"Hudson is kindly showing concern for you, and you bully him? A newcomer, here for only a few days, and you're already ostracizing him? How can you be so heartless?"

I stared at him.

Speechless.

I couldn't be bothered to explain.

Whitney's cursing grew more energetic until he finally waved his hand dismissively.

"I think the three of you just had a few good months and let it get to your heads! You're too idle!"

"Starting today, move your workstations to the warehouse in the back! When you've reflected enough, you can come out!"

Banishing three sales champions to work in the warehouse?

If our biggest competitor heard about this move, they'd send a thank-you banner overnight.

Old Simon and Evelyn trembled with rage, but I stopped them with a sharp look.

We silently packed our belongings. Our colleagues avoided us like the plague, terrified of being associated with the fallen champions.

Hudson Pruitt leisurely sat down at my original workstation. The prime spot—facing the entrance with the best view of the floor.

As we moved boxes, my phone buzzed.

Hudson had posted a WeChat Moment visible only to me.

The photo showed him sitting at my desk, legs crossed, with the box containing the $300,000 cash bonus displayed prominently in front of him.

The caption read: *Some positions can't be held just by grinding seniority. [Snickering Emoji]*

I looked at the post.

Sneered.

Casually took a screenshot.

I ignored Hudson's provocation, but that only emboldened him.

Early the next morning, he carried two cups of coffee and sidled up to Whitney.

"Manager, I think the seniors' client maintenance methods are outdated. They don't understand the psychology of young people today."

"I want to use my own methods to manage those VIP customers and bring them a brand-new experience."

Whitney beamed, completely charmed. He made the call immediately.

"Good! You've got ideas! That's how it should be!"

A wave of his hand, and he convened a morning meeting. In front of the entire staff, he forced Evelyn, Old Simon, and me to hand over all our VIP client data to Hudson.

Evelyn's face darkened instantly.

"What?" Old Simon sprang up from his chair. "Whitney, are you crazy? We won those customers one by one. Why should we hand them over to him?"

Whitney's eyes bulged. "Because I am the manager! This is an order! If you don't do it, get out!"

"Manager, this violates protocol." I stood up. "Client information is a salesperson's core asset. How can you demand we hand it over just because someone asked?"

"What I say *is* the rule!" His roar echoed through the showroom. "Elena Henson, if you talk back one more time, believe me, I'll have you thrown out today!"

Hudson stood by the side, hypocritically smoothing things over.

"Elena, Uncle Simon, don't misunderstand. I'm not trying to steal your customers. I just want to learn and help share the workload."

He took the thick stack of files we handed over and bowed ninety degrees in front of everyone.

"Thank you, Uncle Simon and my big sisters, for your guidance. I will study hard!"

His humble act drew another round of praise from Whitney.

The moment he returned to his desk, however, he posted a photo in the sales department's private group chat.

It was a page from our client files—detailing a customer's family situation, hobbies, and even the brand of food their dog preferred.

*Hudson: My god, are client notes this tacky nowadays? It's like a police interrogation. No wonder you can't keep people loyal. [Facepalm]*

The sycophants who loved to flatter the flavor of the month immediately chimed in.

*Colleague A: Exactly, exactly. Too old-fashioned.*

*Colleague B: Hudson's thinking is trendy—this is sales in the internet era!*

Evelyn nearly smashed her phone.

I pressed my hand over hers and shook my head.

"Don't rush. Let him dig his own grave."

"The higher he climbs, the harder he falls."

Hudson quickly selected a target from the pile of client files.

The city's famous Ice Queen—Hailey James.

Hailey was notoriously picky, sharp-eyed, and detested frivolous men. Recognized as one of the hardest clients to win over. Evelyn had spent a full six months building a rapport just to establish initial trust.

Hudson evidently thought his charm was irresistible.

The very afternoon he got the files, he secretly messaged Hailey James, asking her out that night to "have a drink and talk about life."

Even more outrageous? The venue he chose wasn't a high-end club, but a cheap, tacky bar that had recently gone viral on TikTok.

That evening, before we even clocked out, the store's complaint line rang.

Hailey James's assistant. Her voice was pure ice.

"Does your dealership now recruit gigolos?"

"What kind of lowlife dares to ask Ms. James out like that?"

"Tell your Manager Whitney: our Group's procurement plan for this year will permanently blacklist your store!"

The call ended.

The showroom fell into a deathly silence.

Not long after, Hudson came running back in a sorry state.

A bright red handprint marred his face. Red wine stained his white shirt. His hair was a bird's nest.

Before anyone could speak, he let out a wail. With reddened eyes, he threw himself at Whitney, who had rushed over upon hearing the news.

"Manager! You have to stand up for me!"

A shaking finger pointed at me. His voice trembled with accusation.

