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."

I once believed that as long as I worked hard—harder than anyone else—I would eventually earn recognition.

I did the work of three people on my own.

The proposals I created were submitted under Bianca's name and went on to win the company's Annual Innovation Award.

The clients I secured were credited to Kevin, who walked away with million-dollar bonuses.

I burned with a 102°F fever and still sat in front of my computer revising PPT slides, because Kevin said, "Outsourced staff don't get sick leave."

And what about them?

They clocked in right on time every day, then started drinking coffee and chatting in the afternoon. They earned several times my salary, enjoying benefits I would never see.

They took my work, my achievements, as if it were their right—and then turned around and mocked me for being "just an outsourced worker."

Seven years. I thought my heart had gone numb. But now, looking out at the glittering hotel hosting the annual gala, I still felt a flicker of hatred.

Why?

As usual, I asked Kevin for an explanation. I didn't expect anything different. I already knew what he would say.

Kevin smiled as he spoke.

"Bianca knows how to play the game. Unlike you—you're like a block of wood, no flexibility at all."

I listened quietly, without interrupting.

"So, Alexia, you need to learn to be smarter. What's the point of being capable? You're just outsourced. If I say live, you live. If I say die, you die."

Laughter erupted from the other end of the call—he had clearly put it on speaker.

Bianca's voice chimed in as well, "Mr. Davis's right! Alexia, did you hear that? You're just an idiot our department keeps!"

"Hahaha! You couldn't have said it better, Bianca!"

"Even a dog knows how to wag its tail—she doesn't even know how to do that!"

I recorded it all.

[5:55 p.m.: Result—"Q1 Marketing Review Report" credited to Bianca.]

[Total instances of authorship reassignment: 128.]

I hung up, then turned to the coat rack. I slipped off the worn-out jacket I had been wearing for years and tossed it onto the battered chair that had accompanied me for seven.

Beneath it was the outfit I had prepared for tonight—a sleek black silk gown, sharply tailored, its surface catching the light with a subtle sheen.

At the gala, glasses clinked as the host made the formal announcement, "Tonight, we not only celebrate the achievements of the past year—we also witness the arrival of a new era! Because today, our company welcomes a new Chairman!"

"A new Chairman?"

The crowd erupted instantly.

Mr. Davis flushed red with excitement. He shot to his feet, raising his glass and speaking loudly to the employees around him, spittle flying.

"I've already heard through internal channels—the new chairman is a capital tycoon from overseas, extremely generous, and especially appreciative of battle-hardened departments like ours!"

Bianca immediately clung to him like a vine, her voice syrupy sweet.

"Then you're definitely getting promoted, Mr. Davis! When that happens, don't forget to look out for us! Our marketing department will become the company's core division!"

"That's right! Stick with the boss, and you'll never go hungry!"

"Now, let's give our warmest applause as we welcome our new chairman to the stage!"

A powerful symphony surged through the hall. Every spotlight snapped in unison toward the golden doors of the banquet hall.

Mr. Davis rushed forward, leading the entire marketing department to the very front of the red carpet.

Under the blaze of lights, I stepped in from the backlit entrance.

I raised the microphone. My lips parted, and my voice—carried by the top-tier sound system—rang through every corner of the hall.

"My name is Alexia Turner."

I paused, looking at the people who had once trampled me beneath their feet, and offered a cold, dazzling smile.

"The same contract worker you said wasn't even worthy of receiving the company's holiday gifts.

"At the same time, I am the new Chairman, holding 51% of the company's shares.

"As Chairman, I will now announce my first motion.

"Dismiss the entire Marketing Department."