Chapter 1
The day Deco Group fires me, every single one of their clients walks.
The entire industry goes into a meltdown.
It starts when the HR director, flanked by two burly security guards, barges into my office without knocking. He accuses me of "leaking corporate secrets" and tells me I have five minutes to pack my desk and get the hell out.
So there I am, shuffling out of Deco Group, clutching a cardboard box filled with the remnants of my career.
Just to add insult to injury, one of the guards at the door deliberately shoulder-checks me, sending my belongings scattering across the polished marble floor.
And then, my phone explodes.
Wesley Harding from the East Coast division says, "Frank, they canned you? Unbelievable. Alright, consider every one of my contracts with Deco Group null and void. We're done."
Leo Orwell from the Southern branch exclaims, "Have the folks at Deco Group lost their damn minds? Just sit tight, Frank. I'm having my legal team draft the termination notice as we speak."
Chris Blake from our overseas accounts yells, "Frank, you're my guy. My business is with you, not them. Deco Group? Who the hell even are they?"
*****
Deco Group board scrambled into an emergency meeting.
More than sixty percent of their core clients have all filed to terminate at the same time.
By afternoon, their stock had tanked, and one billion dollars had vanished from their market value.
Meanwhile, I was sitting across from Richard Summers, the CEO of Ascend Group, in his penthouse office, taking the contract he had just slid across his sprawling desk.
He offered me an eight-figure salary, double the commission, and made me Vice President on the spot.
"Welcome aboard," he said with a wolfish grin, shaking my hand. "One question. How soon are you planning on burning Deco Group to the ground?"
I glanced out the window toward the now-insignificant Deco Tower and smiled.
"Sooner than they think."
*****
I stood on the stage at Deco Group's annual awards ceremony, holding that same gold-plated "Sales Champion" trophy for the umpteenth time.
The applause from the crowd was weak and scattered, like everyone was just swatting at flies.
Behind me, my sales figures blazed across the screen.
I was responsible for 89.7% of the company's total revenue.
You heard that right. One guy, me, was basically feeding this entire company.
I let my gaze sweep over the rows of execs in their expensive suits.
Michael Grant, the CFO, was whispering with the marketing director, a snake-like smirk playing on his lips.
In the front row, Liam Thorne, the chairman, sat stiffly, fingers drumming nonstop on the armrest.
His eyes kept darting around, like he was calculating angles instead of listening.
They couldn't close a deal to save their lives, but they were masters of the backstab.
"According to company policy, Frank Linwood's bonus for this quarter should be..." the host stammered, fixing his eyes on the teleprompter. He faltered for a second before squeaking out, "600,000 dollars."
I frowned.
600,000 dollars? Seriously?
Bullshit!
I had already run the numbers. My contract stipulated a commission of at least a million dollars.
The weasels were cooking the books again.
Down in the audience, Michael pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses and put on his best neutral expression.
"We recently restructured the bonus tiers for over-performance, so..."
I didn't let him finish. I whipped out my phone, hijacked the projector, and threw my own numbers onto the screen.
The room went dead silent.
My spreadsheet lit up the wall, formulas and cells flashing as they auto-calculated.