Chapter Two

When I joined the company, I used my mother's surname.

Five years ago I had a fight with my father, over something childish: I wanted to make it on my own. I didn't want his help as the group's president.

So I started at the very bottom of Luxe Crossroads as an operations assistant. Nobody knew which conglomerate owned the company, and nobody knew who I was.

The next year, I became the youngest team lead in the company.

Over the four years after that, my team won Best Team of the Year three times.

My stock options doubled. I hadn't needed money for a long time.

I kept pushing myself half to win that argument with my father, and half because the people on my team had families to feed.

Now the second half was gone.

Before I left that day, I posted a notice in the team channel:

"In support of the company's work-life balance initiative, effective immediately this team will no longer work overtime. Everyone leaves at six. Overtime meal allowance and late-night taxi reimbursement are discontinued as well."

The channel went quiet for a few seconds.

Then the whole floor cheered.

"I can finally make my seven o'clock yoga class!"

"I can pick up my kid myself today!"

Everyone packed up fast. By 5:59 they were lined up at the security gate.

Only Liam was still sitting there.

"I haven't finished my weekly report."

His weekly report, I knew, took an hour. But he could always stretch it to nine.

Meals after nine were reimbursable. Ubers after ten were reimbursable.

I never called it out before.

We all have families to feed, and the work got done. I was willing to eat Finance's dirty looks for him.

Not anymore.

I smiled at him. "Work never runs out. If you don't finish today, finish tomorrow. But the deadline doesn't move. Be a little more efficient next time."

Liam's mouth moved. In the end he said nothing, swiped his badge with a dark face, and left.

Two days into the new rules, the air on the floor had visibly lightened.

On the third afternoon, Nora pushed my door open without knocking.

"My kid's sick, there's nobody at home to watch him. I'm not coming in Thursday and Friday — move me to the weekend."

For two months now, her kid had gotten sick roughly once a week.

But on her Instagram, Thursday night was a house party and Friday afternoon was a manicure.

I didn't ask. I just said, "Put in a leave request in the system."

Her brow furrowed. "Before, I just had to tell you."

"Before was before," I said. "Since everyone wants to leave on time now, moving shifts around on a word is unfair to everyone else. From now on it goes through personal leave, and pay gets docked per company policy."

Nora's face dropped. She didn't say a word. She turned and slammed the door.

Outside, the floor went abruptly silent. Nothing left but the clatter of keyboards.

I didn't need to look to know the channel was lively again.

I didn't look, and I didn't care.

There was one week left before the monthly proposal showdown with Team Two.

Chloe cracked first. She came in hugging her tablet. "Morgan, the showdown's next week — what are you assigning me this time?"

I shrugged. "We're not entering this time. The company's been promoting a no-rat-race culture lately. Do your job, that's enough."

Her eyes went wide. "Not entering? What about the bonus?"

The showdown is a company thing, meant to encourage healthy competition. The winning team gets five hundred dollars each. The losers still get three hundred.

Don't enter, get nothing.

I rubbed my temples and sighed. "Every showdown means late nights. It's too much. To lighten everyone's load, we're not signing up for these anymore."

Once a month. Over a year, that's thousands of dollars.

The row of people outside with their ears pricked up could no longer sit still.