*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..."

Every head turned toward Old Simon, who had just walked in from the cafeteria.

Old Simon blinked. Completely bewildered. "Why are you all staring at me? I didn't do anything."

Manager Whitney didn't give him a chance to speak. He lunged at the old man, patting him down roughly. "You think I'd accuse you without proof?"

Seconds later, Whitney pulled the cigar butt from Simon's jacket pocket.

It still reeked of burnt tobacco.

"Caught red-handed!"

Whitney held the evidence aloft, screaming in Simon's face. "Simon Dickerson! You have some nerve! The company explicitly forbade anyone from touching this car, and you dared to smoke inside it?"

He jabbed a finger at Simon's chest.

"You are deliberately destroying company property! I'm calling the police. You're going to jail!"

Old Simon stood frozen. "No... it wasn't me! I smoke ten-buck packs of Red Pagoda. I can't afford cigars!"

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His face went ashen. His breathing turned ragged.

Hudson rushed forward, grabbing Whitney's arm. Playing the benevolent peacemaker.

"Manager, please. Calm down." His voice dripped with fake sympathy. "Uncle Simon probably just had a moment of confusion. I'm sure it wasn't intentional. How about... we let him pay for the damages privately? Don't call the police. He's old. If word gets out, it'll ruin him."

Old Simon shook with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at Hudson.

No words came.

I couldn't watch this charade any longer.

I stepped forward and caught Simon as he swayed, barely keeping him upright.

"Hudson Pruitt."

My voice cut through the noise.

"When you finished your livestream just now, did you forget to turn off the replay function?"

Hudson stiffened.

"Right now, hundreds of thousands of viewers are watching a crystal-clear recording of you holding a cigar in that car." I tilted my head. "Acting like a pretentious clown."

I held up my phone. Hit play.

High-definition footage. Hudson's smug face. The tremble of his hand. Ash falling onto leather.

Crystal clear.

Hudson's face turned deathly pale.

He threw himself at Manager Whitney's legs, hugging his thigh and wailing like a toddler. "Manager! Manager, I was wrong! I didn't mean it! I did it to promote the store! I just wanted people to see our inventory—I had good intentions!"

Whitney glanced at the video on my screen. His expression shifted rapidly.

Calculating.

Then he snatched the phone from my hand and dashed it against the tiled floor.

*Crack.*

The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass.

"What video?" Whitney roared. He pointed a finger at the three of us. "That was obviously faked! You three—you gang up to bully a newcomer, and now you're forging videos to frame him?"

His voice rose to a shriek.

"You are the cancer of this store! Parasites!"

He barked at the security guards nearby. "What are you staring at? Lock these three criminals in the warehouse! They maliciously damaged company property and tried to pin it on a colleague!"

He straightened his jacket.

"I'll deal with them after I contact legal."

The guards exchanged hesitant glances.

"I am the Manager!" Whitney bellowed. "My word is an order!"

Intimidated, the guards moved in. Grabbed us by the arms.

"Jackson Whitney!" Evelyn screamed, struggling against the grip. "This is illegal detention! Are you insane?"

We were shoved into the storage warehouse. The heavy door slammed shut.

The lock clicked.

A moment later, the lights cut out.

Total darkness.

The air was thick with the scent of rubber tires and stale engine oil. No windows. Only piles of junk in the corners.

Evelyn groped for the wall to steady herself. Her voice trembled in the dark.

"They... they actually dared to do this..."