Years ago, to help Beverly Delgado survive a fatal turning point, I'd placed the half Oracle Cup I'd carried since childhood beneath the base of the altar. It had been there ever since.
"Alright. I'll go get it back." My gaze hardened. "And while I'm at it, I'll collect the commission they still owe me from last month's deals."
I took my resignation letter and walked back into Delgado Group.
But the moment I reached what used to be my desk in the sales director's office, I stopped dead.
The place was destroyed.
Every personal item I owned had been swept off the desk and into the hallway. My coffee mug lay in pieces. Files were scattered across the floor like debris after a storm.
Dean Cooley stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, directing a cleaning lady with a lazy wave of his hand.
"That's right—use the mop from the men's room. This stuff reeks of bad luck. Might as well scrub it with something that's actually touched the real world."
The cleaning lady looked deeply uncomfortable, but she was dragging the filthy mop across the sacred ash I had carefully tended every single day.
Ash and dirty water swirled together across the tile.