Chapter 2
I stormed onto the executive floor, burning with rage.
"David, I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" Foster looked up, guilt all over his face, trying to apologize.
"Move!" I snapped, shoving him aside as I pushed open the general manager's office door.
"Ms. Griffith, what the hell is this?" I slammed the evaluation form down on her desk. "Why? How is this fair?"
She was calmly painting her nails, the glossy red brush pausing just above the payroll slip I'd thrown down.
"David, mind your tone."
"My tone? After everything you've done, you still want to talk to me about tone? I want my bonus. And I want my name on that project."
"Your name?" she raised an eyebrow. "The company pays your salary. Anything you produce is company property."
"This isn't about you. It's about teamwork, not personal glory."
"And right now, we're focused on developing young leadership. Foster aligns better with the company's long-term goals. David, you've been here a while. You should see the bigger pict—"
"Bullshit. To hell with your 'goals.'" I slammed my fist on the desk. "That project—every core concept, every line of code—was mine from start to finish!"
"Watch it, David." She stood up sharply and smacked her hand on the desk.
"The company pays you. That means your work belongs to the company. If you don't like it, you're free to leave. Submit your resignation—I'll sign it on the spot."
I stared at her, fists clenched, heart pounding. Five years at this company, and this is how it ends?
Fine. You vultures want to play dirty? I'll quit. And I'll see you in labor arbitration.
*****
It was almost 8 p.m. when I got home. A single wall light cast a soft, yellow glow across the room.
The warm, savory scent of braised meat drifted out of the kitchen, wrapping the air in something that almost felt like peace.
My wife, Nadia Reeves, stood at the stove in an apron, cooking. Two plates of pasta were already set on the table.
"You're back," she said, glancing over with a gentle smile. "Work go okay today?"
I gave a strained smile and said nothing. I walked over and sat across from her, staring blankly at the food.
"What's wrong?" Nadia noticed something was off. She came over and placed her hand gently on my forehead.
"Nadia… I'm thinking about quitting," I said, suddenly.
Her hand froze for a second.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
"Foster—the guy I mentored—he just got promoted to director. With my proposal," I said bitterly. "And they gutted my bonus. I barely got anything."
"I'm sorry, Nadia. I feel like such a failure."
I told her what had happened in the meeting—trying to stay calm, but the more I talked, the angrier I got.
"I've had it with that place. What's the point in staying? I want to start my own company. Focus on chip design. Even if I have to build it from the ground up…"
"You've been treated unfairly," she whispered, wrapping her arms around me. Her warmth calmed the fire in my chest just a little.
We worked at the same company, but she was in the admin office, in a different building.
"I'm done," I muttered, loosening my tie. "I'm quitting tomorrow. And I'm taking them to arbitration. They're not keeping a single cent of what they owe me."
"But… honey," she said carefully, "if you quit now… how are we going to pay next month's mortgage? And year-end's coming—we still haven't paid the property fees..."
I slammed my hand on the table and stood up. "Money! That's all you ever talk about! Every damn time I say I want to quit, you throw numbers in my face! Do you even care if I'm happy at work?"