square footage is suddenly twenty percent higher than what we agreed on, which bumps the price up by six hundred thousand dollars. When I asked him about it, he said the original draft had 'clerical errors' and we needed to resign."

My grip tightened on the phone.

Twenty percent higher.

This was his signature move—padding the numbers to pocket the difference. He wasn't incompetent; he was running a scam.

"Mr. Sinclair, do not sign that contract. The original one is perfectly valid."

"I trust you, Ethan, but I need this sorted out. I don't have time to play games with your firm."

"Mr. Sinclair, give me three days."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Three days. Not a day more."

I hung up and pulled up the files on my laptop—every single transaction I had meticulously documented over the last three years.

Every kickback, every altered contract price, and every fake invoice Richard had personally approved.

I had known this branch was rotten since my first year.

My phone rang.

My dad.

"The corporate audit team is confirmed. They will arrive the day after tomorrow. Until then, do not make a move."

"They're falsifying my attendance to extort forty-two thousand dollars from me."

Silence on the line.

"Let them sue. The more fake charges they file, the more evidence we have to bury them."

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Downstairs, the food truck honked its horn as it drove off.

"Dad, his nephew is padding client contracts to steal money."

My dad’s voice dropped an octave, dripping with cold fury.

"Document it. Document everything."