Chapter 2: Loyalty on the Chopping Block

I’d worked alongside David Grant for more than a decade.

That’s a lifetime in corporate America—long enough to watch a tiny office above a bakery in St. Paul morph into a glass-and-steel behemoth that blocked out half the skyline. I remember when bagels were a Friday treat and the annual company picnic meant tug-of-war by the river. Now, the only thing anyone competed for was who could leave the earliest.

Back then, we made our own coffee and hauled our own boxes. Now there were catered lunches, fantasy football leagues, and a cleaning crew that swept away the old crumbs every night.

I’d clawed my way up from the bottom, finally landing the marketing director gig—the corner office with a view of the river. That office was supposed to mean I’d made it. But I’d missed birthdays, anniversaries, even my kid’s fifth grade graduation to get there. All those sacrifices, and it still wasn’t enough.

Then David Grant’s son—Ethan—rolled in fresh from Stanford, ready to claim his inheritance.

Ethan Grant strolled in wearing Allbirds and a Patagonia vest, shaking hands like he was running for office. He had perfect teeth, a killer smile, and the kind of confidence you only get from never having to worry about rent.

Suddenly, old hands like me were just obstacles. We were reminders of his father’s world—grit, backroom deals, and loyalty that ran deeper than any contract. To Ethan, we were just dead weight.

He didn’t waste time. He hired a retired FBI agent as compliance director—a guy named Jack McCarthy, who looked like he chewed gravel for breakfast, eyes sharp enough to spot a lie from across the parking lot. Jack sent a single email, and people started updating their LinkedIn before lunch.

Jack was ruthless. Skeletons came flying out of closets. If you couldn’t leave quietly, the company helped you out—sometimes with a severance, sometimes with a subpoena.

The place turned cold overnight. People whispered by the water cooler, keeping their heads down. You could smell the fear—like burnt toast after a fire drill.

Ethan soon filled the decision-making team with his own people. New faces everywhere—guys with crisp resumes, sneakers so white they squeaked on the tile.

After seeing how quickly he cleared house, everyone was on edge. Some folks started bringing donuts to the Monday meeting, hoping goodwill would save them. Others just kept their heads low, clocking in early, clocking out late.

I went to David Grant, hoping he’d rein in his son. After all, what senior exec doesn’t have a little dirt on their hands? I brought him coffee from his favorite spot—dark roast, two sugars, no cream—and laid it out straight. “You can’t let him tear it all down, Dave. Nobody here is squeaky clean.”

He just sighed. “Listen, old friend, folks like us just can’t keep up with the times anymore. Better to let the next generation take over.”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. The air felt stale, heavy with all those years between us.

I understood. I could practically see my name on the purge list—circled in red. Loyalty had a shelf life.

We were all smart people. No need for more words. I knew I was next.

He tapped his pen against the desk. The silence said it all. Final.

So, I took the initiative.

"No problem, Mr. Grant. I’ve worked here fifteen years. Give me sixteen months’ salary for severance—that’s $90,000. The stock options are worth $45,000. Altogether, $135,000."

My voice was steady, but under the table, my fists clenched. I remembered missing my daughter’s birthday party last year to cover for one of Grant’s screw-ups. That loyalty was supposed to count.

David Grant’s face turned cold. “A hundred thirty-five grand? Are you out of your mind?”

His jaw flexed, the friendly mask gone.

“I’m just asking for what’s owed. Why shouldn’t I?”

He tried to stare me down. But I’d stood in his shadow too long to blink now.

He played the friendship card. “Don’t be like that, Bailey. Everyone else left with nothing, just their pride.”

I didn’t budge. If he let his son be ruthless, I wouldn’t play nice either.

My look said it all. Friendship didn’t pay the mortgage.

Finally, he said, “Well, take care of yourself. Ethan’s extreme. Make sure you can handle the consequences.”

A warning—or a threat. I wondered if he’d practiced that line in the mirror.

“I’m not that easy to scare.”

I let my words hang in the air. I wanted him to remember them.

I walked out, not looking back. His gaze followed me past the wall of framed magazine covers—snapshots of better days.

Ethan moved fast. In two days, the company split marketing into direct clients and agency management. I got the dead-end accounts; Ethan’s college buddy got the real business.

Corporate chess. By lunch, my nameplate was swapped to a smaller office down the hall. My new roster was a graveyard—dormant accounts and Mom-and-Pop shops. The real deals went to Ethan’s friend.

I had to admit, Ethan was sharp. In a few moves, the old guard was gone.

On the surface, everything looked legit. HR sent out a chipper memo—stock photos of people high-fiving, talking about “restructuring for innovation.”

A month later, I wasn’t even invited to middle management meetings. I was a benchwarmer. My calendar filled up with spam and password reminders.

That’s when a headhunter called. The voicemail popped up after lunch. I let it play twice before calling back, hope fighting with bitterness.

The salary was 30% higher, plus stock options. They even offered gym reimbursement and Fridays off in July.

I thought it over for a week, pacing my kitchen, coffee in hand, reruns flickering on the TV. Finally, I made up my mind.

So I resigned. Typed out the email, double-checked the wording, and hit send. No going back.

David Grant put on a show at my going-away lunch. “Old friend, I really hate to see you go, but I can’t stand in the way of your fortune.”

He clapped me on the shoulder, wearing that fake boardroom smile.

I felt nothing but disgust. After the paperwork, I left.

The badge clattered in the blue box. For a second, I thought about taking it back—just for the memories. But I left it behind, like everything else.