Face-Slapping11 min read
How I Took the Job, Won the Bet, and Let the Truth Sail Out
ButterPicks12 views
I never wanted the easy title my father offered me. "Take the job; it's yours," he said once, like it was a kindness. I replied, "No. I want to go in by my own name."
"Freya," he smiled, "then go and earn it."
I did. I told myself I would survive as an ordinary intern. I would not use my family name. I walked into the company's glass doors with no fanfare, a student ID hidden in my wallet, and a head full of numbers and quiet determination.
"You're in finance," Chiara said on my first day, smiling like a woman who had solved a puzzle. "We think engineering will suit you better."
"Engineering?" I laughed only once. "I studied accounting."
"You'll learn," Chiara said. "We believe it will stretch you. Will you go?"
"Yes," I said. "I'll go."
I should have felt the lie in that "we believe." Instead I carried the stack of papers they handed me like armor. The papers were blueprints, circuit diagrams, foundation sketches—pages and pages that made my head swim.
"You're new here," a man named Bryson told me later when I asked how to read the diagrams. "Start with the terminals."
"Thank you," I said. "I'm Freya."
He nodded. "You'll be fine."
I learned like someone inhaling every detail. I stayed up nights with diagrams spread on my bed, tea going cold beside me. I wanted to be able to answer a single question without sounding like a liar.
"You're late," Jacqueline said the next morning. She waited at the door and watched me with the kind of look that catalogued weaknesses for later use.
"Seven fifty," I said, holding my ID card up. "Seven fifty is not late."
"You could be better," she said. "A lot better."
Her voice was the kind that could cut the room in half. She was young for a manager and perfectly made up. She wore expensive shoes and an extra dose of certainty. People called her efficient. I started to feel like the only person she enjoyed breaking.
"I don't understand this," I told her once, pointing to a page. "What do I look for first?"
"Start with the terminals," she said, a little too loudly. "And don't be lazy."
"It isn't laziness—" I started.
"Then do the work," Jacqueline snapped.
Other colleagues whispered to me behind closed doors. "She has a backing," they said. "Don't cross her." One of them told me to take what she said "in one ear, out the other."
Only Bryson sat with me and took time. "She only picks at you," he said softly. "I don't know why, but keep steady."
The first weeks were a test of endurance. Jacqueline sent me files to reformat and reports to rewrite. She gave me tasks no newbie should own. She piled them like stones in my arms and watched to see if I'd stumble.
"Do this, and add the specs," she said once, shoving a folder toward me.
"Isn't that normally the tech team?" I asked.
"You're here," she said. "Do it."
I did. I stayed late. I learned the language of circuits and materials. I learned the shorthand of people—how to read what wasn't said but implied across a meeting room.
"Why did you bring her here?" Bryson asked me quietly during a coffee break. "Who asked for her?"
"I don't know," I said. "I had my own interview for finance. HR signed me into engineering."
Chiara smiled once, then quickly shifted. "We want to give you a challenge," she said when I asked.
A challenge, I thought. Or a trap. I decided to keep my head down and my answers ready.
She didn't bother me much when I kept my work. Then one weekend I took a picture that changed everything.
It was a club I had been to once—a glittering place where polished people took pictures to remind themselves which life they were performing. I had been curious; I had borrowed a bag from a friend and walked in. Jacqueline was there, surrounded by women with phones, admiring a bag.
"Jacqueline?" I said, stepping right into their circle as if I belonged. "Fancy seeing you here."
She froze. Her face snapped hard as if a seam had come undone. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why not? It's the weekend."
She laughed then, sharp and small. "You can't afford things like that. You're pretending."
"Maybe I can," I said, and I set my own bag on the table for everyone to see. The phones flashed. They took pictures.
The next morning, the company chat exploded.
"Is Freya a fake socialite?"
"Did you see those photos?"
Someone had taken a picture of my bag and posted it. Jacqueline posted later a note: "This bag is limited edition. Only a few in the world. Interesting."
"Interesting?" I messaged a few people. "Come to my yacht party this weekend. If you want to see the real thing."
I planted a bait and I watched.
The party was supposed to be a trap. I had invited everyone from engineering. I wasn't a show-off; I was confident. My father had given me a gift once—a yacht for my twenty-first birthday—and I chose to use it to let truth breathe.
"You really own this?" one colleague asked as she walked aboard.
"Yes," I said. "Would you like to tour?"
They oohed and ahhed, and the room filled with those who liked to be impressed. Jacqueline stood at the rail, a dark silhouette of composure. She looked small in the crowd.
"Who is the owner?" she asked as if she had a right to claim curiosity.
"Alonso Curtis," I said, simple. "My father."
She took a step back. "You—" she started, but the words lost their courage.
I had what I needed: an invoice, a memory, a quiet smile. She had shown the photos of my bag and started a rumor. I had shown the invoice and the yacht. The balance shifted like a tide.
"You won?" Bryson whispered later when we saw the looks on other people's faces.
