2: 2

02

The next morning I got up and went downstairs.

My mother, who had received my resignation letter, had for once slept in and was still eating breakfast in the living room.

Beside her sat a second bowl of lobster and seafood congee, untouched.

"You're up. Eat first."

I caught the gardenia scent on her, felt the warmth of the bowl against my hands.

It was the first time I had ever stood this close to her.

Something in my chest stirred despite itself.

But the next second, she set down her chopsticks with that graceful ease and spoke flatly.

"I got your resignation letter. Denied."

"If you're throwing a little tantrum just because Zoe sat next to us last night, then you really aren't the lead wolf your father and I hoped for."

Then she casually picked up a piece of pickled radish coated in chili sauce, dropped it into my bowl, and went on.

"You know very well why the company keeps things at arm's length. Without real strength, how would you ever take over one day?"

"Your father and I have gone to great lengths to hide your true identity all this time, precisely so those old fossils would accept it willingly and choose you as the heir."

"Don't disappoint us."

I stared at the food in the bowl and didn't move.

Sometimes I really do admire my mother. When she lies, there isn't a single crack in it.

Seeing me like that, she frowned.

"Evangeline, I've said everything I need to say. Do you really have to make a scene like this?"

I set the spoon down and calmly reminded her that I was allergic to seafood.

And the only person in this house who couldn't live without chili was Zoe.

Pickled radish. I don't like it.

At that, my mother went still for a moment.

A flicker of guilt crossed her eyes, and she started to tell a servant to remake it.

But there was no time for that. The project I'd been running needed only one last signature to close.

I stood to leave.

My mother reached out to stop me, saying the recent field assignments had worn me out, and granted me a day off.

But laziness is what losers do.

That was what they'd called it two weeks ago, when I was burning at a hundred and four and asked for half a day off. Wolf-pack culture, they said.

When she saw I'd sensed something was wrong and meant to go anyway,

my mother stopped pretending. The false concern peeled away.

She pulled out a tablet and shoved it in front of me.

"There's no point going. Zoe already signed the contract for you."

On the livestream of the client meeting, my eyes dropped to the photo Zoe had sent.

The signature line, once left for the lead, already had her name on it.

The client was a Chinese-American, generous with his terms but famously impossible to work with.

I was the one who'd camped outside the consulate again and again, made over a hundred calls, just to land a single appointment.

"That was my work. Why should it go to Zoe!"

My mother looked straight past my grief and fury and took a light sip of water.

"Zoe's still one short of a passing KPI this month."

"But I pulled seven or eight all-nighters for this project. I drank until my gut perforated—"

"That's your problem. Wolf-pack culture: stay on guard at every moment, or you get culled."

My mother cut me off, impatient.

She didn't spare a glance for the red rimming my eyes, and set about arranging Zoe's celebration dinner.

Thirty million dollars. Nearly two hundred million in turnover.

At the banquet, my mother, my father, and the other shareholders were all grinning ear to ear.

Glasses clinked, and every word was praise for Zoe.

"Joseph, you've really raised a fine daughter!"

"Thanks to this money, we'll clean up on next quarter's bids too."

"Ha, and when it comes to forecasting the market then, Miss Henson will have to share plenty of her advice."

Then someone spotted me in the corner, as if it had jogged a memory.

Laughing, they mentioned catching me in a private room downing hard liquor, throwing up between grabbing at deals.

And when they asked why my name wasn't on the contract, the room fell silent for a beat.

My mother's face went cold.

"Closing it is skill. Failing to hold on to it is your own fault."

3: 3

03

The man fell silent.

And thinking of all those days of forced drinking contests, my stomach twisted with a dull ache.

I dug out the prescription pills I always carried and stood up, meaning to get myself a cup of hot water.

But the whole house had been stocked with ice water, all for Zoe's habit of drinking everything cold.

While I stood there, blank, my father's personal bodyguard and mouthpiece walked in, carrying an insulated bag.

One serving of oatmeal. Three dollars.

Bought with a two-fifty discount coupon, no less.

"Miss, Mr. Henson said to make sure it was hot. He said your stomach's bad."

"Work hard to close the deal. Next celebration dinner will be for you."

I looked at the mechanically stamped words: "Wolf-pack culture. Only winners deserve the flowers and the rewards."

My eyes drifted toward the private room, where my father was fastening a diamond necklace worth a million dollars around Zoe's neck, her reward for landing the deal tonight.

Even from across the hall, I could hear her shrieking with delight.

"Dad, Mom, I love you both so much!"

I set the oatmeal and the receipt off to the side.

Chewing the painkillers, I calmly faced the truth.

In my parents' eyes, this so-called wolf-pack culture was simple.

Snatch away the meat, then toss a few bone scraps as charity.

But this time, I was no longer that naive little wolf who kept working herself to death for a scrap of something sweet.

The next morning, the moment I got back to the company.

The cleaning lady came pushing a cart of junk straight toward me.

There was the familiar sofa, the throw pillows, the potted plants.

I frowned and walked to my office door.

A crew of workers in blue uniforms and white caps were hauling pet supplies in, one load after another.

