Because I need this job.
Because rent doesn’t pay itself.
Because my business degree came with a side of lifetime debt. Thanks, Sallie Mae.
Because my credit card statement reads like a horror novel.
Because Grandma needs groceries and meds.
And because, apparently, I’ve got the kind of face that says, “Yes, dump all your unfinished shit here.” I can’t afford to screw this up.
Still, I sigh so hard my soul tries to escape through my nostrils.
My phone buzzes less than a minute later.
GramCracker: It’s okay, sweetie. Work is more important.
I bite the inside of my cheek.No, it’s not.
Workisnotmore important than meatloaf night or the way she saves the last slice of peach pie for me, like it’s a sacred ritual. Not more important than the only person who’s never once made me feel like too much or not enough.
But I’m doing this anyway. Because I need the job. Because Dave’s one email away from making my life a frozen, paycheck-less hellscape. Because if I rock the boat, there’s always some fresh-faced finance bro in line to take my place. One who doesn’t have a grandma or a wine hangover or anxiety that punches like a linebacker.
I crack my knuckles again, roll my shoulders, and mutter,“Alright, fatty, focus up.”
Yes, I call myself fatty.
It’s fine.
We’re friends.
I glance down at my stomach and whisper, “Don’t give up on me now, girls. You and I are in this together.”
It ripples like rising bread dough in protest.Traitor.
But I can’t eat until I finish this, and at this point, my stomach’s threatening to abandon ship and crawl into the break room vending machine. It’s a war of willpower. I’m losing.
I drag the folder toward me and start cross-checking rows of numbers and names in the client portfolio. My fingers are stiff, the office air always two degrees colder than humanly necessary, and my eyes feel like someone scrubbed them with sandpaper.
I blink. Rub. Lean closer.
And then— Something pops.
W.R. Holdings LLC — $148,000 withdrawn last Friday.No contact number. No recent activity. No assigned banker. And the address listed? A PO box.
Weird.
I scroll back.
Wait. That same PO box is tied tothreeother accounts. All opened within the same two-week window. All inactive. All listing “urgent operating disbursement” as the transaction memo. And all approved under the same regional manager: Dave Thornton,the walking LinkedIn profile in khakis.
My frown deepens. I check the dates. The amounts. The routing numbers.
Every single wire went out in round numbers. Clean tens and fives. No cent breakdowns, no invoice tags, no withdrawal slips.
I scroll again. Another account. Another Russian-sounding name:Viktor Rezhnov. No profile. Just a shell? Like it was created to exist for a single purpose—and then vanish.
I stare at the screen, my fingers frozen on the mouse. The hum of the fluorescent lights above turns sharp. My stomach, wine-soaked and furious, forgets about food entirely.
