I stared at the screen.
The code. Of course.
Two-factor authentication. It went to my phone because I was the one who had set it up years ago. Because I was the one who made sure things were secure. Because I was the one who thought ahead.
I set the phone down.
Didn’t answer.
An hour later, it rang. Not a text this time. A call.
Greg.
I watched it vibrate across the table. Once, twice, three times. It stopped, then started again.
I picked it up on the fourth ring. Not because I felt like I owed him. Because I wanted to hear his voice.
“Denise,” he said immediately. No hello. “What are you doing?”
His tone wasn’t angry. Not yet. Confused.
“I’m stepping back,” I said.
There was a pause. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means I’m not handling your business anymore,” I said, calm, even.
“That’s not how this works,” he snapped.
I almost smiled at that. “That’s exactly how it works,” I said.
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Payroll’s stuck,” he said finally. “The system’s asking for a code.”
I didn’t answer right away.
He filled the silence. “Denise, people are going to be asking questions tomorrow.”
I could picture it. Mary at the office, sixty-two years old, been with us fifteen years, always early, always organized, the one who double-checked everything before it went out. Mary looking at her screen Monday morning, waiting for something that didn’t come.
My chest tightened.
“I know,” I said quietly.
“Then fix it,” he said.
There it was.
Not please. Not can you help? Just fix it. Like always.
I closed my eyes for a second. Saw Mary. Saw the office. Saw all the small ordinary things that ran because I made sure they did.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Yes, you can,” he shot back. “You’ve done it a hundred times.”
I opened my eyes. “No,” I said. “I’m not doing it anymore.”
The line went quiet.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Harder.
“You’re being vindictive,” he said.
That word hung there. Vindictive.
I let out a slow breath. “No,” I said. “I’m being done.”
