Unbeatable: The Legend of Vincent Scott – Chapter 14: Blue Skies & All Roads Lead Back

Life never came with a rulebook. At best, it offered a halfhearted suggestion of a roadmap, punctuated by detours no one asked for and landmarks no one recognized.

Vincent Scott had always prided himself on following his gut—a sixth sense honed from surviving dysfunctional workplaces, toxic leadership, and a thousand meetings that led nowhere. But here he stood, in a space unlike any other, driven solely by instinct and scar tissue.

He had filed a case through proper government channels in January 2010. Sat in a soul-crushing waiting room. Got lectured by a bitter bureaucrat who dismissed his evidence until he practically sold her on her own job. A year later, the file was assigned to a caseworker—Jon Jefferson—who treated Vincent’s hundreds of pages of evidence like junk mail and contacted none of his witnesses.

Justice wasn’t just blind. It was lazy.

Meanwhile, his former department—now a sinking ship—was laying off half its workforce. There was grim satisfaction in that, but it didn’t fill the hole in Vincent’s chest. He was somewhere better now. Kind of. He had autonomy. He had ideas. He was the show. Even if it was on a run-down, paltry stage.

At Cellular Horizons and Brink Management Company, structure was an abstract concept. Vincent was reinventing marketing on the fly, rewriting his playbook from scratch on zero budget and a prayer. He turned throwaway fliers into weapons of war—buyout incentives before they even exited in wireless, social media campaigns, promotions tailored to lure competitors’ customers. He built store pages, cultivated thousands of followers, and started running the business like a lab: testing, refining, scaling.

And he didn’t just delegate—he hustled. He put fliers on windshields in the summer heat while employees watched from the air conditioning. He cold-called local businesses, forged partnerships, handed out value before he asked for anything in return. Slowly, those who mattered noticed. Some even followed.

Emotionally, though, Vincent was running on fumes. He kept everyone at arm’s length—except for Elizabeth. His daughter was his sanctuary.

He worked nonstop. Seven days a week. Answered every call. Put out fires with both hands. He used work to dodge commitment, feelings, everything. But this version of Vincent—this version—was humble. He still led the pack, still carried more weight than anyone else, but he gave credit where it was due. Quietly. Graciously.

Still, the chaos never ended.

The people working in the stores were not really cut from the same cloth of hard work and polish and discipline. The only guy who would actually consistently show up to work for the White Bear Township store was an HR nightmare. Vincent had to scrape the bottom of Craigslist to find anyone willing to fill gaps, even if it meant dangling hollow promotions.

Terry Bunche was burning out. Bruce Rollins—corrupt, inflated, chemically enhanced—demanded Terry commit fraud to help him hide failing sales by creating fake returns. This was warfare.

This wasn’t in any training manual Vincent had ever read.

It was unorthodox madness. And Vincent was surviving it.

Each fire he put out spawned two more. His managers ignored calls, missed forms, skipped meetings. Theft, laziness, apathy. Sales slumped. Paychecks came up short. Vincent’s life felt like plugging a sinking ship with his bare hands.

And yet… he kept going. It was all he knew.

He tried to shake the feeling that he had sold his soul for a false promise. But Jordan Wallace—his enigmatic, rule-breaking CEO—always had a new rabbit to pull from the hat. Millions dangled in the distance. Kickbacks. New stores. Expansions. Vincent could be the general of an empire. Wallace would promise these “blue skies” ahead while globetrotting and partying on the company’s dime while employees were in the Wild West.

A lavish dinner in Indianapolis with Wallace, Lee Christian, and the Moriarty Wireless brass painted a picture of prosperity: lobster, scotch, strip clubs, and sunglasses at midnight. Wallace strutted like a rockstar. Vincent watched in quiet awe, remembering a younger version of himself—hungry, reckless, desperate to impress. Now? He only wanted stability. He only wanted enough.

