"Thought he wasn't coming. Running around chasing clients on New Year's Eve—what's that going to accomplish?"
"Come on, Donald's our top seller. His numbers carried half the company last year. I bet Mr. Whitney gave him a fat bonus, right?"
I didn't take the bait. I skirted around the crowd and found an empty seat in the farthest corner.
A server appeared immediately with place settings. I picked up my chopsticks and put some greens in my mouth. They tasted like nothing.
Marcus watched me settle in, then spoke up again.
"Donald, must've been rough chasing clients at year-end, huh? When I called earlier, you were still out there hustling. How'd it go?"
I looked up at him. "Still in progress."
Marcus slapped his thigh, putting on his best appreciative-boss face.
"That's what I like to see! That hustle! Don't worry—this company rewards its heroes."
"Now, the bonus this year was a little light, I'll admit. But that project of yours ran two days over last year, cost us some money, so we had to dock a bit."
"Work hard next year and I'll get you a raise. Promote you to Sales Manager!"
The same empty promises. The same script.
Five years of this. Five years of dangled carrots that vanished the moment I reached for them.
I laughed inside, but my face stayed blank. I just nodded. "Thank you for your concern, Mr. Whitney."
Miranda sidled up to me, all wide-eyed innocence.
"So, Donald, how much did you get for your bonus? I got eight thousand eight hundred. Yours must be way more, right?"
The moment those words left her mouth, the others piled on: "Yeah, Donald, tell us! Let us be jealous for once!"
I set down my chopsticks. My voice was flat. "Not much. Two hundred fifty dollars and thirty-eight cents."
A beat of silence.
Then the private room erupted in deafening laughter.
"Two-fifty? Mr. Whitney, you're too much! That number is chef's kiss!"
"Two hundred fifty! And thirty-eight cents! What a lucky number—it's like it was made just for him!"
Marcus coughed twice, feigning disapproval.
"Alright, alright, enough. Donald had some shortcomings this year, that's all. He works hard next year, and the bonus will reflect it."
His words said fair. His eyes said joke. He didn't see me as anything worth taking seriously.
The rest of the evening was an endless stream of flattery and drunken laughter.
One by one, they raised their glasses to Marcus, competing to see who could grovel the hardest, calling him "Mr. Whitney" with sickening warmth.
I sat in my corner, eating quietly. When someone wandered over to toast me, I gave them two words and nothing more. My face revealed nothing.
The dinner dragged on until late. When it finally broke up, Marcus announced they were heading to a karaoke bar to keep the party going. The whole crowd cheered and followed him out like puppies.
No one invited me. I preferred it that way.
I turned and walked out of Senhao Hotel alone, then headed back to the office.
I organized my files—every client's quirks, preferences, deal-breakers. All of it.
These notes came from years of pounding the pavement, sitting through endless dinners, drinking until my head pounded, recording every detail that mattered. Five years of accumulated knowledge. My trump card. The one thing this company could never take from me.
Once the client files were in order, I compressed my project tracking records and saved them to both a USB drive and the cloud. No room for error.
By the time I finished, it was four in the morning.
I rubbed my burning eyes and opened my contacts, scrolling to the headhunter numbers I'd saved.
Three of them. All people I'd met at industry summits over the years. Each one had handed me a card and said the same thing: If you ever want to make a move, call me.
I sent each of them a message.
Then I went home to sleep.
I slept like the dead. When I woke, it was to my phone vibrating so violently it nearly rattled off the nightstand.
