Chapter 2
He pushed the pen forward another two inches. The gold clip caught the morning sun.
"Sign the addendum, Emmett. Put the Osborne offer away. Call Jocelyn Fairbanks. Smooth this over. Tell her there was an internal software migration over the weekend that caused a routing bottleneck on the priority queue. She trusts you. She’ll believe you."
I looked down at the pen.
For fourteen years, I had believed that if you simply did the work—if you stayed late, if you answered the two-in-the-morning calls from Frankfurt, if you shielded the company from the messiness of airline strikes and snowstorms—the system would protect you. I had believed that excellence had its own quiet gravity that corporate politics couldn't dislodge.
Gable had shattered that illusion in less than ninety seconds two weeks ago.
And now, with twenty-two million dollars in client revenue staring down the barrel of a termination clause, he wanted me to sell my credibility to save his skin.
"No," I said.
Gable blinked, as if he hadn't heard correctly. "Excuse me?"
"I won't call Jocelyn and lie to her," I said. "And I'm not signing that addendum."
Gable’s eyes narrowed. The panic in his eyes receded, replaced by the sharp, defensive arrogance of an executive accustomed to getting his way through leverage.
"Emmett, be realistic," he said, his tone chilling. "You've been at Landmark for fourteen years. Your entire professional network is anchored here. Osborne is an aggressive, high-turnover shop. You walk out that door, and you're stepping into an unknown culture at forty-eight years old. Furthermore, you have a non-compete."
I almost smiled. "Do I?"
"Every manager signed the restrictive covenant update when the merger closed in 2022," Gable said, tapping the desk with a manicured finger. "Non-solicitation of clients, non-compete within a two-hundred-mile radius for twelve months. If you think you're going to Osborne and taking Harrington with you, our legal department will file for an emergency injunction before you make it down the elevator. We will tie you up in Cook County Chancery Court for eighteen months. You won't be able to work in this industry anywhere in North America."
I reached into the folder under my arm, drew out a single sheet of paper, and slid it directly over the thirty-five-thousand-dollar raise memo.
"You should have read my personnel file before you called this meeting, Damian," I said softly.
Gable looked down at the page.