"Alexia, don't take any of the company's holiday bonus boxes. You're not one of us—there's nothing for you."

My manager, Kevin Davis, delivered the notice coldly, as if he were commenting on the weather—routine, impersonal.

My hand stilled on the mouse.

"The rest of you, come with me. We're heading to the company gala to collect your million-dollar bonuses!"

My colleagues filed out in high spirits.

I watched their retreating backs and answered with a bitter, "Okay."

I was a contract worker. For seven years, I had always been the odd one out in the department.

Our ID badges said it all—blue for full-time employees, gray for me.

Time off was no different. Full-time employees had weekends; I got one day off a month.

As for pay and benefits, they enjoyed meal allowances, housing subsidies, team outings, afternoon snacks, holiday gifts, year-end bonuses… I received a fixed salary of three thousand dollars a month.

I sat down, opened my computer, and returned to the candlestick charts of my stocks.

They didn't know that I was the company's largest anonymous individual shareholder.

And they certainly didn't know that tonight, at the company gala, I would step onto the stage as the new Chairman—and my very first proposal would be to lay off their entire department.

As they chatted about the evening's annual gala, they tidied up their desks, each lifting a heavy New Year gift box.

A female colleague named Bianca Shelton passed by my workstation. On purpose, she dropped her box onto my desk with a loud thud.

"Oh, Alexia, I'm so sorry."

The apology came out of her mouth, but the sneer on her face gave her away.

"These boxes are just so heavy. Not like you—empty-handed. Must be nice."

I ignored her, my gaze fixed on my computer screen.

On it, the candlestick chart crept steadily upward.

"I'm talking to you. Cat got your tongue?"

Annoyance crept into Bianca's voice when I didn't respond.

My manager, Kevin Davis, walked over and patted her on the shoulder.

"That's enough. Why bother arguing with a contract worker?"

He turned to me, that smug face of his wearing a look of condescending charity.

"Alexia, even though you're not invited to the gala and don't get any holiday gifts, the work still has to be done."

He picked up a thick stack of documents from his desk and dropped it onto my keyboard.

"The quarterly market review report. I need it first thing tomorrow morning. Stay late tonight and get it done."

I looked at the file.

I knew it was his responsibility. He just wanted to dump all the trouble on me before heading off to enjoy the gala.

"Mr. Davis," I said at last, "it's New Year's Eve."

"And what about it?"

Kevin let out a laugh, as if I'd said something ridiculous.

"Contract workers get one day off a month. You already used yours two days ago—it's in your contract. Besides, asking you to work overtime is giving you an opportunity. Understand?"

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice, his tone laced with threat.

"Don't push your luck. If you don't want the job, there are plenty of people waiting to take it."

The surrounding colleagues stopped what they were doing, watching me with undisguised schadenfreude.

They enjoyed moments like this.

Watching me—the outsider—be excluded, squeezed, and humiliated gave their meager sense of superiority a satisfying boost.

I stayed silent for a few seconds, then gave a small nod.

"Okay."

Kevin was pleased with my compliance. With a broad wave of his hand, he called out, "Let's go!"

The group gathered around him and filed out of the office in a noisy procession.

Bianca lingered at the back. Before leaving, she turned and mouthed a single word at me.

"Idiot."

One by one, the office lights went out.

The last person to leave—the admin assistant—didn't even spare me a glance before pulling the main switch.

Only the glow of my monitor remained, showing the time: 4:00 p.m.

For the past seven years, every company event had been the same.

In my first year at the company, they organized a team-building trip to Merdive Island—five days and four nights at a seven-star hotel.

The day the news was announced, the office erupted in excitement.

Kevin had called me into his office and said, "Alexia, you know our department has limited spots. Only core team members can go. You're outsourced, so you won't be taking up one of those spots.

"Here's what we'll do—you hold down the fort at the office for a few days. If anything comes up, handle it promptly. It's a good opportunity for you to grow, don't you agree?"

I nodded and said yes.

For those five days, their social feeds were filled with beaches, diving, and seafood. And I stayed behind alone in an empty office, handling all the work they had left behind.

My lunch was food from the convenience store downstairs. Dinner was instant noodles.

In the past two years, in the name of employee care, the company had purchased ergonomic chairs worth five hundred dollars for every full-time staff member.

Each person could customize the color and material on the official website.

Bianca chose a soft, pastel pink.

The day her chair arrived, she spun around in it several times. Then she stopped in front of me, looking down at my battered chair—its paint peeling, the cushion collapsed—and smiled.

"This chair is so comfortable. Too bad. Outsourced staff don't get one. You'll just have to make do with your junk."

After years of overtime, I had already developed a herniated disc in my lower back. On rainy days, the dull ache would creep in again.

