All the whispers and pointed fingers snapped to a halt.
Zara’s face swung from red to pale. Her lips trembled, but no words came out.
I gave her a quick, dismissive look, and the others, instantly subdued, lowered their heads, pretending to be occupied with something else.
Without another word, I turned on my heel.
In the suffocating silence, I walked back to my private office, shut the door, and began gathering my personal things.
As I moved, my fingers brushed a slightly worn photo frame on the desk. It held a picture of me and my team after our first successful game test.
Back then, everyone wore genuine smiles, eyes bright with fire.
Now, things had changed.
Gradually, the anger burning in my chest faded into a deeper, heavier sadness.
Nine years. A full nine years. I had dedicated the best years of my life to this company.
How many nights was I the last one to turn off the lights in the office?
How many weekends had I spent in the server room, debugging alone?
How many times did I lead the team through the toughest problems, taking on the most complex tasks myself?
And that game—the one that won an international award and sold for a sky-high price—its core framework, its original concept, its hardest algorithms and code, wasn’t every line earned through my blood, sweat, and tears?
Then, as if fate had been waiting to tip the scales, last month my mom fell critically ill and was hospitalized. The situation was dire.
By then, the main development was complete, and we were in the final phase—tedious, yes, but not technically demanding.
I was stretched thin and had to delegate.
The dedicated and timid intern, Regina Addison, approached me and offered to take on more responsibilities, allowing me to focus on my family.
I was grateful and handed her the simpler, repetitive tasks. I even praised her publicly in a department meeting for being proactive and responsible.
I didn’t anticipate that the 'simple tasks' I delegated would turn into 'the core of the game' for Grant.
Likewise, I didn't foresee that the overtime I sacrificed to care for my mom would be portrayed as 'evidence' of my 'lack of dedication' and my supposed tendency to 'leave on time.'
Just then, the door to my office eased open, and a familiar figure stepped in.
It was Regina. She felt guilty and uneasy, hesitating as she moved closer.
“Avery… about the $10 million… I don’t deserve it. This bonus should be yours. I want to return it to you,” she said, her voice small.
I paused my packing, not looking up.
Images of Regina at the beginning flickered through my mind, polite and demure with her notebook clutched to her chest. Whenever she ran into a problem, she would slip over to my desk, shy but eager, her eyes bright with a hunger to learn.
“Alright,” I replied at last. I finally looked up, met Regina's gaze, and took out my phone. “Let’s do the transfer now. I’ll be waiting.”
The guilt on her face froze, like someone had hit pause.
A flicker of surprise and irritation flashed in her eyes. She clearly hadn’t expected me to be so blunt.
After a brief, stiff pause, she forced a smile.
“Avery, I was just being polite. You actually want it?” she said, a laugh catching in her throat.
Regina tilted her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I earned it on merit. Mr. Jefferson saw that. I wrote the core game code, I worked long hours, and I closed the nights. Tell me, what claim do you have on it?”
Her eyes, filled with a possessive gleam, drifted across the office as she spoke with obvious satisfaction.
“Come to think of it,” she added with a smirk, “I should thank you for giving up your spot so willingly.”
