We need fresh blood, the boss said, firing me at 58. Little did he know, I was the undercover auditor sent to shut down his branch.
Gerald Archibald, you understand how it is. The companys shifting directionwe need new energy, fresh perspectives.
Victor Stanley Whitmore, the branch manager, leaned back in his enormous leather chair, which probably cost as much as my yearly salary. The chair creaked in protest, underlining his fake sympathy.
He twirled an expensive Montblanc pen between his manicured fingers like a conductors baton, orchestrating the reality of his sunlit office, thick with the scent of luxury cologne.
We need youth, he finally said outright, setting the pen down on his mahogany desk.
The words hung in the air like a grease stain on a crisp white shirt, poisoning the atmosphere of leather and manufactured success.
I studied him silently. His perfectly styled hair, just greying at the templesno doubt a mark of sophistication in his eyes. The Swiss TAG Heuer watch flashing carelessly on his wrist as he adjusted his cuff. The smug confidence of a man whod never once doubted his right to decide other peoples fates. He couldnt have been older than forty.
He belonged to that breed of efficient managers who confused an MBA with life experience and saw anyone over fifty as dead weight, ballast slowing down the corporate ship.
Youve been an excellent specialist, he continued his rehearsed speech, avoiding my gaze as he stared at the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Your expertise is invaluable, but the market demands change. Energy, drive, digital transformation. New horizons need new speed. Were rolling out CRM, migrating to the cloud, exploring neural networks. Frankly, itd be difficult for you.
I nodded slowly, keeping my face a mask of weary resignation. Inside, there was no anger, no resentmentjust cold, methodical calculation, like the steady click of a Geiger counter.
Point #12 in my preliminary report: Unjust termination of senior employees to clear space for loyal hires. Check.
His talk of digital transformation was especially laughable, given that just last week, Id uncovered server logs siphoning funds through phantom IT contracts.
I understand, I said flatlymaybe too calmly.
Whitmore clearly expected something else. Outrage, pleading, curses, reminders of decades served. He even tensed slightly, fingers gripping the armrest, bracing for a fight. But there was none.
I just watched him and saw something entirely different. The double-entry books Id spent three weeks reconstructing, cross-referencing shadow servers with official reports. Kickbacks disguised as marketing services. Ghost employees drawing salaries without ever setting foot in the office.
And, of course, his mistress, Charlotte Isabelle Dawson, hired as a deputy on triple my salary, whose sole duty was accompanying him to business dinners.
Well pay you whats owed. Three months salary, he added with obvious relief, assuming the old man had simply cracked. Thats the best I could negotiate. Be grateful. Personal initiative.
I nodded again. Three months. How generous. Especially against the budget hole Id uncoveredone big enough to swallow a small towns annual funds.
Right, Victor Stanley. If youth is whats needed, so be it.
I stood. He had no idea my full report120 pages of scanned documents, covert recordings, and payment trailswas already on the CEOs desk.
He didnt know the board had voted yesterday morning to restructure his branch by force.
And I wasnt just a sacked 58-year-old accountant. I was the liquidator. My job wasnt to salvage rotit was to demolish it so something new could rise.
May I clear my desk? I asked, playing my part to the end.
Yes, of course, Whitmore said hastily, already mentally ushering me out as he dialled Charlotte to share the good news. Take your time.
He was wrong. I was in a hurry. Because at 9 AM sharp, auditors would arrive, sealing every officestarting with his.
Walking through the open-plan space felt like my own private Calvary. Dozens of eyes pinned me like needles. Some pitied me, some gloated, most just feared theyd be next.
I felt every glance. Point #13: Fostering a toxic workplace through fear and nepotism. Check.
A young man already sat at my old desk. Mid-twenties, an undercut hairstyle, a wireless earbud glinting. He didnt even look up as I approached, thumbing through his phone.
Those are my things, I said calmly, nodding at the small stack of books and a framed family photo hed pushed aside for a pizza box.
Oh, right, he said, tugging out his earbud. Take it, gramps. I need room for a second monitor. For TikTok, you know? Content wont watch itself.
His smirk oozed arrogance. I recognised him. Sebastian, Whitmores nephew, hired last week as an SMM specialist.
I packed my things quietly. Then Charlotte appeared, wrapped in a fitted designer dress.
Gerald Archibald, what a shame, she cooed, though her eyes glittered with malice. You were such a vintage touch to the team.
Im sure, I replied evenly, not looking at her.
If you need work dont hesitate. I could put in a word. Theres a night-watchman spot at a gated community. Quiet, perfect for your age. They even let you do crosswords. Maybe dominoes.
It was a low blowmeant to humiliate me in front of everyone. She wanted to see me break.
I lifted my eyes and held her gaze, like an entomologist studying a venomous insect. She flinched first, adjusting her hair nervously.
Right, good luck, she muttered, clicking away on her heels.
Point #14: Nepotism and appointment of incompetent personnel directly harming company interests. Another check.
At the exit, a soft voice called after me.
Gerald Archibald
I turned. It was Emily from accounts, a young woman Id helped more than once when Whitmore berated her for minor errors.
Here, she handed me a chocolate bar. Dont dont let it get to you. They wont last.
Her eyes were kind. The only one brave enough to speak.
Thank you, Emily, I smiled. Good people always stand out.
Outside, I took a deep breath of cool evening air and dialled a number.
Its done. 9 AM tomorrow. Be ready.
At 8:50 sharp, I stood at the business centre entrancenot with a cardboard box, but in a pressed dark suit. Beside me were two security officers and the head of legal, Andrew Victor Lyson.
Whitmore arrived first. Spotting me, he scowled, then smirked.
Gerald? Back so soon? I said no scenes.
Just then, Lyson stepped forward.
Victor Stanley Whitmore? Lyson, head of legal. As of now, this branch is under investigation. Hand over your pass and phone.
Whitmores mask shattered.
What joke is this? Ive got approvals!
Charlotte arrived by taxi, Sebastian trailing behind. Whitmores eyes flicked between Lyson and methen filled with understanding. And hate.
You You did this, you old bastard! he hissed. Fired and bitter, eh? Ill ruin you!
He lunged, but security blocked him. Charlotte, ever defensive, lashed out.
I knew you were petty! Running to daddy like a snivelling brat! Whod pity you?
I looked at her, then at Whitmore.
Victor, my voice was steel. This isnt revenge. Its an audit.
I was sent to evaluate this branchs viability. My report was damning. Especially the financial discrepancies, ghost roles, and kickbacks.
Whitmore paled. Charlotte recoiled like shed been slapped.
Now, I held out my hand. Your pass, Victor. And yours, Charlotte.
Now, I made the rules.
