If they fired me, I'd walk out with my head held high. Chin up, spine straight, dignity unshaken. At least, that was the plan I repeated to myself. But the truth tasted bitter: if I got fired, Sam had won the work front. He'd been waiting for this. He'd smile and savour every second of my downfall.
I called my dad to get my mind off the situation. I didn't tell him what was going on—mostly because he'd panic and mostly because he'd show up at my office. Instead, I let him ramble. He sounded lighter today, happier. Wita had been getting more exposure lately and my father was suddenly swarmed with work.
A soft knock sounded, and my assistant, Sasha Bennet, stepped into the office in her usual whirlwind of perfume, glossy curls, and chaotic energy. She carried a stack of correspondences addressed to the Office of the Chief Accountant—my office, pending the board's decision. She also held a steaming cup of coffee.
"I thought you might need this," she said, stretching her arm out.
