He stepped closer.
“Yes, Sebastian. You were supposed to keep driving. You had a responsibility here. You had a team depending on you. You had clients waiting. We are not a charity. We are a business.”
My ears started ringing.
I’d worked at that agency for almost three years.
I had taken late calls, skipped lunches, stayed weekends, saved bad campaigns, soothed angry customers, trained new hires, pulled numbers out of thin air when nobody else could.
I’d been the first one in and the last one out so many times that the cleaning crew knew my daughters’ names.
And now I was being told I should have left a stranger on the side of the road because a pitch mattered more.
“Nick,” I said, and I heard my own voice shake. “I have given everything to this place.”
He didn’t even blink.
“I don’t care,” he said. “Clean out your things. You’re done here.”
I just stood there.
My brain refused to catch up.
A few people looked away.
A few looked at me with something like pity.
One of the account managers shifted in her seat and stared down at her keyboard as if the letters suddenly fascinated her.
Nobody said a word.
Nick nodded toward the hallway.
“That’s the end of it.”
I wish I could say I walked out with dignity.
I wish I could say I gave him some speech about loyalty and humanity and how one day he’d regret it.
What actually happened was uglier than that.
