The Intern Who Reported the Boss, Not Knowing the Boss Signs Her Salary Chapter 02

The Intern Who Reported the Boss, Not Knowing the Boss Signs Her Salary Chapter 02

The “cleanup” aimed at me started fast.

Admin approached first, choosing her words carefully. “Ms. Whitfield, Mr. Ashford’s putting a new time-tracking system in place. Mandatory clock-in and clock-out across the board. We wanted to check how you’d like us to handle yours.”

I’d worked here a decade without ever punching a clock.

It was one of my perks as founder.

I looked at the uncomfortable admin manager and nodded. “Fine. Understood.”

HR called me in the next day.

“Ms. Whitfield, someone reported you for browsing non-work-related sites during office hours. It’s… not a great look.”

I glanced at the screenshot they showed me. A home design forum I’d been scrolling through.

A ten-year habit I kept for creative inspiration.

“Who reported it?” I asked.

HR hemmed and hawed. “We have to protect whoever reported it. Policy.”

“Fine. I’ll be more careful.”

I didn’t take it seriously.

It felt like playground tattling. Petty games.

But I underestimated how far Colton was willing to let her go.

A week later, the company rolled out a new Employee Code of Conduct. Over a hundred rules, detailing everything from how to arrange desktop files to what kind of cup you could drink from. No napping during lunch. No heads down at your desk.

Colton’s signature sat at the bottom.

And the document’s author? Brielle Sutton.

Colton had fast-tracked her promotion to Special Assistant to the CEO.

Her desk moved from the open floor of the design department into a private alcove right next to his office.

She started patrolling the company daily after that, a little notebook in hand, recording every “violation” she spotted.

Diane Abbott took a call about her sick kid. Brielle wrote her up.

Derek Hollis ate a sandwich at his desk while racing a deadline. She flagged him for a formal reprimand.

The whole office was drowning in resentment. The atmosphere turned suffocating.

And I was her favorite target.

The first time, it was the small succulent on my desk.

“Ms. Whitfield, company policy prohibits personal items in the workspace. It impacts the office’s professional image.”

The second time, I used my personal laptop to handle private email.

“Ms. Whitfield, company equipment is for work purposes only. If you need to manage personal matters, please do so after hours.”

The third time was today.

For a glass of water. A plate of saltine crackers. And my phone, which I’d used to read client feedback on the project we’d just completed.

She stood over me like a judge delivering a sentence.

“The fine is $3,000. Deducted from this month’s paycheck. Do you have a problem with that?”

I looked at her and slowly turned my phone screen to face her.

It showed the thank-you email from the client, praising the entire project team by name—including hers.

“I was working,” I said.

She glanced at it and let out a scoff. “Don’t even try. Everyone knows you coast all day. And now you’re being insubordinate. What do you think happens next?”

I almost laughed. It was so absurd.

I stood up slowly. The air around us seemed to thicken.

Everyone stopped working. Every ear tuned to our exchange.

“Insubordinate?” I repeated the word, letting my gaze sweep past her and across the entire department. “I’d like to ask everyone here, who, exactly, is my superior?”