My Wife's Boss Told Me To Get A Real Job At Our BBQ The Next Day He Applied For A Job At My Company

Richard started on a Monday. I was there when he walked in — suit pressed, hair cut, ten minutes early. He came to my office first, knocked on the door frame.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning. Marcus will show you around. Your office is down the hall — the one with the window facing the parking lot."

He nodded. He didn't complain. That was a small thing, but I noticed.

The first week was uneventful. Richard kept his head down. He went to meetings. He took notes. He didn't try to take credit for anything. In fact, he was almost too quiet — like a man holding his breath.

Claire, meanwhile, was thriving at Voss & Palmer. Diane Palmer had given her the director title. She was running the marketing department. She came home happy, energized, talking about campaigns and pitches and a new project in South End.

Then, on the second Friday, Richard came to my office after hours. He closed the door behind him.

"Dan," he said. "We need to talk."

I gestured for him to sit. "What's on your mind?"

He sat down. He looked tired. "I got a call from Karen — my wife. She found out I was fired. Not 'pursuing other opportunities.' Fired. She's — she's not taking it well. She's talking about separation. About the house. About everything."

I didn't say anything. This wasn't my problem. But I let him talk.

"And there's something else." He pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket. It was a bank statement. "Diane — she's been auditing the old accounts. There's a discrepancy. About forty thousand dollars. It's — it's not what you think. It was a loan. I borrowed it from the firm account two years ago, when Karen's mother was sick. I paid it back. Well — I paid most of it back. There's twelve thousand still outstanding. Diane found it. She's — she's talking about pressing charges."

I took the statement. I looked at it. It was real — a transfer from the Voss & Palmer operating account to Richard's personal account, two years ago. No documentation. No promissory note.

"Richard," I said, carefully, "why are you telling me this?"

"Because if Diane presses charges, I'm finished. Not just here — everywhere. And I need — I need someone to talk to. Someone who knows the business. Someone who won't judge me."

I set the paper down. "I'm not your friend, Richard. I'm your boss. But I'll tell you this — you need a lawyer. And you need to pay that money back, today, before Diane escalates. And you need to tell me if there's anything else I should know. Because if you're hiding something that affects this company, I will fire you so fast your head will spin."

He nodded. He stood up. "There's nothing else," he said. "I swear."

He left. I sat there, looking at the bank statement. I didn't know whether to believe him. But I knew one thing — Richard Voss was a man coming apart at the seams, and I had just hired him.

I called Claire. "We need to talk," I said. "About Richard."