“And that,” David concluded, “is what we call team spirit!”

His gaze swept over the room and finally landed on me—cold and probing, like a needle.

There was no praise, no recognition, only judgment from above.

My three sleepless nights of battle were completely erased in that moment.

The sweet, cloying smell in the air made me nauseous.

My colleagues clapped enthusiastically—for Vivian’s mac and cheese, for David’s so-called “team spirit.”

No one looked at me, as if the person who had just saved the company didn’t exist at all.

Vivian stood among the crowd, her head slightly bowed, a demure and perfectly measured smile on her lips.

That huge wave of emptiness crashed through me.

I stood, silently returned to my desk, opened my laptop, and began writing the post-mortem report on the crisis.

From the hallway, I could still hear David’s voice:

“…so you see, for a company to grow, it can’t rely on technology alone—it needs culture! Culture is our ultimate weapon!”

After the meeting, I took the draft report and knocked on David’s office door.

“Come in.”

I placed the report on his desk, speaking concisely.

“David, here’s the technical post-mortem and follow-up prevention plan.”

He leaned back in his chair, slowly picked up his stainless steel mug of herbal tea, blew on it, then flipped through the report.

He didn’t read the technical analysis, just skimmed the conclusion, nodded, and pushed it aside.

Then he looked at me.

I must have had no expression left, not even the strength to fake a polite smile.

He noticed.

Setting down the mug, he laced his fingers together, leaning slightly forward with a tone meant to sound fatherly.

“Sophie, sit.”

I didn’t move.

He didn’t seem to care and kept going.

“You’re upset, aren’t you? Because I praised Vivian in the meeting and didn’t mention your contribution?”

I stayed silent.

He sighed, like he was disappointed in my lack of emotional intelligence.

“Sophie, honestly, you really should learn from Vivian.”

He said it as casually as if he were commenting on his coffee.

I stared at him—the man I had followed for five years, the one I had personally helped build this company’s entire technical framework from scratch.

His face carried an expression that said, I’m enlightening you.

“All these years working together, you’ve always just buried yourself in code. You finish your tasks, hand in your reports—and that’s it. No involvement in team-building.”

“Once the system is stable and the report is filed, then what? Nothing.”

“Have you ever thought about how to unite people? How to energize the team?”

He pointed out the window. Vivian was handing out new plants to everyone, the hallway buzzing with laughter.

“See how she instantly senses the team’s emotions, lifting morale in a crisis?”

“It didn’t cost much, but the thoughtfulness, the insight into people’s hearts—how many can do that?”

“Build relationships first, then do the work. She understands this better than you.”

I listened with a blank face, utterly calm—almost amused.

So, all my blood, sweat, and tears were worth less than a $5 box of mac and cheese.

He must have forgotten—if I hadn’t fixed the system, there wouldn’t even be mac and cheese. Everyone would’ve been packing their bags to go home.

I looked at his self-satisfied face, slightly sagging from years behind a desk.

And suddenly, everything became clear.

All those moments when I used to tell myself, he’s a business guy, he doesn’t get it—they flashed through my mind like a fast-forward reel.

This wasn’t the first time.

When Vivian had just joined, the company was preparing for the Annual Tech Summit.

David asked me to handle the content and Vivian to handle the presentation format.

I led my team to compile all the year’s major technical breakthroughs and architecture optimizations into detailed documentation and slides.

Vivian, meanwhile, decorated the entire venue like a hip coffee shop and designed a bunch of party games.

At the final prep meeting, David slammed my slides on the table and barked,

“Sophie! Your slides are crammed with code and charts—who’s going to enjoy that?”

“Learn from Vivian—make everyone feel the magic of technology in a light and fun atmosphere!”

He publicly praised Vivian for being “creative” and “great at engagement,” while ignoring my team’s painstakingly prepared technical work.

In the end, he ordered me to turn the summit into a “Tech Carnival.”

Content was secondary—what mattered was that it looked lively.

I told him that would turn a serious technical exchange into a shallow sideshow.

He accused me of being rigid, inflexible, full of “engineer arrogance.”

So I gave in.

