No More Handyman: His Last Stand

ho usually greeted me with a cheerful "Good morning, Sean!" suddenly couldn't meet my eyes. My project man

s wrong. Ter

cally built the company from. I had spent countless nights in there, f

dead in th

money on. He had his feet, clad in ridiculous snakeskin boots, propped up

aid "Sean - Lead Software Engineer," was

lan - Creati

before, washed over me. This wasn't just disr

asked, my voice

playing on his lips. "Oh, hey, Sean. Didn't you get the

nd me, her expression a careful m

talk in the co

Dylan. "We can talk right here. Wha

e anymore, Sean. It's Dylan's. He's the new Creative Director. H

use a smartphone without asking me for help. He has no experienc

esh perspective, an artistic vision that this company desperately need

e, to put me back in my place. But they di

e?" I asked, though I

e. "You're great with the technical details, and he needs someo

lown's assistant. After everything I had done.

ds I'd won in college-were gone from the shelves. I spotted them piled in a dusty cardboard box in the corner, next to the tras

the fin

a cold, hard resolve. I reached into my back

first one to

pected this. She thought I would just take it, that I would swallow my p

n't be so

aid salary and 1,840 hours of unpaid overtime. The total is eighty-seven thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars. I h

k you're worth that much? You're just a code

rittany. Her face had gone pale. She knew I w

see the money, this invoice, along with all my documentation, goes directly to a labor lawyer. And I'm sure the tech blogs and your new i

ed into my pocket an

also be interested

lowed by hers and Dylan's, filled

ssistant... great with

orth that much? You're

in my hand as if it were a snake. The mask of professiona

ding this?" s

-eight hours, Brittany

and walked out of the office, leaving her standing there