Moriarty Wireless was more impressive thank Brink—chaotic, irreverent, loose-lipped—but effective. Their growth was real. And maybe, just maybe, Vincent could parlay his explosive abilities into a move over there. Anything but here.

Then came the marketing breakthrough: Vincent and Terry developed a toll-free number and landing page strategy to capture leads at scale. It was bold, brilliant, and repeatable. This could be his ticket. Wallace dangled millions again, painting Vincent as a future mogul. Vincent believed it—for now.

The pace, however, never slowed.

Rollins grew more erratic. Layoffs. Harassment. Petty accusations. Vincent had enough. He called the Wilsons, pushed for Rollins’ removal, and won. Small justice, but justice nonetheless.

With every collapsed store or failed manager, Vincent pivoted, sacrificed, recalibrated. He launched cold call campaigns, hosted hiring blitzes, fought theft, filled paperwork gaps, and dragged the region upward by sheer will.

He couldn’t save everyone. He couldn’t do everything. But he kept doing something.

Then came a spark of light: the Superstar contest. A sales competition. A joke turned into opportunity. Vincent and his New Brighton team filmed a comedic, perfectly timed spoof involving Barack Obama, a Jamaican ambassador, and Vincent turning into Superman at the conclusion. It won the region. He was off to Chicago to compete nationally in a role play versus younger cellular phone aficionados.

Vincent Scott arrived at the airport two hours early, a dog-eared James Bond novel in hand—a ritual of preparation, not for reading, but for resetting his mind. He spotted a young manager, Ben Kennett, and a senior exec, Kurt Stillwater. Vincent struck up easy conversation. Kurt took his seat in first class. Vincent and Ben sat together in coach.

Ben, 26 and eager, wanted to soak up every ounce of Vincent’s knowledge. Lunch before the competition became a crash course in leadership, recruiting, and marketing. Vincent obliged, mentoring with the grace of someone who’d been forged in fire and failure. He didn’t need to impress—he was already at peace with what he knew.

The competition was stacked with hungry twenty-somethings—some experts in specs, some prodigies in sales. Vincent, at 32, wasn’t the most technical. He hadn’t even been trained on the system. But he wasn’t there to know the most. He was there to connect the best.

While the others rehearsed their pitches like actors cramming for lines, Vincent stood quietly, trusting instinct. When it was his turn, he walked in unrehearsed and made the room laugh. He said the role player’s name. He told a story. He closed the deal. Effortlessly.

The result stunned the room: Vincent Scott – Superstar. He won the entire competition.

He didn’t win because he out-prepped them. He won because he outplayed them. He knew how to read the room, connect, and close—not with tech specs, but with presence.

That week, Vincent delivered a powerful speech to a room full of military families at a Chamber luncheon, then captivated executives on a panel at a Moriarty Wireless convention. He was no longer just surviving. He was ascending.

Every room he entered, he now owned—not because he shouted the loudest, but because he listened, learned, and knew just when to speak.

June 27, 2011. It was supposed to be the most important meeting in Brink Management Company history.

Vincent Scott had spent weeks preparing a full-scale launch of a lead generation campaign—his Hail Mary pass to rescue a struggling business from the quicksand of underperformance. The flyers had arrived. The toll-free numbers and websites were live. The system was ready. He called it “shooting fish in a barrel.” All his team had to do… was show up.

But when Vincent walked into the Golden Valley store that Monday afternoon, the room was nearly empty.

Jesse Fairbanks? On vacation. Cliff Watson? Also out. Oscar didn’t show. De-Metre was tied up with customers. Reggie was installing a home phone himself—something any rep could’ve done. This was not apathy. This was insult. And Vincent—after all the awards he’d won, speeches he’d given, and opportunities he’d created—was speechless.

He delivered the meeting anyway. Passionately. Professionally. He filmed a video, made it mandatory viewing, and kept going like he always did. Because that’s what leaders do.

