Chapter 8
"And what did Damian tell them?"
"He tried to blame the customer support desk," Marcus said, his tone thick with disgust. "He told the board that Opal and the frontline agents had failed to manage a routine operational surge over the weekend. He claimed you had abandoned your post during a critical transition period."
"Did they believe him?"
"They might have," Marcus said, "if Arthur Sterling hadn't joined the call from his home in Florida."
I sat up straight. "Arthur was on the call?"
"Arthur still holds eight percent of the voting preferred shares," Marcus explained. "He pulled up your email—the work log you sent Gable on Monday morning with the two hundred and fourteen off-hours calls and ninety-six weekend emergencies. He read it aloud to the entire board, line by line. Every canceled flight. Every 2:00 AM transfer. Every missed holiday dinner."
Marcus paused, letting out a long, weary breath.
"Then Arthur asked Gable one question: *'You told this man his account ran itself?'* Gable didn't have an answer. By eight-thirty, his security badge was deactivated, his corporate accounts were wiped, and he was escorted from the building by security."
I looked out my window at the city skyline. A flock of pigeons banked sharply over the river, catching the afternoon sun. I thought about the fourteen years I had given to Landmark. The late nights in empty conference rooms. The cold coffee. The constant, low-grade hum of anxiety that had lived behind my ribs every time my phone buzzed after eight o'clock at night.
I didn't feel triumph. I didn't feel joy at another man’s ruin.
I just felt the deep, clean satisfaction of a ledger that had finally balanced itself.
"Why are you calling me, Marcus?" I asked.
"The board authorized me to make you an offer," Marcus said, his voice hesitant, almost pleading. "We want you back, Emmett. Chief Commercial Officer. A four-hundred-thousand-dollar compensation package, full equity participation, and total operational control over the enterprise division. Parker has been reassigned to regional business development. We will give you whatever you need to bring Harrington back."
I looked at the paperwork on my new desk.
Beside the Harrington migration schedules sat three new contracts from mid-tier pharmaceutical companies that had reached out to Osborne Global the moment they heard I had made the move. In the hallway outside my glass door, two junior analysts were laughing over a fresh pot of coffee, their faces bright, energetic, and completely unburdened by the toxic corporate anxiety that had poisoned Landmark’s halls for three years.