Chapter 3

On Monday morning, when I arrived at the office,

I discovered that the luxury skincare trial set—sent over by an upscale client for packaging test runs—was missing from my desk.

I tore my workstation apart, but found nothing.

I asked the cleaning lady, who swore she hadn't touched my desk all weekend.

As I was wondering what happened, Hailey from marketing walked over and nudged my shoulder, looking mischievous.

"Lauren, is that new intern in your department seriously hurting for cash?"

I looked up.

"What makes you say that?"

Hailey unlocked her phone and pulled up a local campus SnapChat resale group called Local Deals & Quick Flips.

"She invited me to this group over the weekend, saying she needed cash for living expenses."

"Take a look at what she's listing. Ring any bells?"

I leaned in, and my blood immediately began to boil.

The most recent listing in the chat:

[Brand-New Luxury Skincare Trial Set, unopened. Received as a gift from my boss, selling cheap for $500.]

I scrolled up.

[Full Box of Premium Copy Paper, $80.]

[Imported Whole Bean Coffee, unopened, $200.]

[Heavy-Duty Heavy Office Stapler, $20.]

Unbelievable. She was using the company supply closet as her personal dropshipping warehouse.

I took screenshots of every single listing and saved them to my phone.

Before I could even confront her, the door to Mark's private office flew open.

"Lauren. Inside. Now."

Surprised, I followed him in. Mark’s face was dark as a thundercloud.

"Lauren, explain to me what the hell this is."

I looked down. Sitting on his desk was the sample lookbook I had sent to our major client, Sterling Development, last week.

Tucked right inside the very first page was a folded, handwritten invoice.

[Color prints $2, B&W 50¢, binding $10... Total: $380. PayPal or cash accepted. No credit.]

My mind buzzed.

It was the exact note Chloe had stuck to my computer screen that morning!

Mark fought to keep his voice down.

"The client’s VP called me first thing this morning asking if our agency was on the verge of bankruptcy!"

"Asking why we slipped a petty $380 printing bill into a multi-million-dollar presentation deck, hinting they should reimburse us!"

"Lauren, you’re a senior team member! How could you make such a rookie, embarrassing mistake?"

I was caught totally off guard.

After binding the lookbook last week, I had left it on my desk, planning to call a courier.

Chloe had walked over, sweetly offering to drop it at the mailroom since she was heading down anyway.

Looking at her unmistakable handwriting on that slip, everything clicked.

"Mark, I didn't write this bill. It was—"

"Enough!" Mark cut me off sharply.

"I don't care whose handwriting it is! This was your account, which makes it your responsibility."

"Sterling Development is furious. They think we’re running a clown show."

"Your performance bonus for the month is docked by half. Fix this with the client immediately!"

I walked out of Mark's office, swallowing the burning lump in my throat.

I glanced across the room. Chloe was sitting at her desk, sipping an iced boba tea, secretly watching me through the corner of her eye.

I walked back to my seat without a word.

Going over there to scream at her right now would only backfire; she’d turn on the waterworks, accuse me of bullying, and claim I was passing the buck.

With someone this manipulative, without ironclad proof, she would always wiggle out.

That afternoon, the HR and Operations department sent a company-wide email:

[Office supply consumption has surged abnormally over the past few weeks. Starting today, all supply requests require manager approval and log tracking.]

Dave read the email and groaned out loud.

"Admin is losing their minds. We have to log into a portal just to grab a damn ballpoint pen?"

Chloe chimed in instantly.

"Right? This company pulls in millions, and they're crying over a few pens and reams of paper?"

"The executives make bank, yet they treat employees like cheap labor."

I ignored her commentary and silently opened the SnapChat resale group Hailey had shared.

Chloe’s account had just posted a new update:

[Offering discounted courier shipping services! Corporate internal corporate rates, cheapest in town.]

I stared at the post for two seconds, and a sudden thought hit me like a train.

On Friday night at the omakase place, Mark had paid $5,000.

The remaining $8,600 had come directly out of our own pockets.

When we paid... who did the restaurant issue the official tax receipt to?

I immediately stepped into the stairwell and dialed the restaurant's number.