He slowly shook his head.
“No. You’re not in trouble.”
I blinked. “I’m… not?”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples, like the weight of the morning was finally catching up to him.
“Company policy says we can’t interfere with transactions,” he said. “But managers have discretion. And this”—he gestured to the frozen security footage—“wasn’t stealing or favoritism. You used your own money.”
Relief washed over me so fast my eyes stung.
“Then why am I here?” I asked.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a plain white envelope. My name—Amelia—was written neatly across the front.
“This came in about an hour ago,” he said. “The woman from last night came back. She asked for you by name.”
My stomach flipped. “She did? Is she upset? I told her she didn’t need to pay me back.”
“She wasn’t upset,” he said gently. “She was… emotional.”
