They had placated me with the hollow title of "General Manager of Operations." Prestigious on paper. In reality, a glorified janitor for other people's messes.
"Alex Dickerson!"
Willow's voice cut through my thoughts like a lash.
"If you have issues, file a formal complaint through proper channels." Her eyes narrowed. "Why threaten resignation over nothing? Ask yourself—has this company treated you unfairly in seven years? We overlooked your educational background. Gave you a platform. Trained you. Now you're throwing a tantrum over a travel itinerary? Immature. Irresponsible."
"Ms. Pruitt is right." Madison's voice dripped with practiced sycophancy. "Alex, the company invested seven years in you. How many resources did we waste? Where's your gratitude? Staying behind is part of the job. Do you expect the entire office to shut down so you can party? Zero dedication. Incredibly selfish."
Jack leaned back, a sneer curling his lip. "He just can't handle pressure. Looking for an excuse to bail. If we actually let him run a project solo, he'd crash and burn. Don't let him bluff you, Ms. Pruitt. He knows he's hit his ceiling after coasting for seven years, so he's burning bridges before he gets fired."
William shook his head, feigning disappointment—the benevolent senior act. "Alex, don't take this the wrong way, but you're being too calculating. Colleagues help each other; that's what a team does. Take my advice—don't be impulsive. Apologize to Ms. Pruitt. If you need to stay behind, stay behind. Learn to be steady."
Their voices blurred into a cacophony of hypocrisy.
Projects built on my sleepless nights—credited to the "company platform." My exhaustion—branded as "coasting." My patience—the weapon they used to lecture me from their high horses.
I looked at their faces. Familiar. Arrogant. Deceitful. Then at Willow's impatient scowl.
The anger in my chest didn't explode. It evaporated, replaced by glacial calm.
I stood. This time, no slouching. Spine like steel.
"Ms. Pruitt. Everyone." My voice came out steady, devoid of hesitation. "Over the last seven years, I've printed thousands of documents, fetched countless deliveries, ordered your coffees, restructured your chaotic proposals, debugged your code, polished your presentations, and translated your vague gibberish into coherent reports."
I let the words hang.
"But you're right. According to you, none of that counts. Just me 'coasting.' I certainly don't deserve a week in the Maldives."
"I don't need more training. And resignation isn't a threat—it's a notification."
"I'll honor the one-month notice period." I swept my gaze across the room, meeting each pair of eyes. "However, I will only hand over duties explicitly listed in my job description."
"As for the data models, strategic plans, source code, and presentations sitting on your computers—the ones bearing your names but built by my hands..."
A cold smile.
"Good luck. I hope you can continue to 'create value' without me."
I turned to Willow. "Ms. Pruitt, thank you for the 'opportunity' these past seven years. Shame I lack the fortune to enjoy it any longer."
I didn't wait for a response. Turned. Walked out.
That afternoon, I submitted my formal resignation to HR and copied the entire company on a single email:
From today onward, I will strictly perform duties within the scope of my job description. Please do not disturb me with unrelated matters. Thank you.