The truth? Vincent was exhausted. Four months into Brink, and it felt worse than the nine years he’d endured at his last job. Managers couldn’t be bothered to dial into calls. He lost two stores in a week. Mankato had been gutted and left for dead by Dustin “Bruce” Rollins. Vincent was now personally ferrying cash and equipment between cities, doing damage control and PR and inventory logistics all on his own. There was no roadmap for this.

But he didn’t quit. He couldn’t. He’d bet on lead generation to change everything. And now… it had to.

Brink sputtered to mediocre gross profit results for June. Better than what they had been pre-Vincent, but not enough. But every key metric was up. Vincent’s process was working—even if the people weren’t. And if this campaign hit, it could raise revenue by 50% per store per month. If.

Vincent was tired. Alone. Running out of rope. But he was still standing.

Chris Jeffries, once a thorn in Vincent’s side, was now being courted by Doug Wilson and the puppeteer herself, Susie, to take ownership of the Greenfield store—an offer bundled alongside the Hermantown, Cloquet, and Plymouth locations that had long tested Vincent’s patience. Of course, it started the way all their schemes did: with lunch. Because nothing cemented backroom deals like a corporate meal on someone else’s dime.

In the weeks that followed, Vincent was swept into a rhythm of monthly road trips up I-35W North. Susie’s plan was simple: leverage the shared windshield time between her, Doug, and Vincent to push her regional agenda while appearing supportive. The reality? She used the time to control the narrative, dominate lunch orders, and steer strategy toward her priorities—typically thinly veiled micromanagement masked as operational concern.

The Hermantown store, once a regional crown jewel, was spiraling—$45,000 in gross profit had slipped to $30,000 in just four months. Meanwhile, stores like Bloomington, Eden Prairie, and New Brighton were roaring back under Vincent’s leadership. But Hermantown’s slow erosion was dragging down the collective tide. Despite Jeffries slowly warming to Vincent’s teachings, his lieutenants resisted, uninterested in pivoting toward the future.

Vincent accepted it: some people didn’t want to change. And if they weren’t willing to move, he wasn’t going to keep dragging them. “Move the middle,” he muttered in his head. “Only if the middle wants to move.”

But there were sparks of hope. The marketing platform he’d helped architect with Terry Bunche and Saul Portman was gaining traction.

Jordan Wallace arrived in Minneapolis for the Brink Management Company midyear review dressed like a corporate peacock—turquoise shirt, darker blue tie, feigned polish. It was a rare effort from the man who usually showed up looking like a philosophy major’s dropout fantasy.

Vincent introduced him to Terry and ushered him into the back room where they unveiled the new lead generation system. It was sharp, elegant, adaptive. Terry outlined the mechanics, Vincent filled in the vision. For a moment, the air was electric.

But then Jordan Wallace opened his mouth.

“Ever heard of Berkshire Hathaway?” he asked casually, shifting the entire tone of the room.

Vincent and Terry nodded.

“I don’t care about cell phones,” Wallace declared. “I like starting things, then collecting residuals while I move on to the next shiny object.”

He launched into a dreamscape of Wally’s Weenies (a hot dog stand he owned), wireless superstores, and saloon-style restaurants. The lead generation system? Just a spoke on the wheel. The mobile business they were all neck-deep in? Just a stopover.

“I got Vincent here by selling him the ‘blue skies,’” Wallace said, half-laughing. “That’s what I do. Pitch the best-case scenario. Whether or not it happens, who knows.”

Vincent froze. The air tightened. He’d been had—openly duped by a man who admitted selling him a dream he never intended to deliver.

And now, Wallace wanted pay cuts. “We’re bleeding money,” he said, ignoring the wine tours and lavish weekend escapes that bled the company dry. “Sacrifice now, and we’ll all be millionaires later.”

Vincent stared through him. He had traded security for leadership, bet on himself, and now the pot was evaporating. But he didn’t flinch.

