“Can’t. Dentist appointment in an hour.”
I blink at him. “At nine p.m.?”
He shrugs. “Orthodontic emergency.”
He is lying so blatantly, I almost admire it.
“Fine,” I say. “Then, before you disappear into your extremely urgent fake molar crisis, we need to talk.”
He looks annoyed already. Good.
“The overtime you owe me,” I say. “I need it on this check.”
His expression goes flat.
“What overtime?”
The rage that goes through me is so sharp I almost laugh.
“The overtime where I covered your shifts,” I say. “Repeatedly. The overtime where I closed for you. Repeatedly. The overtime where I did your job and mine because apparently you think management is a spiritual calling instead of actual labor.”
Donald gives me a slow, pitying smile that makes me want to throw something heavy.
“You put in no overtime.”
“I absolutely did.”
He walks into the office, pulls a schedule from a folder, and slaps it onto the desk.
“There,” he says. “See? All those shifts are under my name.”
I stare at the paper.
It is fake.
Not even well-faked. Just obvious enough that I know he never expected me to challenge it.
My pulse starts pounding in my throat.
“You weren’t here,” I say quietly.
He leans back against the desk. “According to the schedule, I was.”
“We both know that’s bullshit.”
His smile vanishes. “I’m the boss,” he says. “My word is law. Unless…”
The room goes very still.
Unless you want to be fired.
He doesn’t say the exact words. He doesn’t need to. They hang in the air between us anyway.
I hate him.
God, I hate him.
And the worst part is that he knows exactly how trapped I am. He knows I have a kid. He knows I need steady money. He knows a single mother with unstable hours and no degree is not exactly spoiled for choice in the job market.
