PART 3
Ben moved the cursor over the name.
Then he pulled his hand away from the mouse.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
He looked around the finance office.
Nobody seemed to be paying attention.
Then he whispered the name.
“Monica.”
I leaned back.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Monica had looked me directly in the eyes and told me the number was a temporary adjustment.
She had told me not to make an emotional decision.
She had told me the company needed me.
And now I knew she had personally approved taking $236,399 away from me.
But something bothered me more than the money.
I pointed at the screen.
“Why was mine manually changed?”
Ben shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Then let’s find out.”
He looked nervous.
“Mason, I’m serious. Leave this alone.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been here long enough to know when something isn’t supposed to be seen.”
That sentence stayed with me.
I closed the screen.
“Thanks.”
Ben looked relieved.
Then I stood.
Before I walked away, he quietly said,
“Mason.”
I turned.
“There was something else.”
“What?”
He lowered his voice.
“Your distribution wasn’t the only one manually adjusted.”
My stomach tightened.
“Whose?”
“Three other people.”
“Who?”
He looked at me.
“People who left the company last year.”
I frowned.
“What happened to their money?”
Ben hesitated.
“That’s the strange part.”
“What?”
“The system says their distributions were reduced to zero.”
I stared at him.
“Zero?”
“Zero.”
“And they didn’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
I walked back to my desk with a strange feeling in my chest.
Until that morning, I had thought I was dealing with corporate unfairness.
Now I wasn’t sure.
I opened the eight-year agreement again.
I read every page.
Not quickly.
Not like an employee trying to understand a new compensation package.
I read it like someone preparing for a lawsuit.
The salary was $175,000.
The equity sounded impressive.
The milestone compensation sounded even better.
But then I reached the section I’d ignored the night before.
Assignment of Inventions and Intellectual Property.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Every invention, improvement, design, architecture, algorithm, process, system, documentation, or technical development I created during the eight-year term would belong exclusively to Northstar.
That wasn’t unusual by itself.
What was unusual was the language underneath it.
The agreement attempted to define several categories of work created before the new contract as company property.
I grabbed a pen.
I circled the paragraph.
Then I found another section.
Prior Contributions.
My hands became cold.
The company was trying to establish ownership over certain technical work I had created years before.
Work that existed before the new agreement.
Work I had never formally assigned to Northstar.
I kept reading.
Then I reached the section that made me sit completely still.
Equity and Deferred Participation.
There was a reference to a separate schedule.
Schedule C.
I flipped through the document.
No Schedule C.
I checked again.
Nothing.
I called Monica’s assistant.
“Could you send me Schedule C from the retention agreement?”
There was silence.
“Mr. Reed, I believe everything is included.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“I’ll check.”
Ten minutes later, I received an email.
Schedule C — Not Applicable.
I stared at those three words.
Not applicable.
Then why did the contract reference it?
I opened the company’s internal equity portal.
My account showed almost no equity.
That didn’t make sense.
For eight years, I had been told that certain projects would eventually participate in the company’s success.
Nothing extravagant.
Nothing guaranteed.
But I had accumulated what I thought was meaningful equity.
I had received emails about grants.
I had signed documents.
I remembered every one.
I searched my personal email.
There they were.
Grant notices.
Acknowledgment forms.
Equity award summaries.
One email from five years earlier caught my attention.
Subject: Northstar Strategic Contributor Equity Grant
I opened it.
The attachment was still there.
My original award.
Then I looked at the company’s current system.
The grant didn’t exist.
I searched again.
Nothing.
I called Ben.
“Do you have access to historical equity records?”
“Why?”
“Just answer me.”
“Yes.”
“I need something.”
“What?”
“Search my name for the Strategic Contributor Grant from five years ago.”
There was a pause.
Then I heard typing.
“Found it.”
“What does it say?”
“Grant issued.”
“How many shares?”
Silence.
“Ben?”
He finally answered.
“Mason…”
“What?”
“This says you were issued 480,000 restricted units.”
I stopped breathing.
“How many?”
“Four hundred eighty thousand.”
“That can’t be right.”
“I’m reading it.”
“What happened to them?”
“I don’t know.”
I walked into an empty conference room and shut the door.
“Are they vested?”
“Some.”
“How many?”
“About 300,000.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Where are they now?”
Ben didn’t answer.
Then he said,
“They were transferred.”
“To whom?”
“I can’t see the destination.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s outside the employee system.”
I closed my eyes.
“Can you get the transaction record?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Ben.”
“Mason, I’m already doing something I could get fired for.”
“I know.”
He was quiet.
Then he said,
“I’ll see what I can find.”
The call ended.
I stood alone in the conference room.
Outside the glass walls, people were laughing.
Someone was celebrating a new bonus.
Someone else was talking about buying a house.
And I suddenly realized I had spent eight years believing I was building my future inside that building.
Maybe I had been building someone else’s.
That afternoon, Monica summoned me again.
She didn’t ask me to sit.
“You’ve been asking questions in finance.”
I said nothing.
She folded her arms.
“Mason, I hope you understand that internal compensation information is confidential.”
“My compensation information?”
“Company compensation structures.”
“My compensation.”
She stared at me.
“You’re becoming confrontational.”
“No.”
I pulled a chair out and sat.
“I’ve become curious.”
Her jaw tightened.
“What exactly are you asking?”
“Why was my distribution changed from $236,400 to $1?”
She didn’t blink.
“You’ve already been told.”
“Then why does the approval history show you manually authorized the change?”
For the first time, Monica’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
“You accessed restricted records.”
“I accessed my compensation record.”
“That’s not how the system works.”
“Then explain it.”
She walked to the window.
For several seconds, she looked down at the city.
Finally she said,
“You’re making a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“Thinking the number is the story.”
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
She turned.
“You’re focused on $236,400.”
“Because that’s what I was supposed to receive.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
She took a slow breath.
“You’ve been here eight years, Mason. You know how complicated the company’s structure has become.”
“No. I know how complicated you’ve made it.”
Her expression hardened.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“That’s understandable.”
“But I’m not confused.”
She walked back to the desk.
Then she lowered her voice.
“Listen carefully.”
I waited.
“If you leave Northstar, you will be walking away from more than a paycheck.”
I almost laughed.
“What exactly am I walking away from?”
She looked at me.
“You’ll find out.”
I stood.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“A warning.”
I walked toward the door.
Behind me, she said,
“Mason.”
I stopped.
“Don’t assume everyone who works here is your enemy.”
