For a moment, Jemma didn’t move.The conference room was the only warm space in the building besides Mark’s office, and she wasn’t eager to follow him into either.
But then came the part she’d been dreading.
“Jemma,” Mark called, pausing in the doorway to hitch up his pants.“A word.My office.”
It wasn’t a question.It never was.
Jemma nodded, gathered her notes with calm precision, and followed Mark out of the conference room.She took one last look at the thermostat on the wall.The only two heated spaces in the building—this room and the office of the man she could barely stand.
Mark led the way, oblivious to the discomfort radiating behind him, and shoved the door to his office open.He tossed a stack of sales reports she’d created onto his desk with the same care he gave to everything else: none.Papers cascaded across the cluttered surface, knocking over a half-drunk coffee and a half-eaten protein bar, both of which had been sitting there since Monday.Maybe longer.
Jemma remained by the door, gripping her notepad tightly against her chest.She didn’t offer to clean.Mark liked the mess.It made him feel important—like the chaos was proof of how essential he was.
She thought about her last job, and the difference made her stomach twist.Her former boss had kept a desk so organized it looked curated.No stray pens.No clutter.Just focus, drive, and efficiency humming in the air like an electric current.Every action had purpose.Every word held weight.
Here, at Sinstack Designs, the only electricity emanated from the staff’s genuine fear of sudden unemployment.
Mark didn’t look up at first.He rooted around in the stacks on his desk like a pig sniffing for truffles, then finally raised his head, peering at her over his glasses.
“You got seven phone calls during that meeting,” he said, as if announcing a felony.“You know I don’t like personal calls during work hours.It’s distracting.You need to tell your boyfriends to call after five.”
Jemma’s jaw ached from how tightly she clenched it.But her voice was even.
“Yes, sir.”
She didn’t point out that only five of those calls were personal.The other two were internal—calls from his own staff, because he refused to spring for company phones.He’d even made it policy: employees used their personal cells, on their own dime.
And still, he acted like she was the problem.
“If it happens again,” he added, puffing himself up like a benevolent king, “I’ll have to let you go.”
Then came the wave of dismissal—his hand flapping in the air like she was an annoying mosquito.Audience over.
Jemma turned and walked out, her spine straight and her pace brisk.She didn’t slam the door, though it took restraint.
The second she reached her desk, the anger hit like a blade to the temple—sharp, pulsing, relentless.Her phone vibrated again, and without looking, she stuffed it into the drawer.If Mark didn’t want her taking calls, she’d pretend the phone didn’t exist.If someone from the company needed her and she missed it, she’d blame the lack of visibility.
His rules.His fault.
She turned to her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard as she began transcribing the meeting.He wouldn’t read the notes.He never did.But he liked the power trip of assigning the task, so she did it anyway.
He’d hired her as a business analyst.
He just didn’t want her to analyze anything.
“Too ambitious,” he’d muttered once after a presentation she’d crafted with care.“You don’t need to think so hard.That’s what I’m here for.I went to business school, sweetheart.Been in this game thirty-five years.”
Jemma didn’t argue because the paycheck was vital to her family’s survival.So she took notes.She smiled.And she waited for each storm to pass.
Because she needed the paycheck.More importantly, she needed the health insurance.
No one else would hire her—not after what happened.Her resume used to be a golden ticket.Now it was a red flag.And until she could rebuild her credibility, she’d have to survive this place a little longer.
Still… after today’s meeting—after hearing Mark greenlight a contract with a factory that treated its workers like livestock—maybe it was time to leave.Jemma knew the signs.Mark’s business was circling the drain.She didn’t have access to the financial records, but she didn’t need them.She saw it in the contracts he signed, in the invoices that came in the mail stamped “late payment”, and the way the office buzzed with panic.In the way people whispered.In the grim look the CFO, Salzar, wore every time he walked into Mark’s office and quietly closed the door behind him.
“Is he free?”someone barked.
Jemma looked up, her hand stilling over the keyboard.
