The Man They Underpaid

The Man They Underpaid

Gavin

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Alex Miller had dedicated eight years to Sterling Creative Solutions. Eight years of pouring his talent into the agency, faithfully earning a modest three thousand dollars a month. He was the bedrock, making campaigns work, building client trust. All he wanted was a fair raise. His boss, Vicky, always dismissed his requests, claiming the market was "terrible." Then, a job ad blindsided him: Sterling Creative was hiring a "Creative Intern" for $30,000 a month – ten times his salary. A week later, Vicky's smirking nephew, Bryce, arrived to claim that role... and Alex's very own desk. Alex found himself exiled to a hot, noisy corner by the server room, ordered to "train his replacement." The humiliation was constant. Bryce was incompetent, botching client calls, yet Vicky doted on him, even promoting him to "Lead Strategist" after just two weeks. When Bryce infuriated their biggest client, Vicky snapped at Alex: "This is *your* responsibility." For his eight years of loyal service, Alex received a single, insulting hundred-dollar bill. The knot in his stomach tightened into a vise. Eight years of dedication, now reduced to training an overpaid, talentless nepo-baby. Every day was a fresh assault on his dignity. But it was Vicky's final, bizarre, and venomous accusation – implying he'd "mooned over her" – that snapped something inside him. The misplaced loyalty, the years of swallowing pride, shattered. "I quit," he declared, the words quiet but firm. He didn't look back. But how does a man rebuild his professional life when his foundation has been so cruelly undermined, and his reputation potentially tainted?

Introduction

Alex Miller had dedicated eight years to Sterling Creative Solutions.

Eight years of pouring his talent into the agency, faithfully earning a modest three thousand dollars a month.

He was the bedrock, making campaigns work, building client trust.

All he wanted was a fair raise.

His boss, Vicky, always dismissed his requests, claiming the market was "terrible."

Then, a job ad blindsided him: Sterling Creative was hiring a "Creative Intern" for $30,000 a month – ten times his salary.

A week later, Vicky's smirking nephew, Bryce, arrived to claim that role... and Alex's very own desk.

Alex found himself exiled to a hot, noisy corner by the server room, ordered to "train his replacement."

The humiliation was constant.

Bryce was incompetent, botching client calls, yet Vicky doted on him, even promoting him to "Lead Strategist" after just two weeks.

When Bryce infuriated their biggest client, Vicky snapped at Alex: "This is *your* responsibility."

For his eight years of loyal service, Alex received a single, insulting hundred-dollar bill.

The knot in his stomach tightened into a vise.

Eight years of dedication, now reduced to training an overpaid, talentless nepo-baby.

Every day was a fresh assault on his dignity.

But it was Vicky's final, bizarre, and venomous accusation – implying he'd "mooned over her" – that snapped something inside him.

The misplaced loyalty, the years of swallowing pride, shattered.

"I quit," he declared, the words quiet but firm.

He didn't look back.

But how does a man rebuild his professional life when his foundation has been so cruelly undermined, and his reputation potentially tainted?

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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