“If I can make you money and run this company better than anyone,” Vincent said, “you’ll have to pay me like it.”

Still, Wallace nodded half-heartedly and disappeared like a magician’s trick—off to his next distraction. Vincent and Terry stood in the parking lot afterward, reflecting on everything they’d just heard.

“I’m not here for him,” Terry said. “I’m here because I believe in you.”

And that was all Vincent needed.

At the midyear review the next day, Cellular Horizons, Moriarty, and Brink brass celebrated a 150% year-over-year improvement. Vincent was toasted and lauded for his market turnaround. Greenfield was reopening under Jeffries. New Brighton hit its first $20,000 month under De-Metre Jones. There was momentum.

But behind the scenes, Wallace’s circus rolled on. Lead generation delays. Marketing support failures. Susie and Doug playing political chess. Payroll mistakes every cycle. Wallace’s marriage unraveling in plain sight. Refurbished phones being sold as new. And now, the 1099 plan.

Wallace and Vincent’s Texas counterpart Aaron Hartley had pivoted: get rid of salaried employees. Turn everyone into commission-only contractors. Make them host parties to mine their personal networks for leads. It was amateur-hour sales strategy, masquerading as innovation. Vincent refused. He wouldn’t sell out his people.

Wallace and Hartley offered incentives to force managers to convert their staff. Lee Christian, Vincent’s Missouri counterpart, and Vincent were flown to Wisconsin, wined, dined, and handed fake promotions while Wallace shaved $750,000 off the books. By the time Vincent sobered up, he realized his title of “Regional VP” came with a pay cut.

Still, he pushed forward. He hosted daily rally calls, drove across Minnesota, personally cold-called leads, trained reps, and tried to hold the crumbling machine together. In Dallas, he found chaos—no leadership, no structure, just broken promises and disillusioned employees.

And yet, everywhere Vincent went, results followed.

The company didn’t rise. He raised it. Like Atlas, he held it up. And the reps knew it. The managers knew it. Even Wallace knew it—his new ploy was to parade Vincent around Dallas like a show pony while still stiffing him financially.

Meanwhile, the whispers started. Employees from all over the company began asking Vincent to take over. “Go to Moriarty,” they said. “Lead us.”

Doug and Susie Wilson undermined him, leaked his conversations to Wallace, and squashed opportunities like Volition Wireless trying to poach him and Saul. But Vincent just smiled through gritted teeth.

Wallace continued to make empty promises—Vincent would become President of Brink, Wallace claimed. But the carrot dangled endlessly while the company spiraled deeper into debt, inventory vanished, and trust evaporated.

Vincent led with everything he had left. Calls. Clinics. Conference speeches. Strategy. He was the only thing keeping the ship from sinking—performing miracles on a stage too small for his talent and a paycheck too small for his worth.

Jordan Wallace committed the two greatest sins in business: failing to pay employees and failing to deliver inventory.

Wallace was shamelessly negligent, but he offered Vincent a golden status: the only employee he absolutely refused to lose.

Vincent had reached out to Doug and Susie’s superiors—Kent Smyth and Kurt Stillwater—with a bold proposal: let Scott Enterprises, LLC run the region. Crickets. Stillwater ignored him entirely. Smyth politely declined, citing Moriarty’s past failures with external partners. Ironically, they were forming their own management company instead.

Vincent called it what it was: “1099-a-palooza.” The idea was to hire independent contractors en masse. Faced with no choice as paid employees balked at what they were becoming, Vincent finally complied, with vigor—75 he brought on in the first week. Whatever it was, Vincent would always do it big and do it best.

Predictably, most evaporated within days, some vanishing before orientation finished. A few lingered. Among the most unforgettable: Mitch McConnell, a self-proclaimed B2B manager with five DWIs and no license; Andrea Kessler, a scandal-plagued transplant from Indiana; and Camille Bright, a Hooters server with charisma but zero work ethic. Yet in the rubble, a small core stayed—for better or worse. They believed in Vincent.

