"If it weren't a holiday, you'd be getting an earful right now."
Not a word about last night's livestream. But that was fine—I could remind her.
"Ms. Matthews, didn't you see the resignation letter on your desk?"
Her reply was frigid. "Two critical data files are missing. They were fine before everyone clocked out yesterday."
I laughed. "What are you saying? You're blaming me?"
She lifted her chin, looking down at me with contempt.
"Who else? The data vanished on your watch. If not you, then who?"
Before I could respond, she dropped her gaze and started shuffling documents.
"Here's what you'll do: restore what you can. As for the client proposal—you've handled enough projects, you'll figure it out. Get through today, then we'll discuss your resignation."
I wasn't stupid. I'd learned the pattern years ago.
Whenever her work had problems, I cleaned up the mess. If it couldn't be fixed, I became the scapegoat. Every failure was mine. Every project I landed—big or small—became her achievement.
She called it "grooming me for promotion."
In reality, I was just her trained monkey. Year after year, she strung me along.
And once Nolan arrived? My life got even worse.