The message barely went through before Desmond replied:
"Understood, Mr. Henson."
The next morning, I drove to the office as usual.
The moment I stepped out of my car, I spotted Maureen standing at the front gate with her arms crossed over her chest.
Next to her stood a man in his early thirties, sharply dressed in a tailored suit, radiating the kind of smugness that came from unchecked authority.
I glanced at his name badge. Rupert McClain, HR Director.
The second Maureen saw me, she darted forward to block my path and turned to him.
"That's him, Rupert! That's the one!"
Rupert looked me up and down with the slow, deliberate appraisal of a man who believed he held all the cards. "So you're the factory worker who disrespected my cousin?"
"Who hired you in the first place? I don't recall ever seeing your face."
To avoid the tedious formalities that came with my position, I always kept a low profile at the branch office. Plain clothes, no entourage, and the cheapest car in my garage. Only the core executives knew who I really was.
An HR director didn't come close to qualifying.
When Rupert said he'd never seen me before, Maureen's eyes lit up like she'd just stumbled onto the find of a lifetime.