Chapter 2
Jemma glanced at her buzzing phone. The number on the screen made her stomach tighten.
Not now.
Without a word, she tapped the screen and silenced it, slipping the phone face-down onto the table. The current meeting wasn’t exactly life-changing, but it was still her job—and that job paid for her brother’s textbooks and groceries. That mattered more than indulging the fire burning in her gut.
“So, we’re going with the eight-ninety version?” Mark Sinstack asked, his voice puffed with self-importance as he scanned the room.
Silence.
No one looked up. No one pushed back. Jemma included.
She could feel the disagreement forming in her throat—the facts, the data, the very real consequences—but she bit it back. That wasn’t her role anymore. She was no longer the rising star of the strategy team. Now, she took notes. Answered phones. Smiled when necessary.
And stayed quiet.
Of course, that didn’t stop her from doing the analysis.
The “eight-ninety version” was a disaster.
He was referring to the proposal number on the contract from a supplier.
Cheaper to produce, yes—but the lower cost was built on broken backs and sweat-stained misery.
The overseas factory Mark insisted on using was barely a step above a prison camp.
Workers were disposable, benefits nonexistent.
One cold, one missed shift, and they were gone. Fired. Replaced. Forgotten.
And all so Mark could add a few more points to his profit margin.
The clothing line that would be produced by this contract?
Beautiful on the hanger. Hideous on the body.
The poor quality fabric suggested in the contract caused the threads to unravel after maybe two washes.
The hems frayed because of poor quality construction and the seams weren’t straight because the workers didn’t care.
Customers never came back after purchasing clothing manufactured by this particular factory.
That meant Mark would simply launch the next season’s line under a new label—again—and that would require the marketing budget to double.
Again. Because Mark would need to trick people into believing the new label was something fresh and exclusive.
Jemma had tried to fix the problem once.
In her first month, she’d pitched him a detailed strategy: slightly better materials, higher-skilled labor, a slower profit curve but a stronger, more loyal customer base by year four.
He hadn’t even finished skimming her proposal before tossing it in the trash.
“Stay in your lane,” he’d said. Then barked for her to get him some coffee and waved her off like a fly buzzing too close to his sandwich.
The second time she’d suggested changes, he’d threatened to fire her for insubordination.
Now she kept her thoughts to herself.
Barely.
Now, Jemma pressed her lips together, refusing to offer any suggestions. She knew the drill. Mark didn’t want ideas. He wanted submission.
“Excellent plan,” one of the underlings mumbled.
“Smart move,” another echoed.
The air reeked of fear and coffee breath. No one dared challenge him. Not when anything perceived as disagreement could cost you your job.
Mark rose from his chair with a grunt, his belly wobbling as he stood. “Alright, let’s get back to work. We’ve got spring’s line to push.”
The fake cheer in his voice was almost worse than his outbursts.
For a moment, Jemma didn’t move. The conference room was the only warm space in the building besides Mark’s office, and she wasn’t eager to follow him into either.
But then came the part she’d been dreading.
“Jemma,” Mark called, pausing in the doorway to hitch up his pants. “A word. My office.”
It wasn’t a question. It never was.
Jemma nodded, gathered her notes with calm precision, and followed Mark out of the conference room. She took one last look at the thermostat on the wall. The only two heated spaces in the building—this room and the office of the man she could barely stand.
Mark led the way, oblivious to the discomfort radiating behind him, and shoved the door to his office open.
He tossed a stack of sales reports she’d created onto his desk with the same care he gave to everything else: none.
Papers cascaded across the cluttered surface, knocking over a half-drunk coffee and a half-eaten protein bar, both of which had been sitting there since Monday. Maybe longer.
Jemma remained by the door, gripping her notepad tightly against her chest. She didn’t offer to clean. Mark liked the mess. It made him feel important—like the chaos was proof of how essential he was.
She thought about her last job, and the difference made her stomach twist. Her former boss had kept a desk so organized it looked curated. No stray pens. No clutter. Just focus, drive, and efficiency humming in the air like an electric current. Every action had purpose. Every word held weight.
