Supercharged by his extraordinary morning experience, Charles treated himself to a heavy breakfast—topped off with a quick pick-me-up. Then he slipped into his brown velvet suit, pulled on his beige “Columbo” trench coat, grabbed his battered old leather satchel, and headed out. Moments later he was sinking into his car: a tiny white French city car from 1999, its odometer clinging stubbornly to 199,000 kilometers.

  He drove to the Sogedam office without incident. The company headquarters occupied a massive glass-and-steel tower in Marseille’s central Prado district, just four kilometers from his apartment. And this morning, Charles felt fired up. Ready to crush it, to score contract after contract, to finally shut up his colleagues—especially that smug little bastard Fran?ois-Xavier, who never missed a chance to put him down. If Charles’s father were still alive to witness all this, he would have smacked some sense into his good-for-nothing son. Challier Senior had always been a fair man, and he’d always liked Charles. He would never have tolerated the daily humiliations his son hurled at him. Comforted by this thought, Charles puffed out his chest, determined to show the world what he was truly worth.

  Unfortunately, nothing went as planned.

  He actually made it to the morning meeting almost on time for once, resolute on catching up with the mountain of pending files on his desk. But as soon as he stepped into the room, Fran?ois-Xavier—who was busy briefing the whole team—turned toward him. With a predatory grin, he pinned him to the spot.

  “Hey, Charlie the clown. What’s up? Forget how to read a clock, or are you already drunk this early in the morning?”

  The men around the table burst out laughing, along with the only woman present: Jennifer, the personal secretary of Junior Challier. A tall, haughty redhead who dressed exclusively in skirtsuits and heels, she struck Charles as more luxury showpiece than actual secretary. Her real tasks? Bringing her boss coffee whenever he snapped his fingers… and letting him bang her in his penthouse office at any hour of the day. They were so discreet that everyone in the company knew about it. Because that was who Mister my-life-is-so-much-better-than-yours truly was: a generous man—he liked to share. A real gentleman.

  And this morning, Charles was his target.

  Throughout the entire meeting, Fran?ois-Xavier kept shooting him side glances and tossing sarcastic remarks at full volume just to entertain the room. With every passing minute, Charles felt his morale melting away like snow under the sun.

  When the meeting finally ended and everyone began packing up, he wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear his boss call out to him:

  “Hey, artist! Stick around a second—I need a word. And close the door behind you once everyone’s out, PLEEEASE!”

  He exaggerated the last word with slow, syrupy emphasis and a wide, patronizing smile, as if he were speaking to a toddler. Charles kept a straight face, but he knew this private chat wouldn’t bring anything good.

  “So, my dear Charlie,” his boss began with fake friendliness, “how long have you been working here?”

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  Charles opened his mouth, but Fran?ois-Xavier cut him off:

  “Fifteen years, Charlie. I checked. Can you imagine? Fifteen years! How did my father put up with you for so long—with your constant lateness and that miserable face of yours? And more importantly… why? Seriously, why? You tell me.”

  Charles didn’t know what to say. While his manager rambled on, he couldn’t help staring at the man’s wide mouth, mesmerized by the perfectly aligned rows of blindingly white teeth—standing at attention like ivory soldiers. They contrasted violently with his prune-colored skin, a consequence of excessive tanning-bed sessions.

  “For nothing, buddy!” Fran?ois-Xavier went on. “Nada! Zilch! If you at least made money for us, maybe I’d get it. But nope—your numbers go down every single year!”

  His tone sharpened with every word.

  “Tell me, pal, when was the last time you brought in a real contract? Six months ago? A year? And I’m not talking about some basic health or home insurance policy. Clients ask for those themselves—you don’t even have to sell them. No, I’m talking something juicy. Like a full all-risks coverage plan.”

  “Well, actually, those contracts aren’t really my specialty,” Charles tried. “I usually—”

  “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN!” his boss roared, eyes bulging. “I’m done watching your fat gut wander around the coffee machine all day instead of catching us some real pigeons—got it?”

  Foam gathered at the corners of his lips. He looked like a rabid dog.

  “And have you seen yourself? Those bags under your eyes, those jowls, that shiny bald head—you look like an old bulldog on Prozac! I get that your business-school lessons are far behind you now that you’re past fifty, but that’s no excuse to forget the basics. You’re supposed to attract clients, seduce them, not scare them away! With your face, you couldn’t sell a parka to an Inuit!”

  Charles lowered his head, staring at his moccasins like a scolded child. Eventually, his superior calmed down enough to deliver the final blow:

  “Now listen carefully, Charlie the clown. You’re on thin ice. In my office, I’ve got a stack of candidates this long—young, hungry, ready to take your job. So I’m giving you one week. One. You clean up your files and you bring me a damn golden contract. If not, you pack your things and head straight to the unemployment office. And trust me—hitting the job market at your age is a one-way ticket to the soup kitchen, if you catch my drift. Now get out before I change my mind and fire you on the spot!”

  With theatrical flair, Fran?ois-Xavier turned his back to him and focused on the bright projection screen.

  Stunned, Charles walked out, slipped down the hallway toward his cubicle, avoiding the eyes of colleagues who had no doubt heard everything (Fran?ois-Xavier had made sure of that by yelling loud enough to wake the dead). He pulled the blinds shut, sat down, and grabbed the little flask of whisky he always kept in the inner pocket of his coat. He drank in heavy gulps, the burning sensation soothing him for a brief moment.

  Then he got to work—digging through the towering piles of files on his desk, determined to find the one rare gem that might save his job.

  He had no choice now. It was all or nothing.