Chapter 4: No Way Out

This director's mind is narrower than a soda straw.

I pictured him trying to fit all his big ideas through a cocktail straw, jammed up by his own ego.

Just because I raised a question in the meeting, that's enough to get me kicked out?

I replayed the conversation in my head—was I too blunt? Did I cross some invisible line? Or did he just need a scapegoat?

I said sincerely, "Director Jennings, I'm not trying to go against you. I just think six months is way too tight."

I kept my tone as even as possible, trying to find common ground. I could feel the weight of every eye on me, even if it was just the memory of the meeting.

Robert Jennings curled his lip.

He didn’t even try to hide his contempt. That little sneer—like he was smelling something rotten—made my blood boil.

"I looked at your resume. Turns out you're from a state college. For someone with your background, saying something so unprofessional isn't surprising."

It was right out of the worst kind of old-school corporate playbook: judge the person, not the work. In America, you hear about this kind of bias, but living it is something else entirely.

My mouth twitched.

I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. The urge to fire back was overwhelming.

What's wrong with state colleges? Did a state college grad steal your lunch?

I wanted to shout it, but I settled for a tight-lipped smile. My education was a point of pride—first in my family to graduate, let alone work in tech.

All these years, my contributions to the company are no less than anyone from an Ivy League school.

I’d pulled all-nighters, fixed code that others abandoned, and never once got credit for making the impossible work. My office wall was lined with certificates and thank-you notes, none of which meant anything to Jennings.

I've worked on autonomous driving here for a decade, just hoping to see my research become reality one day.

Every bit of progress, every late-night breakthrough, was driven by that hope. Now, watching it slip away hurt worse than any insult.

Now, just as the opportunity arrives, I'm tossed aside.

It was like running a marathon and being benched right before the finish line. I couldn’t believe how fast loyalty got you nowhere in corporate America.

How am I supposed to accept that?

I gripped the edge of the chair, willing myself not to explode. If I broke down now, I’d lose the last bit of dignity I had left.

I tried to fight for it one last time.

There was nothing left to lose. My voice was quiet, but I poured everything into it.

"Director Jennings, I've been with the company for ten years. Even if I haven't achieved much, I've worked hard. If you suddenly remove me from the team, others will definitely start to wonder."

I tried to appeal to his sense of logic, hoping he’d see the ripple effects on morale and productivity. The American way is to hustle, to earn your keep, and that’s exactly what I’d done.

He clicked his tongue impatiently. "Didn't I promote you? Otherwise, would someone like you even still be at Sentinel?"

That word again—"someone like you." I felt the room shrink, air thick with disdain. My hands curled into fists in my lap.

My anger flared.

It took every ounce of willpower not to shout. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, drowning out the hum of the building’s HVAC.

What do you mean, 'someone like me'? Did I rob a bank or burn your house down?

I wanted to say it out loud, but instead, I drew in a shaky breath, keeping my composure for just a moment longer.

I forced myself to stay calm. "Anyway, I don't accept this job transfer."

I said it as firmly as I could. Maybe a part of me hoped he’d see reason or at least offer some kind of compromise.

Robert Jennings ignored me and picked up the phone.

He didn’t even blink, didn’t acknowledge my protest. It was like talking to a wall—a wall with a Bluetooth headset glued to it.

"Sophia, come to my office. Now."

He barked the order, snapping his fingers like a bad sitcom boss. I rolled my eyes, but only after he turned away.

Five minutes later, HR showed up with a document.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly as we waited. I glanced out the window, half-hoping for a fire drill or some cosmic interruption. No luck.

"Here's your job transfer confirmation. Please sign it."

Sophia slid the paper across the desk, her expression carefully neutral. Her nail polish was chipped—probably from dealing with paperwork like this all week.

Of course I didn't sign.

The pen sat untouched on the table, the document a glaring insult. I folded my arms, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Whoever wants that crap job can have it.

Let some eager brown-noser chase steak dinners and airport lounges. I was done being their office punching bag.

Seeing I didn't react, HR raised her voice. "Company policy says if you turn down a reassignment, it’s considered quitting. We’ll have to process your exit paperwork today."

She sounded rehearsed, like she’d practiced this line in front of her bathroom mirror. The handbook was their Bible, but even scripture could be twisted.

What a load of nonsense.

In America, calling something "reasonable" doesn’t make it true. I felt my jaw clench, stifling a retort about what’s reasonable and what’s just petty revenge.

Having a technical supervisor do sales and socializing—is that a reasonable transfer?

I almost laughed. I’d spent years at whiteboards and in code reviews, not clinking glasses with hedge fund managers at Ruth’s Chris. It was a joke.

I protested. "Director Jennings, the project needs people right now. If I leave..."

My voice cracked a bit, the weight of the moment pressing down. The stakes weren’t just about me—everyone’s work was on the line.

Robert Jennings cut me off.

He raised a hand, silencing me before I could even finish. It was like he relished shutting me down.

"That's not your concern. Sophia, has the recruitment started?"

He turned away, already plotting my replacement. For him, people were just names on a spreadsheet.

HR instantly switched to fawning mode. "Don't worry, Director Jennings. We've already posted on all major job boards. As you requested: only Ivy League master's degree or above, international experience preferred."

She flashed him a smile, clearly eager to please. I watched the exchange, disgusted by how quickly loyalty evaporated when a new boss took over.

Robert Jennings nodded, satisfied.

He drummed his fingers on the desk, the picture of self-satisfaction. If he could have poured himself a glass of scotch and lit a cigar, he probably would have.

"Remember, from now on, my team must have pure elite bloodlines. Don't let any random hires in."

He actually said "bloodlines"—as if we were breeding show dogs, not building the future of American transportation. The arrogance was unbelievable.

I almost cursed out loud.

It took everything I had not to let loose a string of four-letter words. Instead, I pressed my lips together so hard it hurt.

Robert Jennings waved me away impatiently.

He flicked his wrist, already looking past me to the next item on his to-do list. I might as well have been invisible.

"Alright, that's settled. If you can't accept it, just get lost."

He spat out the words, dismissing me with all the warmth of a DMV clerk on a Friday afternoon.

You can't fight the boss.

I stared him down for a moment, the urge to argue warring with the need to just get out with my pride intact. Sometimes, the only move left is to walk away.

I gritted my teeth. "Fine, I'll go."

My voice shook, but I held my head high. If I was going down, I was going down swinging.

HR chimed in, "Then it's voluntary resignation. No severance. Clear your desk by today. Your access will be revoked at 6 p.m."

She handed me a sad little envelope with my final instructions. No severance, no fanfare—just a cold, administrative goodbye.