This… this isn’t just laziness.
It’s not a clerical error.
This is bad.
I highlight the W.R. entry and snap a quick photo with my phone, fingers trembling now. Just in case.
Just in case what, Mary?
I don’t know. But I press my fingers to my temples and shut the file, saving a copy under a new name. The twist in my gut has nothing to do with wine or caffeine withdrawal anymore.
Whatever this is, I wasn’t supposed to see it.
Three hours later, my eyeballs are dry, and my spine feels like it’s fusing into the shape of this ergonomic nightmare they call a chair.
I send the final file with an overly professional subject line that I absolutely do not mean:
Subject: Q2 Client Portfolio + Quick Note on W.R. Holdings
Hi, Dave. Attached is the updated summary, as requested. Let me know if anything else is needed. Also, just flagging one entry I came across for W.R. Holdings LLC. It stood out due to the PO box, missing linked account, and similar naming to a few others within the same timeframe. Could be a duplicate or placeholder? Just wanted to check.
I sign it off with a “Thanks!” that tastes like blood in my mouth, clickSend, and immediately knock my forehead against the desk.
Once. Twice.
Stupid.
I should’ve left it alone.
Should’ve highlighted the number, circled it in red, and mentally yeeted it into someone else’s responsibility folder. But no. I just had to be the responsible one. Again.
I lean back and glance toward the tall windows at the front of the bank. The glass reflects more of the harsh office light than anything outside, but beyond the glare, Vegas at 8 PM looks like a neon migraine having a meltdown.
The sidewalks are alive. Fake Chanel heels and limp cigarettes. Bachelorette tiaras glinting beneath billboards. Everyone chasing something—money, escape, dopamine, validation. Whatever keeps them vertical.
Me? I’m just trying to get home with enough energy left to microwave leftovers and not cry into my rice.
I force myself up. My knees crack like popcorn, and my lower back is one wrong movement away from betrayal. I roll my shoulders, stretch my arms over my head, and then look down at my stomach.
“Alright, you fussy bread loaf,” I mutter, patting it like I’m negotiating with a toddler. “There’s cold kung pao chicken in the fridge. You’ll survive.”
My stomach growls like it knows I’m lying.
Leftover Chinese takeout means I won’t have to spend money, which means I can maybe pay off that stupid impulse mascara I charged last week because my eyes looked tired and I needed a win. It also means I don’t have to stop anywhere. Which is good, because I don’t have a car.
Bus it is.
The night line is awful, but it’s better than walking the twenty blocks in these sad ballet flats that have lost the will to live.
I reach for my tote, slinging it over one shoulder, and glance toward the main doors out of habit—
Then freeze.
There’s a shape outside. A man. Or something tall and broad-shouldered in the half-light.
He’s not moving.
Just standing there. Still. Too still.
