I was sitting in the chemo chair when I got the email.
My body was pumped full of poison trying to kill the cancer eating through my breast tissue, and my phone buzzed with a message from HR. The subject line glowed on my screen like a slap across the face: “Termination of Employment — Effective Immediately.”
I read it three times before my hands started shaking so hard the nurse had to take my phone away.
They fired me. While I was literally getting chemotherapy.
My manager, Derek Paulson, didn’t even have the decency to call. He sent a templated email citing “performance issues” and “company restructuring.” Performance issues. I had been employee of the quarter twice in the past year. I had trained half the department, including Derek’s own nephew who somehow got hired despite having zero qualifications. I had worked through my diagnosis, through my double mastectomy, answering emails from my hospital bed because I was terrified of losing my job and my health insurance.
And now, two weeks into medical leave, they pulled the trigger.
I cried for three days straight. Then I got angry. Then I got curious.
The Backstory: A Toxic Kingdom
Let me back up.
I had worked at Henderson & Cole Marketing for seven years. It was a mid-sized firm in suburban New Jersey—the kind of place where people brought their kids to the Christmas party and pretended we were all “family.” I started as a junior account coordinator and worked my way up to senior project manager. I loved my job. I was good at it.
Then Derek got promoted.
Derek Paulson was everything wrong with corporate America wrapped in a cheap Men’s Wearhouse suit. He had been hired three years ago through some connection with the VP of Operations—they played golf together at some country club. Derek had no marketing experience. He’d worked in sales for a medical device company and somehow convinced upper management he could “bring fresh leadership” to our department.
Within six months, he made everyone’s life miserable.
He played favorites. He took credit for other people’s work. He held grudge matches against anyone who challenged him. And worst of all, he was incompetent. We spent more time fixing his mistakes than doing our actual jobs.
But I kept my head down. I had bills to pay. Student loans. A mortgage. And then, eight months ago, I found the lump.
The Diagnosis: When Everything Falls Apart
Stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma. That’s what the oncologist told me on a Thursday afternoon in March.
I was 34 years old.
I told HR immediately. I worked with them to set up FMLA leave and short-term disability. My boss—Derek—said all the right things in our meeting. “Take all the time you need.” “Your health is the priority.” “We’ll be here when you’re ready.”
I should have known better.
I had surgery in April. The recovery was brutal, but I tried to stay connected. I answered emails. I jumped on calls when I could. I even trained my temporary replacement, a contractor named Melissa, walking her through every client account and process while I was still on pain meds.
Then came chemo. Six rounds, every three weeks. It was hell. But I kept thinking: just get through this, and you can go back to normal.
I was halfway through treatment when I got the termination email.
The Discovery: Digging Through the Dirt
After three days of crying and panic attacks, something shifted inside me. Maybe it was the steroids they gave me with the chemo. Maybe it was pure rage. But I decided I wasn’t going down without a fight.
I started drafting an email to the CEO. Then I remembered something.
Six months earlier, I’d been doing an audit of our vendor payments—routine stuff, making sure invoices matched our contracts. I came across a payment to a company called “Summit Consulting Group” for $48,000. I didn’t recognize the name, so I asked Derek about it.
He got defensive immediately. “That’s a special project for the executive team. You don’t need to worry about it. Stay in your lane, Sarah.”
It was weird, but I let it go. Derek hated being questioned.
But now, sitting in my bedroom with nothing but time and fury, I remembered: I still had access to the company shared drive. In their rush to fire me, HR hadn’t revoked my credentials yet.
I logged in.
I navigated to the finance folder where we kept vendor records. And I started digging.
Summit Consulting Group. I searched for every invoice, every payment, every email reference. The invoices were vague—”Strategic consulting services,” “Market analysis,” “Leadership development.” No detailed breakdown. No deliverables. Just big, round numbers every quarter.
Then I cross-referenced the payments with our accounting software. The checks were signed off by Derek.
I Googled “Summit Consulting Group New Jersey.” Nothing. No website. No LinkedIn. No business registration I could find.
So I searched the business name in the New Jersey state corporation database.
