Chapter 4

Finn called me into his office, his face dark as a storm.

"Ms. Pruitt, what's going on with Mr. Chavez? Can Max actually handle this or not?"

I played innocent, even letting a flicker of surprise cross my face, just enough.

"Mr. Chavez? What about him? Is he adding to his year-end order?"

"Adding my ass!" Finn's voice cracked with rage.

"He called to complain! Said that new kid, Max, is treating this like a joke!"

"Can't even keep his own client's basic product specs straight."

"The quote he sent over—price, model number, delivery date, all wrong!"

"Mr. Chavez said if it weren't for the years he's worked with you, he'd be switching suppliers right now!"

Inside I was grinning ear to ear, but my face wore the pained, heartsick look of someone who couldn't believe it.

"Mr. Lambert, please, calm down. Max, he... he's really been trying. Truly."

I sighed, my tone all protectiveness for the younger generation.

"He probably just took over and doesn't know the account well yet. Too eager to prove himself, made a few mistakes in the rush."

"He's young. Everyone pays their dues learning the ropes. We should give him a little more time and patience."

"Pays his dues?" Finn laughed, furious.

"Mr. Chavez's account runs over ten million a year! Who's going to cover those dues? You? Me?"

Right then the office door flew open.

Max stumbled in, reeking of liquor, his tie hanging crooked around his neck, hair a mess, his face white as paper.

The second he saw me, his eyes turned into knives dipped in poison.

But he had no time for me now.

He lunged at Finn's desk, his voice shaking like a leaf.

"Mr. Lambert... boss..."

"Mr.—Mr. Chavez's side. Something's gone very wrong."

I folded my arms at my leisure, leaning against the wall by the door, a cold curve tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Max's lips were bloodless. He stammered it out.

"Mr. Chavez said... said that last batch of samples we rushed over to him, they don't pass inspection at all!"

"He had a third-party lab test them, says we cut corners, passed off cheap junk as the real thing!"

"Now... now he's not just canceling every order this year, he's coming after us for triple damages under the contract!"

Crack.

Finn shot up out of his chair, the force sending it rolling back until it hit the wall with a dull thud.

His eyes were bloodshot, like a raging bull's, and he jabbed a finger at Max's nose and roared:

"Doesn't pass? How could it not pass?"

"We used the best materials we've got. You inspected everything yourself before it left the plant, didn't you?"

The shout drove Max back a full step, nearly buckling his knees.

"I... I..." he mumbled, eyes darting away.

"To... to make Mr. Chavez's deadline, and thinking I could... save the company a little money..."

"I... I found a contract factory that was cheaper..."

"You idiot!"

Finn lost it completely, snatched the heavy contract binder off his desk and hurled it at Max with everything he had.

The binder grazed past Max's ear and slammed into the wall behind him, papers scattering across the floor.

"Who the hell told you to swap in your own factory?!"

"Do you have any idea how strict Mr. Chavez is about quality? You treated everything I said like noise?"

I stood off to the side, watching this dogfight play out, so close to laughing out loud.

That so-called cheap contract factory—I'd heard of it long ago.

An industry-famous scrap heap, specializing in knockoffs made from garbage materials.

Their prices were criminally low, and so was their quality.

In my last life, Max had once pitched me this very factory, wanting to switch to it to cut costs and boost margins.

I'd shot it down hard on the spot, and chewed him out over it besides.

Who would have thought.

Now with no one holding him back, hungry for a win, desperate to show he could save the company money—

he'd walked straight into the pit I'd dug for him, no hesitation at all.

"Mr. Lambert, now isn't the time to be losing your temper."

I finally spoke, unhurried, breaking the suffocating air in the office.

"The urgent thing is to find a way to fix this, fast."

My voice wasn't loud, but Finn grabbed onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.

His head snapped toward me, and he looked at me with something close to pleading.

"Emily! Yes! Emily!"

"You've always run this client! You've got the best relationship with Mr. Chavez!"

"Hurry, go explain things to him, put in a good word for the company, see if he'll give us some room?"

I sighed, spreading my hands like it was out of my control.

"Mr. Lambert, first—a few days ago when I handed the client over to Max, you nodded it through."

"To help him work independently, he already kicked me out of every client group chat."

"Mr. Chavez probably won't even pick up my call now."

"Second," I paused, looking at Max, whose face had already gone the gray of ash.

"The breach penalty... is no small number."

"How—how much?" Finn's voice was trembling.

I held up three fingers and said flatly:

"Per the contract, Mr. Chavez's account totals ten million. Triple penalty, that's three million."

"And that's just Mr. Chavez alone."

"If word of this gets out, Mr. Finch and Janet on their end..."

I didn't finish, but the meaning was clear enough.

Thump.

Finn's legs gave out and he dropped straight to the floor, sitting there a long while without getting up.

Three million!

For a company our size, that was absolutely the last straw that would break the camel's back!

"No! This isn't my fault!"

Max suddenly shrieked like he'd gone mad, pointing at me, his face twisted.

"Mr. Lambert! You can't pin this all on me! It's her! Emily set me up!"

"When she handed over the account, she left out on purpose that Mr. Chavez had a required contract factory! She just wanted to watch me fall flat!"

"And! And that factory—I heard she used to scout it out herself!"

"She planted the trail on purpose, to bait me into it!"

I looked at him coldly, like watching a clown thrashing around.

"Max, when you talk, do it with a conscience—and with evidence."

"First, on the handover checklist, the requirement to use the designated A-grade supplier is right there in black and white, bolded and marked in red, spelled out plain as day."

"And underneath it, your own signature."

"Want me to have admin bring the original over to jog your memory?"

"Second, you say I contacted that factory? Where's the proof? Call logs? Emails? Text messages?"

"Produce one—just one—and I, Emily Pruitt, will take full responsibility on the spot and clear out of this company."