Part 1The Three Cent Takedown

"Where the hell did the three cents go?"

"Oh my God, just let us go home already!" The intern who’d been gaming in the corner suddenly snapped.

"I deleted those three cents. I saw the line of numbers was off-kilter, and my OCD kicked in. It was driving me crazy, so I just hit delete."

"And because you were feeling 'driven crazy,' twelve of us have pulled three straight all-nighters?" I shot back.

"I was just curious!" She batted her huge, innocent eyes. "I heard that in accounting, people freak out more over losing three cents than thirty thousand. I wanted to see if it was true."

"Well, alright, alright, I won't play anymore!" Skylar announced, reaching into her designer bag, pulling out a dollar bill, and tossing it at my feet. "Here. Take a dollar. Keep the change!"

"Seriously, you corporate bootlicker, making us Gen Zers pull all-nighters over three cents? That’s just toxic." With that, she swung her backpack onto her shoulder and started for the door.

"Hold it."

I picked up the dollar bill, my face an expressionless mask as I blocked the doorway and turned the deadbolt.

"What do you think you're doing? Illegal detainment over three cents?"

"I don't need your dollar," I said calmly. "But the federal penitentiary needs people to sew uniforms."

* * *

The belligerence on Skylar's face faltered slightly, but not by much.

"Are you insane? This is a rule-of-law country! I just deleted a number. I didn't steal anything."

I scoffed. "Oh, you know about the rule of law, do you?"

"You call this 'deleting a number'?"

"You maliciously tampered with the company’s accounting records. That's a five-year felony, minimum. What you deleted was a crucial indexing key that reconciles our entire annual ledger. It caused a catastrophic logical collapse."

I leaned in, my voice low and dangerous. "If the IRS steps in, the company faces massive fines, credit downgrades, and full-scale auditing. This is what we call 'severe consequences.'"

Skylar rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone. She pressed the voice note button, her voice immediately switching to a syrupy, little-girl whimper.

"Marcus, honey, come quick! Ms. King won't let me leave. She’s being so mean and says she’s going to send me to jail. I’m scared!"

She tossed the phone onto the desk, crossed her arms, and stared me down. "Now I'm not leaving. I’ll wait for Marcus to show up. Let’s see how you handle him, old woman. Trying to scare me with the law."

I ignored her. I turned to my team, whose faces were a mixture of exhaustion and despair.

"Everyone, stop. Save your current data. No one touches a computer until further notice."

A few minutes later, the office door rattled violently.

"Open up! What in the hell is going on here, Vivian!"

I unlocked the door, and Marcus, our CEO, strode in, immediately tearing into me.

"Vivian King! Are you trying to stage a coup?"

"Look at this office! It looks like a refugee camp, and you're holding little Skylar hostage?"

He gestured wildly. "We are in the middle of a funding round! What kind of impression do you think this gives the investors? A bunch of women who can’t even clean up after themselves."

Skylar immediately scurried behind Marcus, tugging on the sleeve of his expensive suit jacket.

"Marcus, she’s holding me here over a three-cent discrepancy. I told her I’d pay her a dollar, but she won't let it go."

I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to launch the stack of printouts right into his smug face. I rotated my monitor toward him. The screen displayed the IRS's automated pre-audit alert.

"Marcus, this isn't minor. She deleted the general ledger index. We cannot generate the annual report. The system has flagged us for suspected income concealment."

My voice was flat, professional. "If we don't find that three cents tonight, tomorrow's tax filing will be incorrect. The company faces a full-scale IRS audit, massive fines, even a shutdown. This is criminal."

He was an amateur. He was a 'soft-money man' who couldn't read a balance sheet. But surely, for the sake of his money—his shares, his bonus, his lavish spending—he would finally take this seriously?

Marcus didn't even look at the screen. He impatiently cut me off.

"Enough, enough!"

"You're telling me you people needed three days of all-nighters for basic arithmetic? This is a problem with your Finance Department, Vivian!"

"I don't understand your technical jargon, and I don't want to. I only care about results. If you can’t even handle an Excel spreadsheet, if you can’t tolerate a young intern, and you resort to threatening jail time, your scope is too small, Vivian."

Basic arithmetic? We were dealing with billions in transactions, thousands of complex accounts. In his mouth, it was grade school math. A rush of pure, professional rage flooded my brain.

"Marcus, compliance is the baseline. The financial code isn't something you change because you 'don't like the look of it.' If we can't guarantee the integrity of the data, what are we even reporting?"

Marcus held up a hand to silence me. "Don't talk to me about technical terms. I don't listen, and I don't care."

"I'll ask you one thing: Can you balance the books?"