The deal is sealed and he promises to call her, but he won’t. She hops in an Uber to return to the firm

Harry aims his Python at the screen and pulls the trigger. Fortunately for his TV, the bullets lay on the end table next to his Scotch.
HARRY:(cont.) I heard the tape. Everyone in America heard the tape. “Take her out.” Like she’s Osama Bin Laden or Al Capone.
Listen to these disgraceful whiners. You’d think they’re mob lawyers for the Mafioso who orders a hit on the woman who’s about to rat him out. You didn’t read his rights, didn’t give him a phone call, didn’t get a warrant to search the car for the bullet-ridden body clearly visible through the rear window.

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Deb wakes up each morning — well, some mornings. Usually in the afternoon. Sometimes in the early evening. She’s already dressed in uniform, a muumuu she has been wearing for three days. Sometimes she showers, but usually she soaks in a tub full of days’ worth of stink, fooling herself that somehow, she will become clean.
Eventually, when she has gathered enough courage, she slinks downstairs to her new bosses’ kitchen, where she is immediately condescended to by the CEO, her mother.
“She’s alive!” the CEO chortles. “We thought you were done for.”
The CEO goes on for some time about wasting daylight, productivity, and gratitude journaling while our divorcee zones out by staring at a box of special K geriatric formula. The president of the company, slightly lower than the CEO, her father, slips her a doggie Xanax with a wink. After she takes it, she will go back to sleep for two hours.
She checks her cell and finds multiple texts from her former employer. She missed the junior partner's basketball game and he’s seeking full custody. “Bummer,” she thinks.
Now it’s time for her administrative duties, which include two things: being rejected by employers and being rejected by men on Match.com. Both sets of clientele gave her the same feeling. Well, everything gave her the same feeling: complete and utter numbness.
She corresponds with three different types of clientele on four different dating websites: young men looking for some old divorcee tang, middle-aged men looking to cheat on their wives, and other divorcees. She likes to call it diversifying her assets, but really they all want the same thing.
One client asks her for pictures of her feet, and she politely declines. Another asks her if she would take a seat on his face. Again, she says no. A third asks if she wants to meet for drinks to discuss business affairs. She figures: why not? Her life can’t get any worse.
She puts on her best pantsuit and realizes that it is two sizes too small due to all the stress eating. She opts for a more sensible skirt and blouse combo that may nor may not err more on the side of “affairs” than “business.”
She arrives at a bar that is a lot nicer than those that she has frequented during prior meetings: maybe this client will actually greet her with pleasant conversation instead of a hand on her ass. Nope. He puts his hand on her ass.
She introduces herself as Deborah, he as John; a respectable and business-like name. He fumbles around to pull out her chair so they can sit down for a few very strong drinks. A Gimlet, a martini, and a cosmo later, and her shirt is unbuttoned to a slightly unprofessional level.
As she ambles, vodka-soaked, to the ladies’ room, she reminds herself that she needs to seal this deal, lest she be fired again. She allows him to take her home and defile her but declines his request to access the back door. She is a lady, after all.