Chapter 4

Wayne caught me in the breakroom later that afternoon.

Holding his mug, he leaned against the doorframe, looking me up and down.

"Enjoying your coffee all by yourself, Supervisor Evelyn?"

I ignored him, refilling my water bottle.

He sauntered over, leaning in close.

"I checked online last night. That Wacom tablet runs for over two grand on Amazon. Add the check and the grant, and I cleared five grand in cash and prizes."

He chuckled darkly. "I really ought to thank you. If you hadn't put up such a fight, Marcus never would have gone out of his way to champion me."

I screwed the cap onto my bottle. "Nothing to do with me."

He laughed in my face. "The harder you pushed back, the more Marcus wanted to play the hero! Aren't you feeling stupid now? You tried to play the tough boss, and what did it get you?"

I looked at him. "Are you done?"

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

"You want to know why you're such a miserable failure in life? Mid-thirties, no husband, no prospects, not even a casual date. You're a rigid robot at work and completely pathetic at home. You're just jealous of me. Jealous that I have a brilliant son, jealous that my performance reviews crush yours."

I looked at him and let out a quiet laugh.

"Wayne, your son has leukemia, yet you treat him like a prop to scam prize money. You're a disgusting excuse for a father."

His smirk vanished.

"What did you just say?"

"I said you're monetizing your own child's illness, and you're actually proud of it." I held his gaze. "If you actually gave a damn about that boy, you wouldn't parade a stolen piece of art around to boost your own fragile ego."

Wayne’s face flushed crimson, his lips trembling with rage. "You... how dare you accuse me of stealing! Where's your proof, huh? Where is it?!"

I picked up my bottle and headed for the exit. "Watch your back, Wayne."

He bolted out after me, his voice reaching a shrill, hysterical pitch: "Supervisor Evelyn! Don't you dare walk away from me!"

I kept walking.

Desperate, he threw his hands in the air and started screaming down the open office hallway.

"Everyone, look at this! Look at how she treats people!"

"Supervisor Evelyn was jealous of my boy's talent, tried to sabotage his painting, and now she’s spreading rumors that we plagiarized it!"

"She even demanded I hand over half the prize money as a 'curator cut,' and when I refused, she threatened my job!"

Typing ceased across the entire floor. Heads popped up from every cubicle.

Wayne’s eyes flooded with instant tears, his voice breaking into theatrical sobs.

"Do you know how hard it is being a single father?!"

"My son is hooked up to chemotherapy machines right now, and she demands a cut of his prize money? Saying 'we all need a piece of the pie'?!"

Whispers broke out like wildfire.

"No way... Evelyn did that?"

"Well, she did try to block the kid's painting yesterday..."

"Bitter single woman syndrome. That's genuinely sick."

I stopped, turning around to face him.

Wayne dropped to his knees, clutching his face in agonized sobs.

"Evelyn, I know you're miserable being alone, but how can you be this cruel?! My son's drawing was my only source of hope right now, and you call him a thief... Are you trying to drive me to suicide?!"

Dozens of eyes bored into me—some dripping with disgust, some with pity, others sparkling with malicious workplace gossip.

I watched his entire performance without blinking, then spoke in a clear, level voice:

"If I'm truly that vile, then I resign."

Wayne choked on his tears, totally caught off guard.

My coworkers exchanged stunned, wide-eyed glances.

I picked up my mug and walked back to my desk.

By ten o'clock the following morning, I had just finished typing up my formal resignation letter when my desk phone rang.

Five minutes later, a young man with shoulder-length hair and a heavy backpack was escorted to my desk. He held an iPad, his face stormy.

"Hi. My name is Oliver Chase."

He shoved the iPad screen in front of my face. "This artwork, currently credited to a 'Leo Miller' in your company's marketing campaign, was created by me three years ago."

I stood up, offering him a calm smile.

Without a second of hesitation, I said, "Follow me. I’ll take you straight to the CEO."

We walked up to the executive suite. The CEO's door was cracked open.

Through the gap, I could hear Greg laughing: "...we should definitely nominate Marcus for Manager of the Year after this charity stunt..."

I knocked sharply.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open, stepping aside so Oliver could enter first.

"Mr. Sterling, this is Oliver Chase. He is the original artist of "My Little Puppy", and he is here to enforce his copyright."