The HR Manual for Betrayal

Day two using the warehouse as our "office," the roof gave out.

Cold rain dumped straight on my head.

Computers nearly fried. We scrambled, tossing plastic sheets everywhere like sketchy street vendors in a storm.

Day three, the circuit breaker bailed.

Over a hundred degrees Farenheit inside. The place turned into a steam box.

Ronnie collapsed from heatstroke. I patted his cheeks till he came to. First thing he said? "Quentin, are we screwed?"

Day four, Peggy's mom showed up.

She pointed right at my face, yelling loud enough to shake the rafters. "You selfish bastard! You dragged my daughter out of a good job for THIS? If anything happens to her, I'll bury you!"

Morale? Hanging by threads.

Sherry's blockade felt like a noose tightening around our necks.

Industry forums lit up with posts calling me a scammer who bailed with stolen cash. Hundreds of comments—Disgrace. Fraud. Trash.

I called every old client. Half went straight to voicemail. The rest? "Quentin, how DARE you call? Ms. Twain says you're dirty."

One new supplier finally agreed to work with us. Contract ready. Then the owner called, voice stiff. "Mr. Quinn, sorry. Ms. Twain said we'd better not."

No contacts. No deals. No way out.

A full month. Nothing closed.

My savings? Burned through—rent, payroll, all of it. Gone.

That night, the warehouse felt like a tomb.

Peggy, who'd cried after her mom's meltdown, finally broke the silence. "Quentin... Ms. Twain's hiring again. Double pay. I—"

She didn't finish. Didn't have to.

Ronnie slammed the table, eyes raw. "If you're going, just go. I'd rather beg than crawl back there."

I knew it. If this kept going, the team would break.

Right then, as if the universe had a sick sense of humor, a video call from Daniel lit up my screen.

I answered.

There he was—parked in my old office, grinning.

"Quentin, heard you're circling the drain. Check out Sherry's shiny new elite team. We just locked in a $5 million deal."

He flipped the camera to the table—contract front and center.

My project. The one I spent six months building from scratch.

I did all the work, and now they’re the ones cashing in.

I hung up.

Silence hit the room like a punch.

Like hope had just left with that call.

I grabbed my jacket and stood.

"Come on. Drinks on me. Sky's not falling."

Didn't raise my voice. Didn't need to.

Every word said it loud enough—

I'm still here. Still standing.

In a greasy diner with cracked booths, we slumped like busted-up soldiers.

Empty bottles littered the floor.

Everyone was crying, swearing, just letting it all out.

Not me. I just kept drinking.

When the bill came, I realized—no cash. Dead phone.

The shame hit harder than Sherry's public smackdown.

Ronnie slipped off a sneaker, pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. That's what kept us from getting kicked out.

I loaded my wasted crew into cabs one by one, then parked myself on the curb.

Cold wind slapped my face.

Phone finally flickered back on—missed calls stacked up like death notices.

Sherry. The landlord. And one labeled 'Giselle.'

Giselle Besnier.

Heiress of the Besnier family. TrueNorth Capital royalty. I'd only met her once—some bidding event.

No idea why, but I called her back.

"Mr. Quinn?" Her voice was steady. Smooth.

"It's me, Ms. Besnier." Mine was all gravel and whiskey.

"Left AetherTech?"

"Yeah."

"Going solo?"

"Mm."

She paused. Just for a beat.

"I've got a project. $300k. Interested?"

Lightning. Instant sober. "Yes."

"Tomorrow. 10 a.m. TrueNorth Tower. Bring a proposal."

Click. She hung up before I could ask a thing.

I looked up at the night sky, pinched my arm.

It stung.

This was real.

Next morning, running on zero sleep and one last shot of hope, Ronnie and I showed up at TrueNorth Tower.

The receptionist looked us over like gum stuck to her desk. "No appointment? Then wait."

So we did. For an hour. Standing there like a couple of broke nobodies.

Sherry's new team leader strutted by with his crew, throwing us the kind of look you'd reserve for roadkill.

Finally, someone waved us into a meeting room.

A bald exec slapped our proposal on the table like it offended him. "You think your little garage startup's worth TrueNorth's time? Who told you to crawl in here?"

Ronnie's fists cracked loud enough to echo. I held him back. We were this close to walking out with what little pride we had left.

Then the door opened.

Giselle walked in like the whole floor shifted with her.

She glanced at Baldy. "Peter, do I need your sign-off to make decisions?"

His face turned grape-purple.

She picked up our proposal—didn't even look at it. "The project's yours."

Then her eyes locked on mine. No games. Just fire. "One condition—take it to the limit. Shut every mouth that ever looked down on you."

My throat tightened. Had a thousand things I wanted to say.

All that came out was, "Got it."

Sherry Twain. Daniel Jenkin.

Time to play for real.