I spent two more days repackaging all my hard work into a hollow, flashy shell.

Naturally, the event was declared a “great success,” because the photos looked good and got plenty of likes on LinkedIn.

At the end of the summit, David made sure to call Vivian up on stage in front of everyone and said,

“This event’s success owes everything to Vivian’s creativity. She made our tech go viral.”

Another time, the company needed a fundamental system overhaul to prepare for three years of projected growth.

I started technical research six months in advance, wrote a report and implementation plan tens of thousands of words long—

from server selection to data migration, every step tested and risk-proofed.

I submitted the plan, and David sat on it for a month without approval.

When I asked him, he sounded impatient.

“Sophie, this plan is full of jargon.”

“And the investment is huge, the risk even bigger. What if it fails? The current system still works, doesn’t it?”

“Can’t you make something that I—and the marketing team—can understand?”

In that moment, I just felt utterly exhausted.

I built systems with professionalism, with logic, with respect for technology—

not to write a PR brochure that makes non-technical people nod in approval.

I wasn’t incapable of such tricks. I just refused to stoop to them.

I used to believe that in a tech company, technical strength was the ultimate foundation.

Now I realized I had been wrong.

In David’s world, technical strength was only the bare minimum—expected, taken for granted.

What really earned you points were the things that let him boast at conferences and on LinkedIn: “vibes,” “user experience.”

He didn’t want a precision instrument quietly solving core problems.

He wanted a flashy speaker system playing background music.

The company’s technical framework was now stable, the core business running smoothly—

In his eyes, my value had already been drained dry.

I was like a high-speed engine—too noisy, not pretty enough—ready to be replaced by shinier, more decorative parts.

What he needed now was no longer an engineer who could solve critical technical challenges, but a cheerleader to sing his praises.

I watched his mouth keep moving, the same tired clichés spilling out.

I knew then—the time had come.

Five years.

I had poured the best years of my life into this place.

I had built the company’s entire architecture, handled countless emergencies, and provided its most solid backbone.

As the engineer who designed it all, I knew every single screw in this machine.

I had thought this was my career, my creation, my life’s work.

But now I saw clearly—I was just a sentimental fool of a programmer.

Fine.

I cut him off mid-lecture, my voice so calm it startled even me.

“…David Ross, you’re right.”

David kept talking, spit flying so close it nearly hit my face.

All those lofty words sounded like chewed-up sugarcane—flavorless, bitter.

I looked at him and nodded solemnly during a pause, as though I’d just had an epiphany.

“David, I understand now.”

A smug smile crossed his face. He was about to deliver his perfect closing remarks.

But I didn’t give him the chance.

Meeting his shocked gaze, I calmly opened my laptop and drafted a new email right there in front of him.

The recipient? The CEO of Riverton Labs.

“Sophie, what are you doing?”

David’s face twisted from triumph to alarm, his brows furrowing in suspicion.

He thought I was bluffing, trying to scare him with childish theatrics.

I ignored him, fingers tapping softly on the keyboard, loud enough for him to hear every word I was writing.

“Michael Chen, hello. Last month you mentioned wanting me to join as your Chief Technology Officer. Is the offer still on the table?”

David’s pupils contracted sharply.

I kept typing, my tone as calm as if I were filing a weekly report.

“If yes, I can bring a complete, mature system architecture with me.”

“It has been market-tested for over five years, supports millions of daily active users,”

“and holds full independent intellectual property rights, with no legal conflicts with my current employer.”

Before I could even hit send, my phone rang—it was Michael.

I glanced at David’s darkened face and put the call on speaker.

Michael’s voice came through, steady and clear.

“Sophie, first of all, congratulations. I heard things aren’t great with your current company.”

“If you join us, your salary and position will exceed expectations, and we’ve reserved the largest possible share of stock options for you.”

“Thank you, Michael. I’ll be in touch.”

The entire process was smooth, decisive—without a second’s hesitation.

The office was dead silent.

David’s face had gone from shock to a dark, furious shade.

His chest heaved as though he’d been punched, struggling to catch his breath.

He glared at me, eyes full of disbelief and rage.

“Sophie!”