He fired me in front of the whole office, not knowing I signed his

“Wren, sweetheart,” Blake announced, loud enough for the glass offices to hear, “this is what happens when we hire charity cases. Wrong font. Wrong margins. Wrong life.” People laughed nervously. He tossed the pages at my chest. “Security will walk you out. Try not to cry on the carpet, it’s imported.” I let the papers fall. I didn’t pick them up. Instead I pulled a slim black folder from under my arm, the one I’d carried every day for a month, waiting. “Blake,” I said, calm, “before I go, I owe the room some honesty.” He rolled his eyes. “Save the speech.” I opened the folder and slid it onto the nearest desk. The top page was the acquisition filing. My name, full and legal, sat under Sole Beneficial Owner. Marceline behind reception gasped first. Then the CFO, who’d flown in that morning for a meeting he thought was about restructuring, stood up in his glass office and started walking toward us, very fast. Blake’s smile cracked. “That’s, that’s a mistake, that’s not, ” I stepped closer, quiet enough that only he could hear the next part. “I always knew you’d eventually stop being useful.” I turned to the floor. “Everyone Blake screamed at this year, everyone he took credit from, everyone he called a charity case, please go to the third-floor conference room. HR is waiting with new titles and back pay.” Chairs scraped. People rose like something had finally been lifted off their shoulders. The intern he’d humiliated ten minutes earlier walked past him without blinking. Blake grabbed my sleeve. “Wren, please, we can talk, I was just, ” I looked down at his hand until he let go. “Leave it with me,” I said, the way he used to say it to clients. Then, softer, “Security will walk you out. Try not to cry on the carpet.”