It wasn't a fleeting peck—it was deep, lingering, consuming.

Mary pushed against his shoulder, but the resistance was token at best. Within seconds, she melted into him, arms winding around his neck, returning the kiss with equal fervor.

I watched. Expression blank. Pulse steady.

A horn blared from behind. The light had turned green. Dean finally pulled back, tongue dragging slowly across his lower lip, savoring her. He shifted the car into drive.

Mary sank against the headrest, fingers combing through her disheveled hair, smoothing her rumpled blouse. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, cheeks still flushed with color that had nothing to do with makeup.

"Hotel's booked?"

Her voice came out slightly breathless.

"Same place as always." Dean's eyes stayed on the road, but his smirk was audible. "Suite with the floor-to-ceiling windows. River view. You like that one, don't you?"

"Mm." A low hum of approval. Her hand drifted back to his thigh, fingernails tracing lazy circles. "And my... bonus? You know how much work it took to balance those books. A million dollars plus a car—I nearly didn't get it past those fossils on the board."

"My Mary. Always so capable."

Dean reached over and pinched her cheek, gaze heavy with undisguised want and smug satisfaction.

"Don't worry. I'll reward you properly tonight."

The car glided through the glittering downtown streets before pulling into the curved driveway of a five-star hotel.

I didn't watch the rest. I closed the feed.

Seven days later. The annual company gala.

The ballroom blazed with light—crystal chandeliers refracting into a thousand prismatic shards, champagne flutes catching the glow as they clinked in endless toasts.

I stood by the head table, exchanging pleasantries with the board members. My gaze, however, kept drifting toward the entrance.

Mary and Dean were the last to arrive.

They swept in side by side. Mary wore a wine-red gown that bared her shoulders, her makeup immaculate. But the flush lingering on her cheekbones was harder to conceal—the telltale remnant of whatever had delayed them.

Dean walked half a step behind her, draped in a midnight-blue velvet suit. The arrogance of youth radiated from him, untempered, almost deliberately flaunted.

I watched from across the room. A soft exhale escaped through my nose—not quite a laugh.

I raised my glass, took a measured sip, and said nothing.

"Chairman Dickerson." Drew Finch appeared at my elbow, touching his glass to mine with an amiable smile. "The company's numbers look excellent this year. You should be pleased."

"I should be."

I returned the smile and drained my glass in one smooth motion.

Three rounds of drinks later, the atmosphere had reached a fever pitch.

The emcee took the stage, voice booming with theatrical energy as he announced the evening's main event.

The year-end bonus presentation.

Cheers and applause erupted from the floor. Every eye in the room locked onto the stage.

I straightened my lapels and ascended the steps.

Taking the microphone, I let my gaze sweep across the sea of faces—each one bright with anticipation, practically vibrating with excitement.

Mary sat at the head table, posture elegant, composed. Only the slight tightening of her hands in her lap betrayed anything beneath the surface.

Dean occupied the seat beside her. Spine ramrod straight. A faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes held the certainty of a man who already knew he'd won.

"First," I began, my voice carrying through the speakers to every corner of the hall, "I want to thank each of you for your dedication this past year."

Thunderous applause.

I worked through the list, calling names one by one.

Each recipient bounded up to the stage, beaming, accepting their envelope with effusive thanks. The amounts varied—tens of thousands here, over a hundred thousand there—but every face wore the same delighted grin.

Dean watched the proceedings with hooded eyes.

When a mid-level manager collected his two-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus, I caught the subtle curl at the corner of Dean's lips. Contempt, barely concealed.

He leaned toward Mary, murmuring something. She pressed her lips together in a knowing smile and reached over to pat the back of his hand.

The gesture was casual. Intimate.

A few people in the crowd noticed. Curious glances flickered their way.

Dean didn't pull back. If anything, he sat up straighter—basking in the attention, savoring the whispered speculation.

The standard awards wrapped up quickly.

The emcee's voice rose with practiced excitement: "And now, the moment you've all been waiting for—the Annual Special Contribution Award!"

"One million dollars in cash, plus a BMW 7 Series!"

The ballroom fell silent for a heartbeat, then erupted into a buzz of speculation.

Everyone knew the weight of this prize.

"Who could it be? Vice President Zhang?"

"My money's on Director Wang from Marketing—his department doubled their numbers this year."

"What about..." someone lowered their voice, "Assistant Gilbert? He's President Henson's golden boy."

Dean Gilbert clearly heard that last remark.

The curve of his lips deepened, a flicker of smug certainty crossing his eyes.

Beside him, Mary smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt, her smile perfectly composed.

I picked up the golden envelope and slid it open, taking my time.

"This year, our company welcomed an exceptional new member." My gaze swept across the audience. "She joined the R&D department less than six months ago, yet she spearheaded the core algorithm breakthrough for the Starsea Project—saving the company nearly ten million dollars and pioneering an entirely new technical pathway."

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

As my words sank in, the smugness on Dean's face slowly calcified. Mary's polished smile evaporated.

I continued reading: "She is young, yet possesses extraordinary talent and focus. She keeps a low profile, yet her achievements shine brilliantly."

"By unanimous decision of the Board of Directors, this year's Special Contribution Award goes to..."

I paused, letting my gaze land squarely on Dean's face.

The color had already begun draining from his cheeks. That confident smirk hung frozen in place—a poorly fitted mask starting to crack.

