...and presented it to Ms. Pruitt with fancier formatting, earning praise for his "meticulous thinking and keen eye."
This same person had "coincidentally" called in sick with a bad cold last month—right when the project hit a critical roadblock.
The moment I led the team through the crisis, he "coincidentally" recovered, swooped in with the final deliverables, and gave the presentation himself.
I stared at him coldly. Said nothing.
"Max, buddy, you're being way too impulsive here."
Clint Gilbert shook his head, looking genuinely pained on my behalf.
"You're talented, no question. It's just... sometimes you're too blunt, you know?"
"This is the corporate world. It's not enough to be good at your job—you've gotta be good with people too, am I right?"
The subtext dripped from every word. He even patted my arm, all buddy-buddy.
"Exactly." Another colleague jumped in immediately, wearing an exaggerated fake smile. "Max, what kind of act is this supposed to be?"
"Playing hard to get? Trying to pressure Ms. Pruitt into giving you a raise?"
"Hate to break it to you, but that trick's ancient history!"
Snickers rippled through the office.
I didn't stop. Kept tossing my few pens into the cardboard box.
"Seriously, Max, don't do anything rash."
Someone else sidled over, leaning against the partition, tone dripping with condescension.
"Your wife's at home with the kid, no job, right? Your son just started middle school?"
"This is when expenses really pile up. You just walk out like this—how are you gonna make next month's mortgage? The car payment?"
"No paycheck, your whole family's gonna be living on air through the holidays?"
The words barely landed before more "concerned" colleagues gathered around.
"He's right, Max. We're all adults here. Don't throw a tantrum like some kid."
"So your bonus was a little light—Ms. Pruitt already promised you a promotion and raise next year. Just hang in there."
"You know how brutal the job market is out there. In our industry, once you're past thirty, nobody even looks at your resume."
"You're what... pushing forty now? Walk out that door, who's gonna want you?"
"Stay here, at least it's stable."
"Exactly. Why are you even comparing yourself to Clint? His emotional intelligence, his people skills, his work ability—can you match any of that?"
"Sometimes you just gotta accept your lot in life. Keep your head down, do your job, stop dreaming about things that aren't meant for you."
The voices piled on top of each other, buzzing in my ears like a swarm of flies.
And by the end, they'd dropped the pretense entirely. Nothing but malice and mockery.
"If you ask me, Max getting two-fifty for his bonus was already generous. That rigid technical grunt work he does? Grab a fresh grad, train them for a few months, they'd probably do it better—and cheaper."
"A wise man knows his limitations. Pity some people were born without that self-awareness."
"Let him put on his little show. I give it three days, tops, before he comes crawling back to beg Ms. Pruitt for his job."
"Oh, that's gonna be a scene worth watching..."
I'd had enough. I slammed the box lid shut.
Cleared my throat.
"Everyone done?"
I turned to the colleague who'd started the passive-aggressive pile-on.
Last year, his module had a catastrophic flaw. I'd pulled three consecutive all-nighters refactoring his code to keep it from becoming a disaster.
"Benedict Finch. Remember?"
"That bug-riddled framework of yours last year? I'm the one who cleaned up your mess."
"Heard Ms. Pruitt praised you afterward for staying calm under pressure and resolving it quickly?"
"Nice performance. But do me a favor—next time, don't use live company projects as your training ground."
His face flushed crimson. His mouth opened and closed. Nothing came out.
I turned to the colleague so "worried" about my mortgage.
"Nigel Lambert. Your wife doesn't work either. So that side gig you've been running on the sly using company resources last month—was that money supposed to cover your mortgage?"
