20. JAKE

"What does he want?" Patel asks me.

"I don't know." Deciding I don't want to deal with her constant sniffling, I steal a box of tissues from someone's desk and throw it to her.

She catches it and uses one to wipe her nose. Then she chucks the box back at me, and I put it down on someone else's desk.

"You said he looked mad?" she says. "Why?"

"How would I know?" Her nose is red. Did she take her allergy pill with food? My brother Evan uses the same one. It has to be taken with food. "Did you eat?"

"What? How is that relevant? I'm asking if you know anything about Mr.Davies' mood."

"No clue."

She vocally grumbles as we stride into his office. Three out of four walls are made of glass. It doubles at telling his staff anyone is welcome to come inside, but also makes the inside run hotter than the rest of the floor, which Mr.Davies enjoys. There's a sitting-in-front-of-a-fireplace quality he gets without having to install an actual fireplace. Two seats in butterscotch leather face an oak slab of a desk. On it, freshly plucked flowers from his wife are the brightest spot of color amongst charcoals, browns, and burgundies.

Mr.Davies is waiting for us, and he is still not humming. "Have a seat."

Patel and I glance at each other. We sit.

Before Mr.Davies can speak, there is a knock on the door. A young woman in a wheelchair rolls inside. Her hair is the color of an eggplant and tattooed flowers bloom along her arms.

"This is Fi from IT," says Mr. Davies, "Fi, please explain what you found."

Her fingers fidget as she scans our faces. "There's a discrepancy… um… between the contracts signed… and those entered into the system."

Patel and I simultaneously stiffen.

"Thank you, Fi," says Mr. Davies. "You may go."

She hurriedly leaves, and all you hear is the loud thud of the door shutting. I sneak a glance at Patel. She looks guilty as fuck, and that's when I realize the implications. It's not only me that's been caught. She's also not been entering her clients in the system.

Fuck!

My fingers clench. How many has she gotten? What's her portfolio really at?

"I've had an otherwise good day, so I'm not going to yell right now. But you both have to enter all your clients into the system and never do this again," says Mr.Davies, indignation making his voice sharper than ever. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"It's not," squeaks out Patel. She looks as if she's about to fall off her chair.

"Reema," he says. "I want you logging off as soon as those clients are entered, and I want you to enjoy your sister's wedding. I know it's at the same time as our year-end, but you picked the vacation time, not me."

"I can work between events," she tries to argue.

"Fi is going to revoke your access for all of next week. Actually, that's going to be the new policy going forward. Any employee on vacation will not have access to the software they need to recruit clients. No quoting technology, no access to contracts, or any database help."

"Mr.Davies"—she jerks up higher in her chair—"that's not necessary."

"It is. Take time away to relax. I'll be warning everyone in the office not to contact you about anything work-related." He looks at me. "And don't think I won't be watching you. If you try to circumvent the process again?—"

"That won't be a problem."

Mr.Davies frowns. "Maybe I shouldn't have done this bonus program. The leadership course I took went on about incentivizing, but it's clear both of you aren't competing properly."

"It won't happen again," I say, trying to keep my voice even.

"I'm on the same page," adds Patel. "You won't have to worry about us! Not again."

Her hands grip her chair so tightly that knuckles are white. I can't look away.

"Jake?"

Forcing my eyes away, I look at Mr.Davies. "She's… right. It was a momentary lapse of judgement. Won't happen again. Taking the bonus program away after our team has worked so hard with it in mind isn't going to be good for morale."

"Lucky for you, I'm not backing out. But—" He glares at us. "If I find out either of you are withholding clients again, I'm taking you out of the running for the bonus and using some of the money to buy a pinball machine for the office."

"Nobody wants pinball," Patel whispers. "It would be so annoying in an office setting."

"Good. You don't want us to suffer. Now go back to your desks and input everything before leaving for the day. I mean it. Everything."

Outside his office, I jab a finger at Patel. "You cheated."

"You cheated," she retorts, jabbing her finger back at me.

"How much?" I ask. It can't be more than twenty-eight million.

"I guess we'll have to see." She sounds as unsure as I feel.

"You're not going to win," I warn her.

She can't.

"The bonus is mine," she insists with new desperation.

The rest of the day is spent on data entry. Every few minutes, we watch the numbers on the scoreboard. They rise in value as we enter the clients we've been stockpiling.

Tension thickens the air. You could choke on it.

This decides everything.