The year-end bonuses were announced. I came in dead last in the entire company—thirty-five dollars.
Clint Gilbert, the biggest kiss-ass in the office, walked away with twenty-five thousand.
The next day, I handed in my resignation.
Naomi Pruitt actually laughed when she saw it.
"Max Dickerson, seriously? You're quitting over a bonus? Because yours was a little smaller than everyone else's?"
She shook her head, amused.
"You're a grown man. Stop acting like a child."
"Now go back to your desk and finish the Sterlinggate Group proposal. Next year, I promise—promotion, raise, the whole package."
That same promise. I'd been swallowing it for years.
She assumed I'd believe her again. That I'd shuffle back to my desk like a good little worker bee.
Not this time.
1.
Naomi's fingers toyed with my resignation letter. She didn't bother looking up. That familiar smirk—the one that said you're not worth my full attention—tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Max, enough with the dramatics."
"Go finish the Sterlinggate proposal. The client's waiting."
"Next year, I guarantee you'll get that promotion. A raise too."
"I know what you're capable of. Seven years—the company doesn't forget loyalty like that."
I'd heard this speech so many times I could recite it in my sleep.
Last year. The year before. The year before that.
Every time a critical project landed on my desk. Every time I was running on fumes and desperate for a single day off. The words would materialize right on cue.
Like a carrot dangled in front of a donkey. Always just out of reach.
I used to believe it. Used to grind myself down trying to earn what I'd already been promised.
And where did that get me?
A thirty-five-dollar bonus. A slap in the face dressed up as compensation.
"Ms. Pruitt, I'm not being dramatic." My voice was steady. "The letter is clear. Personal reasons. I'm asking you to approve it."
The amusement drained from her face, replaced by something harder. Corporate ice.
"Personal reasons?" She let out a derisive huff. "Max, you've been here long enough to know how this works."
"Year-end is our busiest season. The Sterlinggate project is at a critical stage. And you think you can just walk out?"
"The company invested seven years in you. This is how you repay us?"
"Are you sure you've thought this through?"
Invested.
I turned the word over in my mind.
Was that what they called making me revise proposals until three in the morning?
Or cleaning up the disasters left by colleagues who couldn't do their jobs?
Or watching my work—my ideas, my solutions—get quietly reassigned to someone else's name?
"I've thought it through, Ms. Pruitt."
"Just sign it. Please."
She stared at me. Three seconds. Five.
Then she smiled.
She picked up my resignation letter, held it where I could see, and slowly crushed it into a ball.
Her arm swept out. The paper arced through the air and landed in the trash can by the corner.
"I don't see any resignation letter."
"Go back to work. The company needs you. Sterlinggate needs you."
"Stop overthinking. You showed up today, so your head should be in the game. Now get out."
The crumpled paper sat at the edge of the bin, wrinkled and pathetic. Like a joke no one found funny.
I looked at it and understood: words were useless here.
Naomi wasn't refusing to approve my resignation. She simply didn't consider my decision worth acknowledging.
"Ms. Pruitt, whether you sign or not, I'm leaving."
I turned, pulled open the door, and walked out.
Back at my desk, I started packing.
Eyes darted toward me from every direction—then quickly looked away.
No one spoke.
The only sound was Clint's voice from across the room, low and slick, murmuring into his phone.
"Don't worry, Ms. Pruitt... I'll handle everything... We can discuss the details over dinner..."
I didn't have much to pack.
A chipped mug. A few dog-eared technical manuals. I swept it all into a cardboard box without ceremony.
