“This is about her compensation.”
He exhaled through his nose, as if inconvenienced.
“I told her she could pick it up.”
“You will send it to the P.O. box from now on.”
“We don’t usually cut checks to?—”
“You have previously.”
Silence. I continued before he could construct something flimsy.
“There is no corporate policy prohibiting mailing to a post office box. If there were, it would have surfaced prior to this week.”
Another pause.
“Accounting’s been tightening things,” he said, irritation slipping through.
“I am familiar with accounting,” I replied calmly. “I assure you, the postal designation of the recipient’s address is not the determining factor in disbursement.”
He did not like that.
“I’m just trying to run my company,” he snapped.
I leaned back in my chair.
“Is that all you're doing?”
The question hung deliberately.
A beat of silence stretched longer this time.
I knew his father. Alistair Whitaker did not tolerate inefficiency. The Renault Group had conducted business with Whitaker Industrial Manufacturing for years, with supply contracts, infrastructure components, and multi-property agreements.
Tripp knew that, or at least he should have.
“You’re making this bigger than it is,” he said finally.
“No,” I corrected. “I’m correcting your error.”
“She’s an employee.”
“An exceptional employee.”
His breath sharpened slightly on the line. “You’re awfully invested.”
“I am.”
I let that sit there, unembellished.
“I expect her next check to be sent to her previously stated designation,” I continued. “If there are further ‘accounting irregularities,’ I will address them directly with your father.”
There it was. Not a threat . . . exactly. A statement of an escalation pathway.
His tone shifted. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I agree.”
