But Saif would find out why.
And if he played it right, he’d get more than justice.
He might finally get closure.
Or something that felt dangerously close to revenge.
Chapter 2
Jemma glanced at her buzzing phone.The number on the screen made her stomach tighten.
Not now.
Without a word, she tapped the screen and silenced it, slipping the phone face-down onto the table.The current meeting wasn’t exactly life-changing, but it was still her job—and that job paid for her brother’s textbooks and groceries.That mattered more than indulging the fire burning in her gut.
“So, we’re going with the eight-ninety version?”Mark Sinstack asked, his voice puffed with self-importance as he scanned the room.
Silence.
No one looked up.No one pushed back.Jemma included.
She could feel the disagreement forming in her throat—the facts, the data, the very real consequences—but she bit it back.That wasn’t her role anymore.She was no longer the rising star of the strategy team.Now, she took notes.Answered phones.Smiled when necessary.
And stayed quiet.
Of course, that didn’t stop her from doing the analysis.The “eight-ninety version” was a disaster.He was referring to the proposal number on the contract from a supplier.Cheaper to produce, yes—but the lower cost was built on broken backs and sweat-stained misery.The overseas factory Mark insisted on using was barely a step above a prison camp.Workers were disposable, benefits nonexistent.One cold, one missed shift, and they were gone.Fired.Replaced.Forgotten.
And all so Mark could add a few more points to his profit margin.
The clothing line that would be produced by this contract?Beautiful on the hanger.Hideous on the body.The poor quality fabric suggested in the contract caused the threads to unravel after maybe two washes.The hems frayed because of poor quality construction and the seams weren’t straight because the workers didn’t care.
Customers never came back after purchasing clothing manufactured by this particular factory.That meant Mark would simply launch the next season’s line under a new label—again—and that would require the marketing budget to double.Again.Because Mark would need to trick people into believing the new label was something fresh and exclusive.
Jemma had tried to fix the problem once.
In her first month, she’d pitched him a detailed strategy: slightly better materials, higher-skilled labor, a slower profit curve but a stronger, more loyal customer base by year four.
He hadn’t even finished skimming her proposal before tossing it in the trash.
“Stay in your lane,” he’d said.Then barked for her to get him some coffee and waved her off like a fly buzzing too close to his sandwich.
The second time she’d suggested changes, he’d threatened to fire her for insubordination.
Now she kept her thoughts to herself.
Barely.
Now, Jemma pressed her lips together, refusing to offer any suggestions.She knew the drill.Mark didn’t want ideas.He wanted submission.
“Excellent plan,” one of the underlings mumbled.
“Smart move,” another echoed.
The air reeked of fear and coffee breath.No one dared challenge him.Not when anything perceived as disagreement could cost you your job.
Mark rose from his chair with a grunt, his belly wobbling as he stood.“Alright, let’s get back to work.We’ve got spring’s line to push.”
The fake cheer in his voice was almost worse than his outbursts.