I looked away and announced clearly:

"From the R&D Department—Mabel Mason!"

"Winner of the Annual Special Contribution Award!"

Applause and cheers detonated simultaneously.

The spotlight swung to an unremarkable table tucked in the corner.

A young woman in black-framed glasses, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, scrambled to her feet. Bewilderment and disbelief were written across every feature.

A colleague gave her a nudge, and she finally snapped out of her daze, making her way to the stage on unsteady legs.

In that instant, Dean's face turned the color of raw liver.

It was a shade born of shock, humiliation, and barely contained rage all churning together.

His fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white. His once-straight spine curved forward slightly, coiled tight, his stare boring into Mabel on the stage.

Mary was clearly rattled too.

She twisted toward him, one hand pressing down on his rigid arm, her lips moving rapidly as she whispered something urgent.

Dean didn't seem to hear a word. His chest heaved violently.

Growing desperate, Mary reached under the table and seized his hand, her fingers locking around his palm, fighting to contain the explosion building inside him.

From the stage, I saw it all with perfect clarity.

Mabel had reached me now, still looking dazed.

I handed her the oversized award plaque and the ceremonial car key. Her hands trembled as she took them.

"Th-thank you, Chairman Dickerson... thank you to the company..."

She was so overwhelmed she could barely string words together.

"You earned it."

I smiled, shook her hand, and gave her shoulder a light pat.

The applause continued below. People rose to their feet, cheering.

Mabel clutched her prizes, her face flushed apple-red, bowing again and again.

After stammering through her acceptance speech, she floated off the stage in a happy fog, still hugging the award.

I cleared my throat and raised the microphone.

"Everyone, may I have your attention please."

The ballroom gradually quieted, all eyes returning to the stage.

"The year-end awards have now concluded."

"However, this year we have one more award... a very special one."

A ripple of curiosity stirred through the audience, whispers spreading like wildfire.

I gave a slight nod to the secretary standing at the side of the stage.

She approached carrying a square gift box draped in deep blue velvet, a silver ribbon tied around it that caught the light with understated elegance. Her steps were measured, unhurried. She placed the box on the podium before me.

It wasn't large, but it was exquisite.

Dean's face—which had been dark with barely contained fury—shifted the moment he saw it.

The resentment and rage drained from his eyes like a receding tide, replaced by rekindled anticipation. He straightened in his seat and glanced toward Mary.

Mary's brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing her features. But within seconds, she gave Dean an almost imperceptible nod—part reassurance, part signal.

I reached out and let my fingers glide over the smooth velvet surface.

"This award has no monetary value attached. It's not tied to performance metrics." My voice was steady, even carrying a hint of warmth. "It simply represents the company's... appreciation for one employee's rather unique contributions."

Dean's spine went ramrod straight. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, impossible to suppress.

A look of smug certainty flashed in his eyes—I knew it.

He probably assumed the hundred thousand dollars and the car were just window dressing, and that this "special award" was the real prize prepared specifically for him.

Perhaps a check with an obscene number of zeros. Or something even more valuable—stock options, property deeds?

The audience seemed to share his speculation, their gazes ping-ponging between Dean and me.

I lifted my head, caught his eyes with precision, and smiled.

"Dean Gilbert. Assistant Gilbert."

I called his name.

In that instant, the anticipation on Dean's face peaked.

He drew a deep breath and smoothed the lapels of his midnight-blue velvet suit, trying to project an air of composure. But the eagerness and triumph in his eyes were practically spilling over.

He walked to the front and stopped before me, a dazzling smile spreading across his face.

"Chairman Dickerson."

His voice rang out, vibrating with barely contained excitement.

I said nothing more. I simply gestured toward the box on the podium.

Dean stepped forward and lifted the velvet box with both hands.

It was lighter than expected.

A flicker of confusion crossed his face, but it was quickly buried beneath a fresh wave of anticipation.

He turned to face the audience, holding the box aloft like a trophy. His gaze found Mary's direction for a brief, triumphant moment.

Then, projecting to the entire room, he declared:

"Thank you, Chairman Dickerson! Thank you for the company's recognition! I will continue to work hard and never disappoint this... special favor the company has shown me!"

Scattered applause trickled through the audience.

It was obvious—he wasn't well-liked here.

In her seat, Mary's face relaxed into a relieved smile. She clapped along, soft and measured.

Dean, brimming with self-satisfaction, couldn't wait any longer. His fingers attacked the silver ribbon.

They trembled slightly with excitement, and it took him several seconds to undo the elegant knot.

The velvet lid finally lifted.

The smile on his face froze solid the instant he saw what lay inside.

The host and the secretary, standing closest on stage, saw it first.

The secretary's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes going wide as saucers.

The host's professional smile calcified into something almost comical—pure, undisguised shock.

The front rows began to see it too.

The whispers ignited like water hitting hot oil—a sharp sizzle, then a rapid spread into an uproar that could no longer be contained.

Someone adjusted the spotlight. The beam tightened, centering on the box in Dean's hands.

No check inside. No keys. Nothing of value.

Just five chicken butts.

Cleaned and cooked, they gleamed with that distinctive pale-yellow sheen of braised meat. Arranged in a perfect circle on the white silk lining at the bottom of the box.

Each one plump. Glistening with oil.