The formula, Vincent concluded, was to lock down in-store excellence, then expand: doors, businesses, events, outreach. He’d pull it off with an all-star skeleton crew, razor-thin budget, and a lineup of mercurial contractors. The odds were grim. Which meant, to Vincent, the challenge was irresistible.

He stayed regimented—conference calls, store visits, daily reporting—even as the system collapsed around him. He went from visiting three stores per day to one, barely. His energy was leaking. The calling tree with Saul Portman and Terry Bunche was their therapy: daily “what-if” scenarios and pipe dreams of a rescue by power players like Alan Starr. They chased blue skies through endless gray.

The core team—Saul, Terry, De-Metre, Darryl—kept Vincent going. They lunched frequently at a local deli, talked strategy, vented, and hoped. Meanwhile, the payroll fiasco metastasized. Missing commission checks, skewed payments, no communication. Inventory was just as abysmal—requested products never arrived, and managers like Vincent had to play courier between stores.

Terry, hardened by the Bruce Rollins era, declared Brink was circling the same drain. The same signs were flashing: unpaid debts, undelivered inventory, hollow morale. Vincent, Saul, and Terry reached a tipping point. They briefed Doug Wilson in a backroom at Bloomington. This was a plea—not for themselves, but their people. The verdict: Doug would “look into it.” That was all.

Chaos became the new normal. Employees ghosted without notice after unpaid paychecks. Jordan Wallace offered more broken promises—most laughably, that he would work seven days a week, rotating among four regions, handing out fliers and cold-calling. That lasted three days.

Vincent’s corporate card began getting declined, sometimes mid-transaction, as Wallace and others maxed it out for inventory. Vincent had to foot the bill for recognition programs, customer lunches, and gas—without warning. But he soldiered on.

He threw himself into the fray—hosting a karaoke night for breast cancer awareness (bringing down the house with renditions of Frankie Valli and Marvin Gaye), and parading with a megaphone outside his former employer ABM’s downtown fortress: “Stuck in a wireless contract? I’ll buy you out. Tell ‘em Vincent sent you!”

It was madness, but it was his. His antics lit up his phone with cheers, jeers, and disbelief. He felt the collapse pressing in, but he thrashed against it with defiant vigor.

Daily plans to hit four stores now often crumbled after one. The reality of the failures—more 1099 flake-outs, paycheck errors, no inventory, more broken promises—broke him down. For the first time, Vincent Scott walked away mid-day, picking up Elizabeth or retreating home in defeat. The mental and physical toll was brutal.

Still, the next day he’d try again. But more often than not, he was done by noon. The fire that had once burned hot with limitless drive was sputtering. This frightened him more than any business collapse.

He was giving his body, mind, and soul for a doomed venture—low pay, no benefits, no endgame.

The worst part? He knew he was destined for something greater. And yet, the path to that greatness was lost in fog.

Doug and Susie Wilson, under fire from above, began their scapegoating campaign. They pointed fingers at Vincent, then at Saul, Terry—anyone close to him. They suggested terminations in situations that (while justified) would literally cripple stores, criticized team loyalty, and floated improvements that required nonexistent funds.

They didn’t care about solutions—only absolution.

The truth was the staff wasn’t perfect. Neither was Vincent. But how could they be when they were mistreated, underpaid, and lied to? Even so, sales were somehow up year-over-year. But the moment Hermantown dipped, the Wilsons pounced.

Stillwater, Flowers, Smyth—they were fed a narrative. That Vincent was mismanaging. That his loyalty to underperformers hurt the business. Not that they had no products to sell or money to pay their people.

Terry was scapegoated: accused of not knowing systems or products, even as he worked 80-hour weeks and kept Greenfield afloat. Saul was scapegoated: accused of absenteeism when he was actually delivering inventory. These were not flaws. These were the last strands of sanity holding the operation together.