Bingo.
Summit Consulting Group LLC. Registered agent: Derek M. Paulson.
My heart nearly exploded out of my chest.
Derek had created a fake company. He was invoicing his own employer. And he was signing off on the payments himself.
I kept digging.
I found more. “Apex Strategy Partners.” “Pinnacle Business Solutions.” Three different shell companies, all registered to Derek or his wife. Over the past two and a half years, he had funneled more than $670,000 out of the company.
I took screenshots of everything. I downloaded every invoice, every email, every payment record. I organized it all into a folder on my external hard drive.
And then I sat there, bald and exhausted and angrier than I’d ever been in my life, and I smiled.
The Plan: Scorched Earth
I could have gone straight to the CEO. But I didn’t trust the leadership team—they were the ones who promoted Derek in the first place. And I was terrified they’d find a way to bury it and protect themselves.
So I did something smarter.
I contacted a lawyer. A friend from college who specialized in employment law. I explained everything—the illegal termination, the embezzlement, the evidence I had. She was stunned.
“Sarah, this is massive. You need to report this to the authorities.”
“I will. But I want to do it right.”
She helped me craft a plan. First, we filed a wrongful termination lawsuit against Henderson & Cole, citing illegal retaliation under FMLA. That was the opening move.
Then, I contacted the FBI.
Yes. The FBI. Because Derek wasn’t just stealing from the company—he was committing wire fraud, a federal crime.
I sent them everything. The invoices. The shell companies. The payment records. I walked them through the whole scheme in a three-hour interview at their Newark field office.
They told me they’d investigate. I didn’t know how long it would take, but I didn’t care. The wheels were in motion.
And then I waited.
The Confrontation: When the Hammer Falls
It took four months.
Four months of unemployment, of fighting with insurance companies, of finishing chemo and trying to rebuild my life. I had no idea what was happening behind the scenes.
Then, on a rainy Tuesday in October, I got a call from my lawyer.
“Sarah. Turn on the news.”
I grabbed my laptop and pulled up the local NBC affiliate.
The headline read: “Marketing Executive Arrested in $670K Embezzlement Scheme.”
There was Derek. In handcuffs. Being walked out of the Henderson & Cole office by federal agents.
I watched the footage three times. I saw his face—red, panicked, humiliated—as reporters shouted questions at him. I saw our coworkers standing in the parking lot, stunned.
The news anchor explained: Derek Paulson had been charged with wire fraud, money laundering, and theft. The FBI had executed a search warrant. The company was cooperating with the investigation.
My phone started blowing up. Former coworkers texting me. “Did you know about this?” “Oh my God, Sarah.”
I didn’t respond. I just sat there, crying tears I didn’t know I had left.
The Resolution: Justice, Served Cold
A week later, the CEO of Henderson & Cole called me personally.
He apologized. He said they had “acted on incomplete information” when they terminated me. He offered me my job back, with back pay, full benefits, and a promotion.
I told him no.
Because my lawyer had already negotiated a settlement. Six figures. Enough to cover my medical bills, my lost wages, my pain and suffering, and then some. Plus, a glowing reference letter and an agreement that they’d never contest my unemployment claim.
Derek, meanwhile, was facing up to 20 years in federal prison. His wife filed for divorce. His house went into foreclosure. The local news did a follow-up story, and I watched as his entire life crumbled on camera.
I didn’t feel bad for him. Not even a little.
As for me? I took the settlement money and gave myself time to heal. I finished reconstruction surgery. I started seeing a therapist. I spent time with my family. I adopted a dog—a scrappy little rescue terrier named Justice, because I’m petty like that.
And eventually, I started freelancing. Built my own client base. I’m making more money now than I ever did at Henderson & Cole, and I answer to no one.
People ask me if I regret what I did. If I feel guilty for “ruining” Derek’s life.
I don’t.
He fired a cancer patient to cover his own tracks. He stole from the company, from his coworkers, from people who trusted him. He thought he was untouchable.
Turns out, he wasn’t.
I didn’t ruin Derek’s life.
He did that all by himself.
I just made sure everyone knew about it.