"I didn't set out to win," I said. "I just wanted them to see."
I wanted them to see that the person they assumed they could step on had roots and choice and that I could stand up without shouting.
By then Jacqueline's targeting eased for a while. I delivered a small project with enough sweat and polish to make people nod. Sales took notice. Oscar from sales pulled me aside. "You're good in front of people," he said. "Want to lead a client pitch?"
"Me?" I asked.
"Yes. You're persistent."
The client—Erick Castaneda—was a cautious man with an appetite for details masked by a genial smile. We met him on a golf green because his leisure was a stage for negotiation.
"Come on," I said. "Let's play a few holes, then I'll give you a short presentation."
He smiled. "Freya, you manage the day well."
I arranged the day down to the minute. There was golf, a quick spa, and a dinner at a private room where old deals loosened along with belts. I put my slides up on a screen before dessert.
"This product will last longer," I said. "It will keep your production stable, and our support will be hands-on. We can meet your needs with a clearer upgrade path."
They nodded, playing polite listeners. But when I planned every contact, every pause, I made space for trust. We drank, we toasted, and I kept my head. I made sure they left full and liked.
"Sign?" Erick asked at the end of the night.
"Sign," I said.
When the contract closed, it became my lifeline. The project meant numbers on a page and the chance to survive in the company.
Jacqueline could not keep her smug face when the deal started to go our way. She had made a bet earlier. "If you bring this in," she had said, "you get to stay. If not, you're out."
I remembered the words. I remembered how she laughed. I remembered the recording I made of that entire exchange. I kept it like a ward in my phone.
Weeks later, after the contract signed, I walked into Jacqueline's office.
"You promised," I said.
She frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"You said you would apologize in front of everyone. Where is it?"
"That was a joke," she said. "You know I didn't mean—"
I put the phone down on her desk and played the recording for the empty room at first. Her voice, brittle with superiority, filled the small space again.
"I will make you follow the contract," she had said. "If you fail, you're gone."
"Here," I said aloud. "You promised."
Her composure cracked like glass.
"You can't," she hissed. "I'm a manager."
"I have a recording," I said. "You said the words."
She looked at me, then at the phone, then at a glass wall that made the office a theater. People would see. People would watch.
She stood there, first with anger like a red flare, then with confusion, then with raw fear. "You can't do this," she whispered.
"I can," I said. "But I will give you one chance to do this cleanly."
She said she needed time. She wept and smiled and then said she would apologize. I called a small meeting. I brought nothing but the recording and the promise.
"Jacqueline," I said to her, in front of the team. "You promised to apologize if I brought in the client. This is public."
She stumbled through a weak apology. Some sat politely; some whispered. It seemed to end there, but the story wasn't done.
A rumor is a fragile thing. People will push it until it breaks. A few days after the apology, a private truth exploded into public view.
I had seen Jacqueline leaving the parking lot with Cesar, the manufacturing operations director, for weeks. They were entangled in a private relationship that had become careless and loud. One morning I drove by and saw them inside Klaus's compact car—too intimate for the daylight—and I took a picture as I drove by to claim a seed that would later sprout.
I did not use it immediately. I collected evidence—photos, times, and then a carefully arranged confrontation that would make the company watch.
One afternoon, Cesar's wife stormed into the building with a red face and a presence like a storm surge. She did not whisper. She demanded everyone gather in the lobby.
"You," she said, pointing at Cesar like a judge. "And you," she said pointing at Jacqueline as if she were a defendant. "Which one of you will explain this to the company?"
People crowded like bees around a hive. Phones came out. The lobby filled with murmurs and cameras. Someone yelled, "What's going on?" and a dozen others recorded the scene.
Jacqueline's face drained. Cesar tried to steady words into excuses. His wife did not hesitate.
"I gave you years," she said to him in a voice that did not crack. "You promised me trust."
"You don't know the whole thing," Cesar tried.
"Then explain it to these people," she said, sweeping an arm to include the crowd.
"How could you?" someone whispered. "Cesar has a family."
Jacob—someone from the cafeteria—started a chorus of reactions. "Unbelievable," someone else muttered. "After all the smiles."
Jacqueline's reaction was raw and layered. First a flush of pride as if she had some control, then the color left her cheeks like a curtain dropping. She denied it. "It's not like you think," she said, voice thin with panic.
"Do you deny being intimate with our director?" Cesar's wife demanded.
People filmed. A dozen phones pointed at Jacqueline like tiny courtrooms. You could feel morality and gossip setting the temperature of the room.
Jacqueline tried to laugh it off. "This is private," she said. "You shouldn't be bringing this to work."
"Work?" Cesar's wife echoed. "Watch."
She produced a string of photos, messages, and a recorded conversation where Jacqueline can be heard telling Cesar to ignore his family responsibilities for her. The lobby waited as if a bell had rung: proof.
I watched Jacqueline as proof rolled out like a prophecy. Her expression flipped through stages: smugness, then shock, then denial, then pleading. "It's not what you think," she wailed. "I didn't—"
Her voice lost its power in the hum of the crowd. People pointed at her; couples held each other tighter. Someone laughed, another cried.
