Chapter 3: The Showdown

Robert Jennings was humming to himself, pruning the leafy pothos on his desk. He looked completely at ease.

He looked like he belonged on a magazine cover: sleeves rolled up, gold watch glinting under the track lighting, acting like the world was already at his feet. His humming grated on my nerves—one of those classic, smug tunes from an old Sinatra album.

"Director Jennings, why did you suddenly transfer me? Did I do something wrong?"

I tried to keep my tone even, but I could hear the tremor sneaking in. I’d rehearsed this confrontation all the way down the hall, and now all I wanted was a straight answer.

He didn't even look up. "I'm promoting you from M4 to M5. What more do you want?"

His scissors snipped, his eyes glued to the plant. No respect, no real acknowledgment—like he was doing me a favor by even responding.

"Whether it's a promotion or exile, you know best, Director Jennings."

I could hear the bitterness in my own voice. The room smelled faintly of fresh potting soil and something chemical, like he’d just cleaned his desk for my arrival.

*Snip.*

The sound was sharp and final, as if he was severing more than just a plant.

Robert Jennings cut off the thickest branch of the plant.

The branch fell into the trash with a quiet thud. For some reason, it reminded me of being trimmed away—discarded, no longer necessary.

"On my team, everyone has to be on the same page. No room for dissenters or slackers."

His eyes flickered up, cold and steady. The implication was clear: ask questions, challenge his plan, and you’re out. No second chances.

I suddenly remembered the morning meeting.

The memory flashed vivid—coffee cups in hand, people half awake, and Robert Jennings at the head of the table, speaking with the unearned confidence of a reality TV contestant.

Robert Jennings had declared, full of confidence, that he'd made a bold promise to the CEO: within six months, he'd unveil Sentinel Motors' first concept car, directly taking on Tesla.

You could almost hear the collective gasp around the table. Some folks started scribbling in their notebooks, others exchanged worried glances. Tesla was a giant, and six months was a joke.

I immediately objected. "How is that possible?"

I hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but it slipped, louder than I intended. The tension in the room went up a notch.

The R&D cycle for a new car is usually two to three years.

Anyone who’d spent time in Detroit or even watched enough episodes of those car restoration shows on TV knew that building a car wasn’t like throwing together a science fair project.

From what I know about Sentinel, even at top speed, it would take at least a year and a half.

Our best engineers worked late every night, and even they couldn’t dream of hitting that deadline. Everyone in the room was thinking it, but I was the only one who said it.

Robert Jennings wanted a car in six months. That was pure fantasy.

It was Silicon Valley hype with none of the reality. A half-baked plan, destined to burn out and take the rest of us with it.

My skepticism made Robert Jennings very unhappy.

He shot me a look that could freeze boiling water. I knew then my number was up.

"Other people build cars from scratch, but not us. Sentinel has been working on autonomous driving for ten years, plus we have partnerships with established car companies, existing architecture, factories—all ready to go. Why can't we build a car in six months?"

He laid it out like it was the world’s simplest math equation. His voice got louder, and a few people actually nodded along, either convinced or just trying to keep their jobs.

He said with pride, "My style is to leave myself no way out. That's why Rachel chose me to lead this business."

Rachel—the CEO. I heard Robert Jennings and the CEO were classmates back in grad school.

The grapevine said their bond ran deep—shared secrets from late-night study sessions, maybe even a few skeletons in the closet. Connections like that don’t just open doors, they kick them off the hinges.

With that connection, he swaggered in on his first day, looking down on everyone.

He carried himself like he owned the building. You could tell by the way people avoided eye contact in the break room, suddenly remembering urgent emails when he walked by.

My thoughts spun. A million angry thoughts stampeded through my mind.

I felt my jaw clench, fists balled at my sides. So this was it—ten years down the drain, all for speaking the truth.