The daily emotional rollercoaster was unrelenting. One hour: joy for a successful lead-gen initiative. Next: realization that the paycheck wouldn’t cover his bills. Vincent was doing more than ever—across four states—and being paid less than when he ran Minnesota alone.

His former ABM department, trending toward $26 million in annual revenue without him, had hit $51 million in his final year. He had built an empire. Now, he was scraping together sales for a shell of a company.

He filed complaints, submitted hundreds of pages of evidence. But his government caseworker, Jon Jefferson, offered the final gut punch: no angle, no case. Not race. Not gender. Not religion. Just Vincent—on his own. Again.

He had been back-and-forth with Autumn Westwood for 4 years and they still both struggled to be together or apart.

Vincent Scott had weathered his share of professional storms, but the situation in Texas felt different. Jordan Wallace, Brink’s absentee owner and king of empty promises, had once again summoned Vincent for a rescue mission—this time to the sun-scorched wasteland of Brink’s seven Texas stores, all of which had never turned a profit.

Wallace, who treated real business strategy like a suggestion box, needed Vincent to assess the carnage and draft a plan: save or scrap. Simple, right?

Aaron Hartley, the man in charge of Texas operations, picked up Vincent from Love Field in a Camry that sounded like it had been in more fights than Vincent himself. They exchanged tight-lipped pleasantries. Hartley knew Wallace viewed him as expendable, and Vincent—Wallace’s golden boy—was here for a reason.

What Vincent found was worse than he expected. Staff who hadn’t seen their manager in weeks. No comprehension of their compensation. No training. No inventory. No insurance offerings. Morale was non-existent.

At lunch, a disheartened Hartley admitted, “Yeah, I stopped giving 100% a long time ago.”

Vincent didn’t hide his frustration. “You know, I once believed in hard work. In purpose. But this—this is a mess.”

Over shrimp tacos, Vincent sketched out a plan. He would transplant his top Minnesota managers to Texas—Reggie, De-Metre, and Darryl. Each would manage two stores until they could groom replacements. Hartley stared in disbelief as Vincent presented it.

“This… this could actually work,” Hartley murmured.

“Leave Wallace to me,” Vincent said.

He called Wallace that night. Vincent made his pitch with a confidence that could sell sand in a desert. Wallace bought it.

“You’re probably the smartest guy I’ve ever worked with,” Wallace said. “Send me the plan. I’ll take it to the investors.”

Back in Minnesota, Vincent received a hero’s welcome at a leadership seminar. Surrounded by his team—Saul, De-Metre, Darryl, Terry—he delivered a five-point manifesto on leadership that earned him a standing ovation.

Build relationships.Eliminate obstacles.Focus on people and process.Don’t get caught in minutiae.Be the ambassador of the business.

But victory is fleeting.

Within days, Jordan Wallace was back with more blue sky delusions—a social media site for wireless vendors, a “Facebook for phones,” and endless other distractions. Meanwhile, paychecks bounced, inventory vanished, and employee unrest reached a fever pitch.

Vincent pitched Wallace on a new structure: make him President of Brink Wireless. Wallace dodged.

Calls, complaints, and calamities came in like waves. Vincent canceled morning calls. He stopped wearing ties. He fought like hell to retain Saul and Terry, throwing together last-minute promotions and pay bumps to keep the wheels from falling off.

Alan Starr, the would-be savior, was always “99%” committed to taking over. But November 1 came and went with no change. Vincent turned back to LinkedIn and networking, hedging his bets.

By December, the chaos was overwhelming. Commission rules were rewritten post-month. Payroll errors were standard. Corporate demanded terminations of Vincent’s top performers. He refused.

“I’m not going to fire someone who’s doing their best through utter madness. You want to hold someone accountable? Hold me,” he told Susie Wilson.

