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Wayne Vincent has been my boss for the last decade, ever since I graduated from NYU.

He was the one who hired me. Everything I know about marketing, I owe to Wayne. He taught me how to develop a campaign. He taught me how to organize a budget. He taught me how to analyze the competition and the market. In the time I’ve known him, he’s gone through two wives, gained and lost about forty pounds, and together, we have consumed the equivalent of a truckload of alcohol.

And right now, he looks pissed .

He is sitting behind his mahogany desk—about fifty percent larger than mine—and he glowers at me as I enter the room. When I hesitate in the doorway, he points a single finger at the chair in front of his desk and barks, “ Sit .”

I don’t know what this is about. I’ve had this job for one week, and I’m doing it well. No, I’m doing it great . So whatever this is, it’s bullshit. I feel my hackles rise preemptively.

But even if he’s wrong, he’s still my boss, so I lower myself onto the cushion of the chair in front of him. “Everything okay, Wayne?”

He folds his beefy arms across his barrel chest, only partially concealed by the expensive suit he’s wearing. “You tell me, Porter.”

He called me by my last name. He never calls me by my last name.

“I’m on track with the Clemente campaign,” I say. “I’ll have a mock-up by Friday. Thursday, if you need it.” I can get it done a day early. Who needs sleep?

Then he says something that shocks me: “You shared the Henderson campaign.”

“I… What?”

His scalp turns pink under his receded hairline. “You showed our campaign— everything —to our competitors. You let them steal it from us, you thieving asshole.”

What? My mouth falls open. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know you did it, Blake.” His jaw ticks. “All I want to know is who the contact was and how much they paid you.”

“Wayne…”

“ How much , Porter?”

“Wayne.” A misunderstanding—that’s all this is. I clear my throat. “I swear to you, I would never—”

“Bullshit.” A fleck of his spit hits me in the face with this enunciated word. “You’re fired, Porter. Pack up your office and get out.”

What?

“Wayne!” I leap out of my seat, my heart jackhammering in my chest. “You can’t possibly think I would do something like that to the company—to you. I don’t know why you think I would—”

“I said, get out .”

I can tell from the sneer on his face that this isn’t some kind of elaborate joke. Nobody is going to jump out of the closet with a surprise cake to congratulate me on my promotion. He is dead serious. He wants me out. After a decade of loyal service, I’m fired . Just like that.

A cold sweat breaks out under my armpits. “Can we please discuss this?”

“Get. Out.” He picks up the receiver on his desk, his other hand punching numbers on the keypad. “I’m calling security to escort you from the building.”

This is really happening. I’ve lost not only my promotion but my job . What the hell is going on? This has got to be some sort of misunderstanding.

“Okay.” I hold up my hands. “I’ll go, but…maybe we can discuss this later.”

The look on Wayne’s face indicates we will never discuss this ever again. “Just get out. And forget about a severance package after what you pulled. Don’t even think about applying for unemployment. I’ll prosecute you for theft, you piece of shit.”

I can only shake my head, unable to conjure up the words to respond to that.

Even though it’s six in the evening, practically everyone is still at the office, and all of them just heard every word of what happened. I pass Stacie’s desk on the way out, and once again, she won’t look at me.

“Stacie,” I say.

“Sorry, Blake,” she mumbles, not lifting her eyes from her computer screen. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Okay, so that’s how it’s going to be. Well, to hell with them all. I’ll find a job ten times better than this one.

I make the walk of shame back to my office while my coworkers buzz about me from ten feet away. Chad Pickering will be the happiest of all—he thought the VP promotion was his before I snagged it. But he won’t be the only one celebrating.

What can I say? If you want to get ahead, you have to make a few enemies.

When I get back to the office, my office, I realize there’s very little I’ll be able to take with me. The framed photo of Krista. The pen my grandpa bought me as a graduation gift—he was so proud that I was the first in our family to ever finish college.

And I’m sure I can take the nameplate that says Blake Porter, Vice President . Nobody here has any use for that.

Impulsively, I snatch the nameplate off my desk and hurl it at the wall with so much force that it dents the paint. The nameplate falls to the floor, fractured in half. The office has gone completely silent, watching my little performance. Fine—let them watch. At least I didn’t break my hand punching the wall like that dumbass Craig Silverton did after he lost the Roberts account.

I walk over to the window to get one last look. I lean my forehead against the cool glass, not caring anymore about smudges.

And for the first time, I understand my predecessor. Because I wouldn’t mind if this glass broke and sent me plummeting to my death 350 feet below.