Here, at Sinstack Designs, the only electricity emanated from the staff’s genuine fear of sudden unemployment.
Mark didn’t look up at first. He rooted around in the stacks on his desk like a pig sniffing for truffles, then finally raised his head, peering at her over his glasses.
“You got seven phone calls during that meeting,” he said, as if announcing a felony. “You know I don’t like personal calls during work hours. It’s distracting. You need to tell your boyfriends to call after five.”
Jemma’s jaw ached from how tightly she clenched it. But her voice was even.
“Yes, sir.”
She didn’t point out that only five of those calls were personal. The other two were internal—calls from his own staff, because he refused to spring for company phones. He’d even made it policy: employees used their personal cells, on their own dime.
And still, he acted like she was the problem.
“If it happens again,” he added, puffing himself up like a benevolent king, “I’ll have to let you go.”
Then came the wave of dismissal—his hand flapping in the air like she was an annoying mosquito. Audience over.
Jemma turned and walked out, her spine straight and her pace brisk. She didn’t slam the door, though it took restraint.
The second she reached her desk, the anger hit like a blade to the temple—sharp, pulsing, relentless.
Her phone vibrated again, and without looking, she stuffed it into the drawer.
If Mark didn’t want her taking calls, she’d pretend the phone didn’t exist. If someone from the company needed her and she missed it, she’d blame the lack of visibility.
His rules. His fault.
She turned to her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard as she began transcribing the meeting. He wouldn’t read the notes. He never did. But he liked the power trip of assigning the task, so she did it anyway.
He’d hired her as a business analyst.
He just didn’t want her to analyze anything.
“Too ambitious,” he’d muttered once after a presentation she’d crafted with care. “You don’t need to think so hard. That’s what I’m here for. I went to business school, sweetheart. Been in this game thirty-five years.”
Jemma didn’t argue because the paycheck was vital to her family’s survival. So she took notes. She smiled. And she waited for each storm to pass.
Because she needed the paycheck. More importantly, she needed the health insurance.
No one else would hire her—not after what happened. Her resume used to be a golden ticket. Now it was a red flag. And until she could rebuild her credibility, she’d have to survive this place a little longer.
Still… after today’s meeting—after hearing Mark greenlight a contract with a factory that treated its workers like livestock—maybe it was time to leave.
Jemma knew the signs. Mark’s business was circling the drain.
She didn’t have access to the financial records, but she didn’t need them.
She saw it in the contracts he signed, in the invoices that came in the mail stamped “late payment”, and the way the office buzzed with panic.
In the way people whispered. In the grim look the CFO, Salzar, wore every time he walked into Mark’s office and quietly closed the door behind him.
“Is he free?” someone barked.
Jemma looked up, her hand stilling over the keyboard.
Joannie Huffmister stood in front of her desk, arms crossed and toe tapping. The director of human resources—nicknamed the Grim Reaper for good reason—rarely ventured out of her office unless someone was about to be fired.
And now she was here. Looking at her.
Jemma pushed down the instant jolt of unease. Joannie wasn’t here for her. Not today.
Probably.
Still, Jemma hated that the woman had even asked if Mark was available. Logical, sure—Mark had insisted Jemma work from the desk just outside his office, like some kind of obedient little secretary.
Never mind that she’d been hired as a business analyst.
Never mind the four years she’d spent earning a degree in business management, or the marketing internship she’d juggled on weekends. Never mind that she’d once handled million-dollar projections and helped turn a startup into a national brand.
None of that mattered now. Not after what happened.
“He’s free,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm and even as she shoved down the urge to say something snide. Something honest.
Joannie nodded sharply, already turning toward the office door. But before she disappeared into Mark’s chaos-laden lair, she paused just long enough to snap, “Hold his calls.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Jemma rolled her eyes. Mark never let anyone hold his calls.
He didn’t trust his own staff to take a message, much less filter his conversations.
Every call went straight to his personal line.
It was probably a good thing—because if Jemma ever got her hands on real proof of what she suspected Mark was up to, she might not hesitate to go to the authorities.
But for now, she typed. She smiled. She played the part.
Finally, five o’clock hit. A small mercy.