I Deleted My Ten Million Empire Chapter 1

It took me three years of bleeding in front of a screen to take the company’s account from zero to ten million followers.

My boss’s response was to look me in the eye and slash my revenue cut from ten percent to point-one percent.

"We’re reallocating the funds to buy trending pushes for Kenzie," he told me. "You’re the brains behind the scenes. You know how this industry works. It’s time to pass the torch."

Kenzie leaned against his shoulder, her lip gloss catching the light. "Don't be mad, babe. Honestly, at your age, you'd be lucky to get a job bagging groceries."

Three months ago, she was the receptionist.

I was the one who held her hand and taught her how to structure a hook, how to edit to the beat of trending audio, how to manipulate an audience's emotions in sixty seconds.

Now, she was wearing a designer dress I couldn't afford, using the exact corporate buzzwords I taught her to laugh in my face.

I didn't say a word. I just turned around, walked back to my desk, and opened the creator dashboard.

One thousand, two hundred videos.

Select All.

Delete.

* * *

"Talia, have a seat."

Derek slid a manila folder across the polished oak of his desk, tapping the cover with his index finger. "Take a look at the compensation adjustments for this quarter."

I flipped it open.

Page one. My name.

Revenue share: 10% → 0.1%.

I stared at the ink for five dead, silent seconds.

"Derek, is this a typo?"

He leaned back in his leather executive chair, crossing his legs with the casual grace of a man who held all the cards. He gave a breezy little laugh. "No typo."

"The company is pivoting to push Kenzie as the main face. She’s young. The demographic responds to her aesthetic. Her metrics are spiking faster."

My fingers gripped the edge of the folder. The paper dug into my skin, my knuckles turning bone-white.

"I built this account from a dead URL to ten million followers."

"Three years," I said, my voice dangerously level. "Twelve hundred videos. Pitching, scripting, lighting, shooting, editing—every single frame was me."

Derek waved his hand, swatting away my labor like a gnat. "I’m not denying your contribution, Talia. But the market shifts. That deep-dive lifestyle content you do? Engagement dropped fifteen percent last month."

"Because you slashed my production budget to zero!"

"Budget has to go where the ROI is."

The look in his eyes shifted then. He wasn't looking at a founding partner. He was looking at a power tool that had worn out its motor.

"Look, Talia, you're thirty-two. You don't have Kenzie's camera presence. The comment sections are begging for her. This whole influencer game has a shelf life, and you know it better than anyone."

He picked up a gold-plated pen and circled the 0.1% at the bottom of the page.

"The margins we save on you are going straight into Kenzie's promotional pushes. You're our behind-the-scenes hero. You need to know when to step aside for the greater good of the brand."

I didn't speak.

He took my silence for submission.

"You've got a year left on your contract," he continued, his tone softening into faux-paternalism. "Just ride it out comfortably. Put your head down, do the back-end work, and when the time comes, I’ll write you a glowing letter of rec—"

The heavy glass door swung open.

Kenzie strutted in, balancing on four-inch Louboutins, holding an iced Americano. "Your coffee, Derek~"

She placed the cup perfectly by his right hand, her manicured fingertips grazing the back of his knuckles. It was a fraction of a second. But I saw it.

She turned to look at me, her eyes curving into perfect, innocent crescents. "Oh, Talia, don't look so down! Derek is really looking out for you. Being behind the camera is so much less pressure."

She shifted her weight, leaning just a fraction closer to Derek's personal space.

"Besides, let's be real. At your age, it's not like the job market is exactly begging for you, right? You'd probably end up bagging groceries or—"

"Kenzie," Derek murmured softly.

But the corner of his mouth was twitching upward. He wasn't stopping her. He was enjoying the show.

Kenzie covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. "Oh my god, I'm totally kidding. Don't take it to heart, babe."

I looked at her.

Three months ago, on her first day, she didn't even know how to import footage into Premiere Pro. I was the one who sat beside her, teaching her the hotkeys. I gave her my proprietary script templates. I showed her how to use the exact BPM of a track to trigger a dopamine hit in the viewer.

Just last week, I’d checked the backend analytics. The "viral" pitch Kenzie had presented to Derek—The Solo Girl's Sanctuary: 100 Habits—was line-for-line Idea #37 from the master content vault I had built three months prior.

She used to stand behind my chair while I typed them out. I thought she was taking notes.

She was just taking.

She took it, pitched it to Derek, and he praised her for it. "This feels so fresh, Kenzie. Way better than the stale stuff Talia's been pushing."

I hadn't said anything then.

Looking back, the rot had started long before today.

"Hello? Earth to Talia?" Kenzie waved a hand in front of my face. "Zoning out much?"

I pulled my gaze away from her and locked eyes with my boss.

"Derek," I said, my voice stripped of all emotion. "I will ask you one last time. Is this compensation structure final?"

He took a slow sip of his Americano. "It is."

Kenzie chimed in, "You know what they say, babe. The smart ones know when to adapt."

"Okay."

I stood up.

"Then let me show you what adapting looks like."