A month ago, the administrative department arranged afternoon tea from a trendy coffee shop downstairs. Everyone could order a drink.

Bianca waved a cup of Orchid Latte in front of me and said loudly on purpose, "Sorry, we didn't include you in the headcount. Outsourced staff aren't part of the benefits program. Why are you gulping? Feeling tempted? Go buy one yourself."

Over the past seven years, there had been countless moments like this—moments where I was deliberately excluded with precision. None of their benefits, none of their joy, none of their sense of belonging had anything to do with me.

I was just a tool. A tool they could order around at will, discard when finished, and not even bother remembering by name.

I didn't look at the stack of documents.

Instead, I opened a document I had been secretly maintaining for seven years and typed a new entry.

[February 16, 2026, 4:15 p.m.]

[Incident: Kevin Davis, citing "contract worker status," denied employee Alexia Turner access to the annual gala and holiday benefits.]

[Involved: All full-time staff of the Marketing Department.]

[Additional: Forced assignment of personal work; required overtime on New Year's Eve.]

Expressionless, I finished typing and saved the file.

Then I picked up my phone and sent a message to a number.

[Frances, set things in motion.]

My phone buzzed almost immediately with a reply from my secretary, Frances Kenin.

[Understood, Ms. Turner. The final document for the equity transfer has taken effect. As of now, you are the largest individual shareholder of the company. Your identity will be formally announced at the annual gala at six this evening.]

I looked at the message and felt nothing.

I had hidden this identity for seven years.

Seven years ago, just after I graduated from college, my father's company was targeted by a hostile takeover and pushed to the brink of bankruptcy.

Overnight, his hair turned white. Then came the heart attack that sent him into the emergency room.

Before he died, he transferred the last 5% of his concealed shares to me.

"Alexia… don't seek revenge. Just live well."

Those were his final words.

I promised him.

What I didn't say was that I would take back everything that belonged to our family—my own way.

For seven years, I worked at this company as a contract worker, earning the lowest salary and doing the hardest work.

At the same time, I leveraged the financial knowledge I'd gained in college to navigate the stock market.

Using the money my father left me as seed capital, I quietly bought back the diluted shares, bit by bit.

From 5% to 10%, from 10% to 30%.

Until 4:00 p.m. today, when my holdings reached 51%.

I became the absolute controlling shareholder of this billion-dollar conglomerate.

And the people in the marketing department knew nothing about it.

To them, I was still the same contract worker they could humiliate at will.

My phone buzzed again—a message from the department group chat.

I tapped it open.

A large group photo filled the screen. Behind them was a lavish hotel ballroom, glittering with gold. The tables were piled high with exquisite dishes.

Kevin stood in the center, his beer belly pushed forward, his face flushed with pride.

Bianca sat on his lap, flashing a peace sign at the camera.

The caption, posted by Kevin, read: [Alright, team—dig in! Tonight, we drink till we drop!]

The replies flooded in.

[Thank you, Mr. Davis!]

[Stick with Mr. Davis and you'll never go hungry!]

[Hope everyone hits the jackpot tonight!]

I scrolled through the chat without expression.

Halfway down, a new image popped up.

It was from Bianca.

The photo showed stacks of cash piled into a small hill—at least tens of thousands of dollars.

[Year-end bonuses for everyone! Mr. Davis is the best!]

The chat exploded again.

[Holy crap, that much?!]

[I love this company! I love Mr. Davis!]

I smiled faintly.

That money had all been approved by me.

This "contract worker" was the one who decided the bonuses for these full-time employees.

Wasn't that ironic?

I closed the chat and opened the report Kevin had dumped on me.

He thought he was making things difficult for me. What he didn't know was that this was exactly what I needed. The report was riddled with loopholes—even ones he himself didn't understand. Every single one was evidence that could bring him down.

I turned on screen recording software and captured my entire process.

As I corrected the data, I logged everything in my document.

[5:30 p.m.: Began processing Kevin's "Q1 Marketing Review Report."]

[Issue 1: Q1 promotional expenses overstated by 37%.]

[Evidence: Discrepancy between backend raw data and reported figures; the difference amounts to 1.39 million dollars.]

[Issue 2: Suspected kickbacks involving Vendor A.]

[Evidence: Purchase prices exceed market rates by 60%; contract approved by Kevin; receiving account shares the same name as his wife's cousin.]

My typing grew faster and faster.

Outside, the sky had turned completely dark. Neon lights flickered on across the city, and distant bursts of fireworks echoed in the night.

New Year's Eve had arrived.

I sent the report to Kevin.

But when he forwarded the document to the board of directors' group chat, the name on it had been changed to "Bianca."