I work in HR, but for years my real job was cleaning up my boss’s messes.Sterling liked to think of himself as the sun and the rest of us as planets lucky enough to orbit his mahogany desk. In practice, that meant I fixed his typos, smoothed over the staff he insulted, and once a week retrieved the dry cleaning he “forgot” on his chair. I told myself it was temporary. In this economy, being the reliable fixer felt like insurance.Last Tuesday proved how wrong I was.He flicked his fingers at me.

We were hosting a high-stakes meeting with a major tech client from Seattle. The boardroom was packed with people wearing suits that cost more than my car, and the air was tight with money and expectations. Sterling was halfway through a pitch about a merger he barely understood, gesturing like a motivational speaker who’d skimmed the notes five minutes earlier. In his hand was a venti latte, which should have been the first red flag.As he waved his arm for emphasis, his elbow clipped the table. The cup lid popped off, and coffee surged forward in slow motion, dark and glossy, heading straight for the silver MacBook in front of the client’s lead negotiator.Sterling didn’t stop talking. He didn’t even look down.