2. Ash #3
I hold my breath, palms sweating, searching her eyes for any hint of what she’ll say. She clicks something on her laptop, and I brace. Disciplinary leave? Termination?
“You’re being transferred.”
My exhale is so loud Kimberly leans away, taken aback by the relief I can’t suppress. A transfer still includes a paycheck, benefits, stock. “Oh, thank God,” I breathe, heart pounding.
“I thought the punishment was lenient,” she says, the rebuke snapping me back in my chair. She turns to her laptop again. “Until I saw it’s not a horizontal transfer. You’re being downleveled, Mr. Pierce.”
“Downleveled?” My relief evaporates into a cascade of ramifications.
“Your new team already has a manager. So you’ll be an individual contributor. IC roles on your new team are capped at level five.”
“But… I’m a seven,” I say, feeling my chest go colder as the news gets worse.
“Our investigation confirms an inappropriate relationship with a subordinate. This violates our company’s code of conduct.
” She recites the corporate jargon with practiced ease.
“As a result, we’ve made the difficult decision to transfer you, effective immediately.
This requires a downlevel to L5, solutions consultant.
You’ll receive details on your new role via email. Do you have any questions?”
Kimberly finishes her script, and instead of arguing, I go cold. She’s doing her job. It’s not her fault.
Chase did this.
“My comp,” I manage, picturing my spreadsheet. “Can you tell me what my new compensation will be?”
“I don’t have the precise numbers. But it looks like… your salary will reduce by forty-two percent, bonus by ten, and equity by eighty-three.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, stifling a gasp. In my head, every cell in my spreadsheet flashes red. Without moving my hand, the next question slips out between my fingers.
“I was up for promotion this cycle—”
Kimberly raises her hand, a large diamond ring catching the light.
“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Pierce. Given the seriousness of your conduct, I’m frankly surprised you’re asking about promotion.
” Cold spreads from my chest to my hands and feet.
“No. You will not be promoted. You’re lucky you’re not fired. ”
“Just this cycle?” I ask, desperate for a loophole, any loophole.
She snaps her laptop shut. “Barring a personal endorsement from Alistair Blackwood himself, I don’t foresee you being promoted again.” She lets that name hang in the air. “You know Mr. Blackwood?”
Dazed, I shake my head. No. I don’t know Query’s billionaire founder.
“Your disregard for professional boundaries is deeply concerning,” Kimberly continues, her voice flattening into something colder than policy. “I wouldn’t want my daughter reporting to you.”
“I’m gay,” I blurt. “Not that that’s your point.”
“Okay.” Kimberly stands. “We’re done here. You’ll receive everything in writing.”
Left alone in the small conference room, I face my first distraction-free fifty minutes in years. It isn’t long enough to put myself back together. Deep down, I know I can’t fix this. One bad decision and eight years of careful planning are suddenly on life support.
I force myself into triage mode and make three quick decisions.
First, instead of strangling Chase, I vow to abstain from all romantic entanglements until after FIRE.
Second, I text Jenny: Not fired but downleveled. pay reduced :’( screwed.
Third, I need to assess the damage.
I close the door and open my laptop. My spreadsheet is set as my home page. Muscle memory takes over as I enter my newly reduced compensation. The spreadsheet does the rest. Automatic calculations ripple through five tabs, the impact instantaneous and devastating.
My breath hitches as the graphs shift, their steep climbs flattening into a disheartening plateau. My finger trembles as I scroll to my dashboard, the tab with my freedom date. I wrap one hand around the armrest and brace for impact.
It might still work.
My percentage remains at 47.15 percent, a cruel reminder of how far I still have to go. The party cat now looks like it’s mocking me.
My new freedom date stares back: twenty-one years from now. I’ll be fifty.
“No,” I groan. “That can’t be right.”
But it is. I try and fail to picture twenty-one more years of this. Instead, my whole life fast-forwards in a dizzying montage of meetings, metrics, decks, reviews, and all my best hours swallowed by work that owns me instead of freeing me.
This is how it happens, Pawpaw whispers in my head.
My phone buzzes at Jenny’s reply: <3 You got this. Good timing for The FI Escape.
I send back a poop emoji and think about spending a long weekend surrounded by people who see the world the way I do. To everyone else, financial independence sounds like greedy money-grubbing. It’s ironic, considering the world’s addiction to debt-fueled consumerism.
Jenny’s right. At The FI Escape, I’ll find people who understand the sacrifices, the meticulous planning, and the desperate desire for control over your own time. They understand that we aren’t really saving money. We’re saving time, the most precious commodity of all.
And now, thanks to Chase, mine’s slipping away.