The letter was just sitting there. White, innocent-looking, crisp enough to slice an ego in half. My name was on it. Neatly printed. Like it had been typed by a machine that knew my blood type and tax bracket.
Scarlett Farnsworth.
No "Miss", no warmth, just professional execution on premium stationery.
I didn’t open it right away. I stared at it like it might explode or ask for my passwords. Camille walked past with a smirk so sharp I could’ve used it to cut my employment status.
“He said you’d know what it’s about,” she said.
No follow-up. Just that. Like she’d just dropped off my fate in a f*****g envelope and moved on with her life.
I sat down slowly. Looked around. Everyone was typing like their keyboards were about to report them to HR. The energy in the office was tense, precis
