My face burns, but I hold my ground. "I stand by every word."
"You think I 'humiliated' you this morning."
"You did."
"I held you to the same standards I hold everyone in this company."
"You dressed me down in front of thirty people for bringing pastries."
"I addressed unprofessional behavior that was disrupting my kitchen during
prep hours."
I almost can't believe what I'm hearing. "You want to talk about 'unprofessional'? How about changing in your office with the door wide- ass open?"
"Is that what this little outburst is about You're the one who put your hands on me, lest you forget." His mouth twists in a cruel, taunting smirk. "You still haven't explained that particular bit of behavior."
I could tell him. It would almost be nice to watch his face change when he realizes he's been berating a woman who's going blind. See him scramble to backtrack, toapologize, to make it right. A cowering Andrew might be a nice change of pace.
But I don't want his pity. I want my dignity.
"It doesn't matter," I say. "None of it matters. I quit."
"Just like that? Six years, and you're walking out because I hurt your precious feelings?"
"You didn't hurt— God, you're such a— You didn't 'hurt my feelings,' okay? I would never give you that power over me." I take a step back when he saunters toward me to maintain distance.
"If anything, you clarified them. I've been killing myself for this company and all you did this morning was show me that that sacrifice was neither respected nor worthwhile. So I'm out. I want away from you before you finish doing what you so clearly enjoy doing, which is ruining the lives of everyone unfortunate enough to come into contact with you."
Instead of answering, he does something I don't expect: He takes my resignation letter and starts tearing it. Strip by strip, my angry words become confetti.
And my jaw drops. "What are you—"
"No."
"'No'? What does 'no' mean?"
"No, you can't quit." He dumps the pieces into his wastebasket. "I don't accept."
"You don't accept?" I want to tear my hair out, because what he's saying makes no sense. "Are you actually insane? That's not how resignation works, Andrew. You can't just—"
"Watch me." He crosses his arms over his chest. "You'll honor the terms of the contract you signed, and that's final."
"Or what? You'll sue me?" I'm vibrating with rage now. Absolutely fuming, frothing-at-the-mouth feral. "Go ahead. Take the woman who makes sixty-eight grand a year to court.
I'm sure that'll do wonders for your reputation."
"My reputation can handle it." He stalks toward me until he's close enough to reach out and touch me if he chose to. His breath is minty, his cologne musky, his eyes bright and scathing. "Yours, on the other hand? Not so much. Good luck getting hired anywhere in Casmire hospitality after
walking out on Andrew Simon."
———Andrew Pov————
"Did you just—" Erica blinks, once, twice.
"Did you seriously just shred my resignation?"
"As always, nothing gets past you." The fluorescent lights catch the honey undertones in her skin, and there's a flush creeping up her neck that has nothing to do with embarrassment. It's pure, smoldering rage.
"Next thing I know, you'll be pointing out that I told you that you couldn't quit, either."
"You're insane." She says it as if she's just discovering this fact, like the past six years of working for me haven't provided ample evidence. "You're actually, certifiably insane. And evil. Did I mention evil? I think you might
be evil, too."
"Sticks and stones, Ms. Jones. You're not the first person to call me that, and somehow, I doubt you'll be the last."She snorts. "Color me surprised. You reap what you sow, though. Can't exactly get offended at being called evil when you're literally blackmailing me."
"I'm explaining the reality of the situation." I keep my tone level. It's a trick I learned years ago: The calmer you sound when delivering
devastating news, the more devastating it becomes. "Casmire hospitality is a small world. Everyone knows everyone. Word travels."
"So that's it? Work for you or don't work at all?"
"That's capitalism." I shrug. "Supply and demand."
She stares at me like I've just told her I eat babies for breakfast. Which, given her apparent delusions about my character, might actually be an improvement. She thinks I'm being cruel, but it's not that. This isn't personal—it's merely good business.
Project Olympus launches in three months, and losing Erica now would be catastrophic. She knows the specs inside and out, better than anybody else in the company without the last name Simon. She's also the only project manager I've had who's never once asked me to explain the same thing twice.
Do I enjoy watching her squirm? Perhaps more than I should. But that's not why I'm doing this. That's what I tell myself, anyway.
"This is all just completely batshit and—and—and wrong," she continues, running her hands through her hair until it stands up in angry little tufts. "There have to be laws against this kind of thing."
"Against what? Sharing my professional opinion about former employees who abandon major projects without notice?"
"I haven't abandoned anything! I've done everything you—"
"You've done the bare minimum required to avoid a lawsuit." I lean back against my desk, crossing my arms. "Project Olympus requires more than bare minimum, Jones. It requires someone who doesn't get their panties in a twist over a fucking pastry, too. Hurt feelings don't make money."
She spins around to face me, eyes bugging out of her head. "Panties? Pastries? You— For God's sake, you still think this is about my feelings?!"
"Isn't it?" I tilt my head, studying her. There's something else here, something beneath her surface anger that I can't quite identify. She keeps rubbing her temples like she has a headache, and there are dark circles under her eyes that weren't there last night.