"Do you have anything to say?" Cesar's wife said, and the whole building seemed to draw a breath.
Jacqueline tried to speak. "Please," she begged, "I can explain."
"Explain to them," Cesar's wife said. "Explain to your team." She turned to the camera phones. "Anyone want to record how corporate affairs treat families?"
The crowd reacted in slices. Some filmed with glee, others watched with shame. A few older employees looked away, uncomfortable. But many watched as if a lesson was being taught. Jacqueline's back against the glass wall looked smaller than ever.
She started to cry hard: real, ragged sobs that made some people wince. Tears were once a tool for her, a weapon to parry criticism. Now they seemed like the last thing she had left.
"Please," Jacqueline begged, looking at me as if I had instigated the storm. "You can't do this to me."
"You did a lot already," I said quietly. "I showed people what needed showing."
Her reaction shifted from pride to pleading, pleading to collapse. Her knees hit the lobby tiles. The cameras did not stop. The company that had once whispered her praises now whispered other things: "betrayal," "promoter of drama," "not fit to lead."
People who had once stood by her pulled back. Cesar's wife spoke sharply, "Do you want him or do you want a career?"
Jacqueline screamed a name, tried to claw back the narrative. But the narrative had left her. The crowd's voices rose and stung like salt.
A woman from HR—Chiara—arrived, her face pale. "We need this documented," she said. "This is going to HR."
Jacqueline's face crumpled. "They can't fire me," she sobbed. "My position—"
"Not everything about power keeps you safe," Cesar's wife said.
That was the crux. People watched as power shimmered and proved fallible. A manager with a boss's blessing suddenly looked like any other person under the gaze of peers and truth.
The disciplinary process began like a slow machine. Jacqueline handed in a resignation the next day. Cesar left soon after. HR—Chiara—felt the winds shift and decided to move on too. The office filled with gossip, but the center of it was the lobby scene—the day truth made a sound.
"Is it fair?" someone asked me later.
"What is fair?" I replied. "People choose what they do. They must face what follows."
I did not celebrate Jacqueline’s collapse with cruelty. I let the company see the result of choices. She had targeted me; she had used others; she had spilled a private life into the workplace. Witnessing her fall, I felt no vengeance-sweetness. I felt the quiet satisfaction of someone who had held onto the facts and placed them where they belonged: in the light.
I kept the recording of our earlier argument locked in my phone. I kept the pictures I had taken. I kept the invoice for the yacht and the copy of the contract that I had closed. These things were not trophies. They were proof that the rules we pretend exist—contracts of honesty, of duty—still mattered.
In the months that followed, some people left. Some stayed. I kept learning. I did not reveal that my last name was Curtis. I didn't open the family chest for applause. I continued to eat lunch in the break room and to ask Bryson stupid questions about circuit diagrams. I made small mistakes and fixed them. I moved slowly, not with a hand out but with hands at work.
Three years later, when someone asked me in the elevator, "Are you the same Freya who started three years ago?" I smiled and said, "Yes."
"Upstairs," the man said. "You're manager now."
"Yes," I answered.
It was quiet and ordinary and earned. People saw me at my desk, not because of who I was, but because of what I had done. The company learned new rules. Power felt different when it had to earn respect.
On my office wall I kept a simple thing: a photo of the orange Mini my father bought me that first week. Not as a boast, but as a reminder. I had chosen a path and stuck to it. I had used the tools I had—skill, patience, timing—without reviving the old promise of a name.
Once, in a meeting when someone questioned my direction, I tapped that picture with my pen and laughed softly.
"Why keep that car photo?" a new intern asked.
"Because," I said, "it's the first thing I used when someone tried to tell me where I belonged."
I turned and looked at the assembled team. "Work is like a boat. If you row, you go. If you let others row for you, someone else will steer."
Someone from sales raised a hand. "And the manager who left?"
"She learned," I said simply.
The memory of the lobby stayed with her, with me, with all of us. People still talked about it at coffee breaks, but the talk had changed. It was no longer about spectacle. It was about boundaries, about where work stops and private life begins.
I keep my phone locked, the recording archived in a file that I rarely open. Sometimes, late at night, I listen to the sound of my own voice in negotiation—steady, not loud—and I remember the golf day, the presentations, the yacht, the lobby. I remember Bryson and Oscar and Erick and the others who helped me survive the early days.
If someone asks me whether being the boss's daughter would have been easier, I shake my head. "Easier in the shallow way," I say. "But less true."
There's a small corner on my bookcase now where I keep the yacht invitation—folded, not framed—and the Hermes bag photo that started the rumor, and a small print of the blueprints I first couldn't read. They form a little museum of lessons.
I keep them not to remind others, but to remind myself: the proof of work is not the rumor that surrounds it, but the steady day-in, day-out effort. I had chosen the hard way. The hard way made me who I am.
The End
— Thank you for reading —