He wore a bracelet that read “Blue Skies” every day—a joke turned mantra.

Vincent gave what he could, when he could. Cigars with Terry and Saul were his therapy. Coaching sessions were his sanctuary. The business was collapsing, but his pride, defiance, and dignity stayed intact.

As the year ended, Alan Starr remained a ghost. Wallace floated three scenarios: closure, consolidation, or franchising. None felt real.

Despite insurmountable odds, every store under Vincent’s direction—except Mankato, which closed after the implosion of Bruce Rollins—had exceeded its prior year December performance.

Days later, the other shoe dropped. Terry called Vincent.

“Our jobs were just posted online. Sales reps. Managers. All of them.”

“That’s their play,” Vincent said grimly. “Apply for your own job, get interviewed by people who don’t know you, and maybe they keep you.”

Doug Wilson finally texted back after weeks of silence: yes, employees should apply.

Then came the crushing confirmation from Jordan Wallace.

“They’re only buying the management contract. We still own the stores, but Moriarty gets control.”

“What about me?” Vincent asked.

Wallace hesitated. “I don’t think they’re going to offer you anything, dude.”

Vincent didn’t crumble. He composed. He fired off a detailed, passionate email to everyone—Moriarty, Cellular Horizons, Brink. A comprehensive documentation of the journey, his team’s victories, and his plea to emerge with his team on the other side of this.

Still, silence.

Doug and Kent made store visits. Vincent was excluded. The man who turned a ghost-town region into a thriving operation was suddenly persona non grata.

So he called a team meeting.

They met at the Golden Valley store. A folding table, folding chairs. De-Metre, Saul, Darryl, Terry—glum faces staring at their leader.

“Moriarty is taking over,” Vincent announced. “Ownership won’t change. Control will. You’ve been asked to apply. As for me… I have no reason to believe I’ll be brought on.”

Shock. Anger.

“This is ridiculous,” Darryl said.

“It’s life,” Vincent replied. “We accept it. We move forward. I took you as far as I could.”

Terry stopped him at the door.

“That’s what they want, for you to disappear. If you leave now, they win. Stay. Finish. Go out on your terms.”

Vincent nodded. He would.

Three grueling days of interviews followed. He submitted staffing plans, résumés, performance recaps. No response.

Then: a surprise. Mark Sturgis, a senior leader at Moriarty, wanted to meet.

At the Renaissance Hotel, Vincent faced a conference table of judgment: Sturgis, Susie, Doug.

“You’re here because your contributions are undeniable,” Mark said.

He pressed. Why didn’t Vincent fire De-Metre?

“Because the problem was his Assistant. I recommended De-Metre for a sales rep role and sent in my candidate for manager.”

Susie’s voice cracked with passive accusation. “Why has it felt like you versus us?”

Vincent stayed composed.

“Because when we asked for help, you told Jordan. And from that moment on, I had to look out for my people. I did what I was paid to do. I led. I delivered. I protected.”

Even Susie fell silent.

That night, Jordan Wallace called.

“Sturgis said it was the best interview he’s ever had. He might offer you something.”

Vincent smiled. Maybe, just maybe…

Sturgis’s call on January 18 confirmed Vincent’s training help. Nothing else. No job.

Then came Susie’s call. Her voice syrupy, fake. She “heard the news” and wished him well. The final slap.

He wrote a goodbye email to hundreds of people who had been part of the journey. His eulogy to a year of miracles and misery.

Terry hugged him. Saul called him an inspiration.

And Vincent learned from his daughter Elizabeth that Autumn was marrying her on-again, off-again boyfriend Chris.

As Vincent walked out of a Cellular Horizons store for the last time, he texted Autumn to meet him, as she was working across the street at the ABM citadel downtown.

“I can’t propose,” he told her. “But I want to try again. Valentine’s Day. Counseling. Disney with Elizabeth. I want to figure this out.”

Autumn cried.

They embraced.