Chapter Thirty-Six
Sin
Rematch
A few months ago, Sofia was still someone I was excited to know. This all-hands meeting would have been the highlight of my year. Instead, I’m watching the clock with bated breath and have only spoken to her in greeting.
My phone buzzes and I glance around the room at my colleagues who are sitting around the same conference table.
It buzzes again and I know it’s Kwame. I shouldn’t, but I need something sweet to help me survive the rest of this daylong seminar.
I make sure everyone else’s eyes are where they should be, while I choose myself.
My phone is out of my pocket and placed in my lap, I lean back slightly from the table so that I can read it as inconspicuously as possible.
“I’d like to have you for lunch. Meet at my place?”
I bite my lip to hide the smile that wants to split my face in half. I love how much he wants to see me, but I think I love that he calls his house home more.
I write back. “Yes. Will need a pick-me-up after this snooze fest.”
“Keeping you from something important, am I?” The voice comes from right, over my shoulder and snaps my spine straight. I jump in my seat and drop my phone.
I scramble to pick it up but she gets to it first. She holds it in her palm and looks down her stupidly small nose at me. “We have a no phone policy during these seminars for a reason.” She points to the basket by the door with the sign over it that says “Phones Here.”
“Is that a new thing?” I ask. I look around the room to see if anyone else is disturbed. “Confiscating phones?”
“Yes, it is. If you read the company wide bulletins we sent, you’d know.”
“I do read them. I must have missed it. I’m sorry.”
She glances down at my phone. “Kwame says he’s hard for you already.”
There’s a collective gasp and then the room is silent. Mortification makes my stomach drop to my toes.
My elation from a moment ago is gone so completely, I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it. I see red. “That was private,” I say through clenched jaws.
She scoffs and strides over to the basket and tosses my phone in. “This is a company issued phone. Nothing on it is private.”
“You had no right to read that, you—” I say, my throat burns from the effort it takes not to finish my sentence.
Her eyes narrow. “Everyone out,” she barks. There’s only a second hesitation before everyone gets up and files out. No one looks at me, but their pity is palpable.
My heart races and I brace for whatever’s coming next now that we are alone.
“Do you know how lucky you are to have this job? Do you know how many journalists would kill to have The Spectator be their soft place to land and start over?”
I bristle at her framing. “I’m not starting over. I’m pivoting. I’m still an experienced writer and reporter and even if you don’t find value in the story, I’m compelled to pursue it. If I’m using my free time—”
“You’re not allowed to do that,” she hisses.
I blanche. “Of course I am.”
She purses her lips. “Your contract explicitly forbids you to do any freelance work while you are a full-time salaried member of The Spectator’s editorial staff.” She narrows her eyes. “I heard you were difficult,” she murmurs.
I rear back like she slapped me. My jaw drops.
“You think you’re being sabotaged. You’re not that special, Ms. Sackey. You’re new and there’s a pecking order. Know your fucking place.”
My skin feels too small for my frame. My heart and lungs are working overtime. I blink back angry tears because there’ll be a cold day in hell before I cry in front of this bitch. I leave and need restraint not to slam the door behind me.
Two decades of working in this industry has turned my feelings to Teflon. But no one has ever spoken to me like that.
This is where my choices have brought me. I can’t afford to burn this bridge. If I don’t have a paper behind me, it won’t matter how explosive this story is.
I sit at my desk and get to work on my reply to a letter from a man confessing to lying about how much money he spends on his Candy Crush habit.
It sucks, but least now I’ve got a nice dick to ride away my frustrations at the end of a hard day.