Chapter 2: When $200 Breaks You

A month earlier...

When I received a $200 year-end bonus, I thought it was a joke.

I sat at my desk, the envelope staring up at me like a dare. No name—just "Sales Director" printed in bold. I ripped it open, expecting at least four digits, maybe five. Instead: two hundred bucks. I blinked, waiting for the decimal to shift. It didn’t. The number blared up at me: $200. My hands started to shake, a cocktail of rage and disbelief flooding my veins. My vision blurred, and I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity. Was this a prank?

A sales director at a company hauling in tens of millions, and my bonus couldn’t even cover a steak dinner downtown. Ridiculous didn’t even start to cover it.

I looked around. The other managers in their glass boxes were opening envelopes too—faces draining pale, lips pressed tight. I’d bled for this company: late nights, coach flights to nowhere, cold takeout at midnight. And for what? A tip.

And we’d just closed a five-million-dollar project, right before Christmas.

I flashed back to that week: the 2 a.m. calls, the never-ending spreadsheets, the adrenaline that fueled our hallway high-fives. Grocery store cupcakes and paper plates in the conference room—that was our reward. We believed the real one would come. We were wrong.

I stormed toward the finance office.

My heart thundered as I took the stairs two at a time, dress shoes squeaking on linoleum. I felt like a soldier heading into battle—or maybe a fool. At the doorway, I caught voices:

"How many times do I have to say it? You’re just employees. My brother’s the boss, so get used to it."

I flattened against the wall. Cathy’s voice was sharp as broken glass. I pictured her behind her fortress of spreadsheets, lips tight, pen twitching in her hand. The burnt-coffee smell from the kitchenette drifted down the hall, lights buzzing overhead.

Brian from IT fired back, his voice shaking with anger. "Without us, would the company even be here?"

Cathy’s reply was ice: "The company gave you this chance. You should be grateful."

"Cathy, that’s too much! We’re just fighting for what we deserve."

A nervous laugh, Tara’s soft, "Exactly!" The air vibrated with resentment and exhaustion. These people were my team—late-night pizza, mutual panic before audits, inside jokes. Now, they sounded like strangers.

Cathy’s words landed like a slap: "All you think about is your own gain. You act like servants on the outside, but bosses on the inside."

Sam snorted, breaking the tension. My fists ached, knuckles white. I stepped in.

Inside was chaos—papers everywhere, Brian’s face flushed, Cathy pointing her pen like a dagger. The rest of the team was caught between jumping in or ducking out.

I squeezed between them, arms out. "Everyone, breathe. This isn’t helping." My voice was steady, but my heart pounded. The air felt thick, stifling.

Suddenly, Cathy’s nails slashed across my forehead.

I jerked back, more shocked than hurt. The room froze. My palm pressed to my brow—warm, sticky blood. The sting was sharp, and for a heartbeat, nobody moved.

"Oh my god, Alex, you’re bleeding! Somebody get something—quick!"

Tara’s voice snapped everyone out of it. Phones flashed, someone shoved tissues at me, and Sam made a show of snapping a photo: "For evidence!" Brian handed me a water bottle to press on the cut, his hands shaking. For a moment, panic and laughter tangled together. It was a mess, but it was real.