And my work badge had been tossed on the floor, trampled back and forth.

"Who told you you could touch my things?"

I frowned, bent down, and picked it up.

A few yards away, Zoe was cradling her dog, having just gotten the disinfection lamp set up.

Hearing the commotion, she strode right up to me.

Her tone dripped with smugness and showing off.

"Well, I won the bid, didn't I? So I'm moving up here to work."

"Mom and Dad know I've got separation anxiety over my pet, so they turned your office into Cici's room."

"Hurry up and thank Eva."

Zoe held up the dog's paw, watching me with a smile that never reached her eyes.

Behind her, two men came out drenched in sweat, hauling a desk and cabinet.

The sight sent a bad feeling through me.

I'd left in such a rush for the dinner two days ago that I hadn't taken my adoptive parents' keepsake watch with me.

I rushed inside, and sure enough, there it was, the watch face smashed to pieces in a puddle of yellow dog urine.

Zoe watched my reddening eyes and the careful way I wiped the watch clean.

Satisfaction flickered in her eyes, and she goaded me on purpose.

"Eva, so this thing was yours? And here I thought it was junk somebody threw out."

"Actually, you should thank me. If I hadn't dealt with it early, anyone who saw it would've said it made you look cheap."

But anyone with eyes could see from the worn paint along the edge of the face that it had been touched countless times, out of longing.

Feeling the wetness at the corners of my eyes.

I couldn't hold back my rage. I slapped her across the face.

A few minutes later, the well-trained bodyguards blocked the office door.

Zoe was curled up in my mother's arms, clutching her face, tears rolling down one after another.

Once he'd heard the whole story, my father said nothing and kicked me. His face went cold as he spoke.

"Didn't wolf-pack culture teach you? Only the strong deserve to have everything."

"A broken piece of junk watch is broken, so what. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself for being too weak to protect what you wanted to protect!"

As punishment for hitting Zoe, I was forced to kneel outside the company building.

In front of thousands of employees and passersby, I was slapped ten times.

4: 4

04

I knelt from morning until noon.

It wasn't until someone downstairs warned that the business partners were arriving, and my mother worried it would hurt the company's image,

that she finally sent people to drag me back inside, half-fainting from the heat.

Partway through forcing the medicine down my throat, she shot me a look of disgust.

"Hurt Zoe again, and the lesson won't stop at this."

"Follow the rules of this family's wolf-pack culture, or you'll have hell to pay."

Then she told me to get out.

After all that, none of the other employees would meet my eyes.

Certain that I'd offended Zoe and fallen out of favor, they moved my desk right next to the trash cans.

They leaned into each other, whispering and sneering.

"Some outsider relative with no blood tie at all, actually thinking she could step in and take over. Fell flat, didn't she."

"Hehe, I hear her ambitions run deep. She wants to fight Miss Henson for favor and be the heir."

"Just what you'd expect from some backwater hole. Her parents probably all dropped dead, or how else would they raise a bitch like this!"

At that, my head snapped up.

I fixed my stare on the man who'd said that last line.

He flinched under my glare and quickly ducked his head, pretending to shuffle through some files.

Watching him, I edged over to my desk, one step at a time.

Looking at the several unfinished projects on it, and the market-trend report that was supposed to go to Zoe, my eyes darkened.

So that was why they'd let me off so easily.

Only because I was still useful.

Too bad. This time I had my own purpose too.

I lifted my hand, red and stinging from the sun, moved the mouse, and opened my email.

Just as I started uploading the files, someone traded a look in secret.

Coffee in hand, he strolled toward me and poured it down over my head.

I came back to myself and shot up out of my chair.

My knee slammed into the corner of the desk, the pain making me tremble.

But he only looked at the ruined files and covered his mouth, laughing.

"Didn't notice there was a person by the trash cans. Tsk, tsk. Now that it's all wet, you'll be redoing it for hours again, won't you."

Fighting through the pain, I recognized him as one of Zoe's little hangers-on.

I'd just gotten up to settle the score.

Then my mother, who had watched the whole thing, walked out and once again took their side without question, cursing me for stirring up trouble.

"What did I teach you? Wolf-pack culture. Be bigger than this. The loser bears the setbacks. That's how it should be."

This time, I didn't agree.

As if I'd heard the biggest joke in the world, I let out a cold laugh.

"Tell a lie enough times, and does it become the truth…"

The so-called avoiding suspicion was just an excuse so Zoe wouldn't be hurt.

The wolf-pack culture she was always going on about was just a way to strip more from me with a clear conscience.

"…Absolutely sickening."

Zoe came running out at once.

"How can you talk about Mom like that?"

My father arrived in time to catch that last line too, and his eyes went bloodshot with rage as he pressed his voice into a threat.

"Ungrateful girl, do you not want the Henson name anymore?"

Right then, the computer chimed with the notice that the file had uploaded successfully.

I snapped in half one of the dozen-odd cheap pens they'd handed out the first time I won a bid, and poured the ink into a water cup.

In front of everyone, I paid them back in kind and dumped the dirty water over Zoe's head.

I smiled. "This is what wolf-pack really looks like."