I don't know how to play the corporate game, Abalardo warned her, his voice rough. I don't know how to speak in board meetings. If you put me in front of those people, he jerked his thumb toward the hallway. I'm going to tell them exactly how stupid they are. Chia's smile widened, her eyes flashing with a predatory brilliance.
"Abalardo," she said softly. "That's exactly what I'm paying you to do. " The transition from poverty to wealth didn't happen with a cinematic montage. It happened in the quiet, jarring absences of panic. Abalardo walked out of the glass tower that Monday afternoon with a signed contract in his pocket and a corporate credit card that felt unnaturally heavy in his wallet. He didn't buy a sports car.
He didn't go to a steakhouse. He took the cross town bus back to his neighborhood, walked into the cramped fluorescent lit discount shoe store on Fifth Avenue, and bought Melissa two pairs of boots. He bought the ones with the thickest tread, the ones with the absurd pink faux fur lining that she always stared at, but he could never afford. Then he walked to the landlord's office, a dingy room smelling of stale cigar smoke, and paid 3 months of rent in advance. When he finally got home, he sat on the faded blue couch, staring at the receipts.
His chest, which had been locked in a tight, suffocating vice for 6 years, slowly began to loosen. The relief was so absolute it made him physically nauseous. One week later, Abalardo returned to Sector 4. He didn't take the company town car. He drove a modest, reliable sedan that came with the job, parking in the executive space near the loading docks.
He wore a decent suit, not a bespoke charcoal armor like Chia's, but a solid dark gray two-piece that fit his broad shoulders. He left the tie in his pocket in the warehouse floor was exactly as he had left it, a cavernous, deafening cathedral of raw commerce. Forklifts screamed in reverse, conveyor belts rattled with a million cardboard boxes, and the air tasted of diesel exhaust and damp corrugated paper. He bypassed the executive staircase and walked straight onto the floor. "Hey, hard hat area suit. " A voice barked from the loading dock.
Abalardo turned. It was Greg, the floor manager, a man who had spent the last five years making Abalardo's life a living hell over minor rooting infractions. Greg held a clipboard, his face flushed with the permanent anger of middle management. As Greg marched over, ready to dress down a corporate interloper, his eyes locked onto Abalardo's face. He stopped dead.
"We Greg blinked, looking at the suit, then at Abalardo's face, then back at the suit. What the hell are you wearing? HR said you quit. You can't just walk in here. I didn't quit, Greg.
Abalardo said, his voice carrying easily over the roar of a passing pallet jack. I got promoted. Promoted to what? Floor lead. Director of ground operations for the eastern seabboard, Avalardo said flatly.
Greg let out a short barking laugh. Yeah, right. And I'm the pope. Get off the floor web before I call security. Abalardo reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his new executive badge, solid black with gold lettering, and handed it to Greg.
Greg stared at it. The color slowly drained from his face, leaving him a modeled sickly gray. "You cut the hazard pay two years ago," Abelardo said, keeping his tone conversational, devoid of malice, but heavily weighted with fact. You told the board it was because injury rates were down, but you actually just reclassified sprains and fractures as off-site incidents so they wouldn't hit your quarterly safety metrics. I uh that was a directive from regional.