"It was Elena! The information she gave me was wrong! She deliberately left out the client's taboos—she wanted to see me make a fool of myself!"

"She's jealous of me! She wants to ruin me!"

Whitney whipped his head around, glaring at me with venom.

"Elena Henson! You! How can you be so vicious?"

"Hudson is practically a child! How could you set him up like this? Have you no conscience at all?"

I was so angry I laughed.

I pulled the original document from the handover folder and slammed it onto the table.

"Manager Whitney, open your eyes and look."

"The client handover form is in duplicate. On my copy, the notes regarding Hailey James are written clearly in black and white."

I pointed to the bolded line and read it aloud, emphasizing every word.

"**Values privacy, dislikes male company, and is disgusted by informal or flirtatious approaches.**"

"So." My voice dropped. "Is it that someone is blind and didn't see it?"

"Or did he think his male charm was powerful enough to ignore the rules?"

Hudson's face went pale. Seeing the evidence against him, he immediately pivoted.

He covered his face with his hands.

"Anyway... anyway, the customer is angry now! The deal is dead! Elena, you're happy now, right? You're satisfied?"

Whitney was completely irrational. He pointed at the three of us.

"The customer was handed over by you, so you share the responsibility!"

"Since you can't tolerate a newcomer, go clean the exterior glass of the showroom!"

"You don't stop until it's spotless and Hailey James's anger has subsided!"

Evelyn wanted to charge forward and argue, but Old Simon held her back.

The three of us, holding rags and buckets, were driven out into the pouring rain.

Hudson Pruitt stood safe and dry behind the glass, cradling a steaming cup of coffee. He raised his phone, snapping a photo of our miserable, drenched figures in the rain, and posted it immediately.

The caption glowed through the window: *"Senior colleagues work so hard, staying serious even in the rain. Guess I need to step up my game too~ Cute."*

Evelyn Fox stared at the post. Her knuckles went white around the bucket handle. "I'm going to kill that little bastard."

I caught her arm before she could move. "Don't."

"He's mocking us!"

"Smash the glass, you pay for it. He's not worth the debt." I kept my voice low, steady. "Besides. He won't be jumping around much longer."

For the New Year's Day event, headquarters had transferred a limited-edition global supercar to our showroom—a one-week exhibition piece worth nearly twenty million. Pitch-black. Lines smooth as a hunting cheetah. The kind of machine that didn't ask for attention.

It demanded worship.

Manager Whitney called an all-hands meeting specifically for this car. His voice dropped into a grave register he usually reserved for funerals.

"Listen up! This car is our ancestor! No one touches it. Chip a single flake of paint and selling your organs won't cover the cost." He puffed out his chest, radiating self-righteous authority. "Especially the interior. Genuine leather. Hand-stitched by top Italian craftsmen. Extremely precious. Do not touch it."

He scanned the room.

"Do you hear me?"

Heads bobbed frantically.

But the moment the meeting ended, Whitney ushered Hudson Pruitt into his office. When Hudson emerged, a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. Barely concealed arrogance.

I had a suspicion.

Sure enough—when the staff headed to the cafeteria for lunch, Hudson sneaked back into the showroom. Alone.

He fired up a livestream titled: *"New ride just dropped. Taking the bros for a spin."*

He mounted his phone on the steering wheel, tilting the angle to capture his "perfect" side profile and the luxury logo on the headrest.

"Family, look at this interior—pure handmade, low-key luxury." A wink at the camera. All performance. "This car's just so-so. Bit over twenty million. I usually just use it for grocery runs."

The chat exploded. Viewers who didn't know better spammed "666" and "Rich boss, take me for a ride!"

Intoxicated by the flattery, Hudson pulled a cigar from his pocket. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Blew a slow, pretentious smoke ring.

"A man must have taste," he declared.

Then his hand twitched.

A clump of burning ash fell directly onto the pristine white leather of the passenger seat.

A black hole. Fingernail-sized. Seared into the material.

Hudson froze.

The blood drained from his face.

He killed the livestream. Scanned the room frantically. His gaze landed on a work jacket hanging on a nearby rack.

Moving with the guilt of a thief, he sprinted over and stuffed the smoldering cigar butt into the jacket's pocket.

Half an hour later, Manager Whitney's roar shook the walls.

"Who did this?! Who is responsible?!"

He pointed a trembling finger at the glaring black hole. His face twisted into an ugly shade of green. Staff crowded around. When they saw the damage, a collective gasp sucked the air from the room.

A twenty-million-dollar supercar.

One burn hole could cost a house down payment.

Hudson cowered behind the crowd, feigning shock.

"Manager... I... I think I saw Uncle Simon wandering around the car earlier. He... he looked like he was smoking..."