The Pie-Maker’s Final End Chapter 1

My year-end bonus finally came through. Three hundred for me, eighteen thousand for everyone else.

My general manager, Mr. Wang, clapped me on the shoulder, his smile dripping with false sincerity. "Claire, you're young. Don't focus on the money. Focus on the platform we provide."

I smiled back, nodded, and accepted the pathetically thin red envelope.

A week later, my contract expired. The company did not renew it.

On the day I left, Mr. Wang was popping champagne to celebrate. His phone, however, wouldn't stop ringing.

* * *

The red envelope, stamped with the company's gold-foil logo, lay in my palm, as light and brittle as a dead leaf.

Three hundred dollars.

The number registered in my brain without stirring a single emotion, just a pool of stagnant, silent water.

I walked back to my desk, a forgotten island in a sea of files and sticky notes, tucked away in a neglected corner.

The air was thick with the scent of celebration—a heady mix of perfume, coffee, and money.

"Holy crap, eighteen thousand! Hermès bag, here I come!"

"Where are we celebrating tonight? Three-Michelin-star, nothing less!"

"My husband just called and told me to transfer it to him for the mortgage, lol."

Faces, distorted with excitement, swam before my eyes. They held up their phones like victory flags, the glaring bank transfer notifications a testament to their triumph.

I sat down, a blank expression on my face, a spectator at a feast that had nothing to do with me.

Mark, the colleague who loved to dump his grunt work on me, made a point of sauntering past my desk.

He held his new iPhone so close to my face I could see the pixels, the "180,000.00" on the screen cranked to maximum brightness.

"Hey, Claire, got yours?" he drawled, his voice slick with smug satisfaction.

I didn't look up. My eyes were fixed on the dusty keyboard in front of me.

"I did."

"In this economy, for the company to be so generous... we really picked the right team."

He lingered, his voice just loud enough for the surrounding cluster of desks to hear.

"It all comes down to ability, you know? The capable ones do more work. But sometimes, it's just luck. Can't expect a free ride forever."

Every word was a poisoned needle, aimed directly at me.

A few stifled snickers rippled through the air.

My fingers, resting on the keyboard, curled into a fist. My nails dug into my palm, a sharp, grounding pain.

I still didn't look up. I just opened my laptop.

The screen flickered to life, reflecting my plain face and black-rimmed glasses, my expression a perfect mask of indifference.

Ping. Ping. Ping. The department's group chat was blowing up.

It was the general manager, Mr. Wang.

He'd sent a huge digital red envelope with the caption, "Great work, team! Let's keep the party going tonight!"

The chat was instantly flooded with "Thank you, Mr. Wang!" and "You're the best, boss!" stickers.

I tapped on the envelope.

"Too slow. All envelopes have been claimed."

I closed the app, glanced at the member list. Mr. Wang had tagged everyone. Everyone except me.

It wasn't an oversight. It was deliberate.

A public execution, carried out by a man in a position of power.

He wanted everyone to know that I, Claire Chen, was insignificant.

A heavy, cold stone settled in my chest.

The internal office phone on my desk let out a piercing ring.

"Claire, Client A's system crashed again. Handle it. Their CEO is furious."

It was Mark's voice, laced with impatient authority.

Client A was notoriously difficult. Their system was ancient, plagued with problems. A cursed project no one wanted to touch.

Whenever trouble brewed, the mess landed squarely on my desk.

"Okay," I said, a single word, and hung up.

I opened the CRM, pulled up all of Client A's files, and started analyzing the problem.

In the bottom right corner of my screen, an inconspicuous icon began to flash.

It was Sarah from administration.

"Claire, don't let them get to you. They've all lost their minds."

In this cold, sterile office, Sarah was the only one who called me by my first name.

Seeing her warm message, my frozen heart stirred with a faint pulse.

I typed back.

"It's okay, Sarah. I'm used to it."

Was I really?

Or was I just numb?

Numb to the pain, numb to the anger.

I closed the chat window and navigated to a deeply encrypted folder on my D drive.

Inside, there was only one file.

I opened it. A dense spreadsheet filled the screen.

Client Name, Project Details, Order Value, Key Contacts, Private Phone Numbers, Family Birthdays, Children's Hobbies...

For three years, every single deal I had personally closed, every client I had personally nurtured—it was all here.

This was the data behind Mr. Wang's "glorious achievements" in his reports, the ammunition he used to curry favor with the higher-ups.

This was my final hand.

After I was done, the group chat lit up again.

Mr. Wang had posted: "To celebrate our department's record-breaking performance, all expenses tonight are on me! We're not going home sober!"

Another wave of fawning praise followed.

I opened the text box and typed a few words.

"Mr. Wang, I'm not feeling well. I'd like to request leave from the dinner tonight."

I hit send.

No reply.

As expected.

I shut down my computer and started to pack my things.

There wasn't much to pack.

A few technical books, a three-year-old mug, and a dying potted plant.

I placed the books in a cardboard box and picked up the mug.

The company logo, a gift from my first day, was faded and barely legible.

For three years, I had been like that logo, my presence here growing fainter and fainter, until I had almost disappeared completely.

I opened a drawer and took out a pre-prepared handover document, placing it on the desk.

It detailed the procedural steps for all the work I was responsible for.

As for why those clients would call my personal phone with a problem at two in the morning...

As for why the most demanding client would only accept proposals written by me...

As for the "special relationships" that were maintained through personal care and favors...

Sorry. Not a word of that was in the handover document.

I threw the dying plant into the trash, along with three years of frustration and resentment.