The CEO Humiliated Me,His Biggest Client Chose Me Instead

"Thought he wasn't coming. Running around chasing clients on New Year's Eve—what's that going to accomplish?" "Come on, Donald's our top seller. His numbers carried half the company last year. I bet Mr. Whitney gave him a fat bonus, right?" I didn't take the bait. I skirted around the crowd and found an empty seat in the farthest corner. A server appeared immediately with place settings. I picked up my chopsticks and put some greens in my mouth. They tasted like nothing. Marcus watched me settle in, then spoke up again. "Donald, must've been rough chasing clients at year-end, huh? When I called earlier, you were still out there hustling. How'd it go?" I looked up at him. "Still in progress." Marcus slapped his thigh, putting on his best appreciative-boss face. "That's what I like to see! That hustle! Don't worry—this company rewards its heroes." "Now, the bonus this year was a little light, I'll admit. But that project of yours ran two days over last year, cost us some money, so we had to dock a bit." "Work hard next year and I'll get you a raise. Promote you to Sales Manager!" The same empty promises. The same script. Five years of this. Five years of dangled carrots that vanished the moment I reached for them. I laughed inside, but my face stayed blank. I just nodded. "Thank you for your concern, Mr. Whitney." Miranda sidled up to me, all wide-eyed innocence. "So, Donald, how much did you get for your bonus? I got eight thousand eight hundred. Yours must be way more, right?" The moment those words left her mouth, the others piled on: "Yeah, Donald, tell us! Let us be jealous for once!" I set down my chopsticks. My voice was flat. "Not much. Two hundred fifty dollars and thirty-eight cents." A beat of silence. Then the private room erupted in deafening laughter. "Two-fifty? Mr. Whitney, you're too much! That number is chef's kiss!" "Two hundred fifty! And thirty-eight cents! What a lucky number—it's like it was made just for him!" Marcus coughed twice, feigning disapproval. "Alright, alright, enough. Donald had some shortcomings this year, that's all. He works hard next year, and the bonus will reflect it." His words said fair. His eyes said joke. He didn't see me as anything worth taking seriously. The rest of the evening was an endless stream of flattery and drunken laughter. One by one, they raised their glasses to Marcus, competing to see who could grovel the hardest, calling him "Mr. Whitney" with sickening warmth. I sat in my corner, eating quietly. When someone wandered over to toast me, I gave them two words and nothing more. My face revealed nothing. The dinner dragged on until late. When it finally broke up, Marcus announced they were heading to a karaoke bar to keep the party going. The whole crowd cheered and followed him out like puppies. No one invited me. I preferred it that way. I turned and walked out of Senhao Hotel alone, then headed back to the office. I organized my files—every client's quirks, preferences, deal-breakers. All of it. These notes came from years of pounding the pavement, sitting through endless dinners, drinking until my head pounded, recording every detail that mattered. Five years of accumulated knowledge. My trump card. The one thing this company could never take from me. Once the client files were in order, I compressed my project tracking records and saved them to both a USB drive and the cloud. No room for error. By the time I finished, it was four in the morning. I rubbed my burning eyes and opened my contacts, scrolling to the headhunter numbers I'd saved. Three of them. All people I'd met at industry summits over the years. Each one had handed me a card and said the same thing: If you ever want to make a move, call me. I sent each of them a message. Then I went home to sleep. I slept like the dead. When I woke, it was to my phone vibrating so violently it nearly rattled off the nightstand.

I glanced at the time—9 AM. My WeChat showed 99+ unread messages, all from those three recruiters. "Mr. Chavez! My boss says if you're willing to talk, we're starting at 50% above your current salary—minimum!" "Mr. Chavez, this is Will Lambert from Headhunter Elite. Your client portfolio is industry gold. I sent out your blind resume last night, and four publicly traded companies already want to meet for coffee." "Brother, don't bother with anyone else—come straight to the company I'm recommending. Their VP of Marketing position has been vacant for six months. They're waiting for YOU." Reading these messages, I let out a cold laugh. In Marcus's eyes, I was worthless—a loser who deserved nothing more than a $250 bonus. But in the actual market? I was the prize everyone was fighting over. That was the information gap. The truth that a frog like Marcus, trapped at the bottom of his little well, would never see. I washed up quickly and picked out my sharpest suit. The man in the mirror still looked a bit haggard, but the eyes staring back were razor-sharp. Today was the seventh day of the new year—first day back at work. Also my last day at this company. The moment I walked through the front doors, a wave of over-the-top festivity hit me in the face. Red lanterns hung from the reception desk. Everyone wore plastic smiles, trading hollow compliments back and forth. When they noticed me, the bustling office went quiet for a few seconds. Their looks were... complicated. Some pitying. Some mocking. But mostly? They were here to watch the show. Last night's bonus had clearly become the hottest office gossip. One of Marcus's lackeys sat near my desk, ordering the cleaning lady around. "Ma'am, move this money tree over to my side." He smirked. "The feng shui here is terrible—everything planted here dies. No wonder some people close huge deals but end up with bonuses that don't even match a fraction of mine." The passive-aggressive jab hung in the air, clearly meant for me. I ignored the pathetic attempt and walked straight to my workstation. Miranda happened to stroll by—what a coincidence—her face arranged in a look of fake innocence. "Oh! Donald, you actually showed up? I thought you'd be too embarrassed to come in today." She leaned closer, voice dripping with false sweetness. "Mr. Whitney said there's an all-hands meeting today. He's going to announce the good news about Mr. James's $42 million deal. You should definitely pay attention!" The moment she mentioned that deal, greed flickered in her eyes. After all, she'd done absolutely nothing in her three months here and still pulled in $8,800 a month. If this deal went through, how much would she rake in? The others buzzed with anticipation, whispering among themselves as if that contract was already signed, sealed, and delivered. Everyone knew exactly what kind of windfall was coming their way. I just smiled coldly, said nothing, and sat down to boot up my computer. Five minutes later, Marcus's secretary clicked over in her heels. "Manager Chavez, Mr. Whitney wants you in his office. Now." I pushed open the door to the general manager's office. Marcus was on the phone, face glowing with self-satisfaction. "Oh, Mr. Finch! Same to you, same to you! This year's going to be huge for both of us! Yes, yes—Mr. James's $42 million deal is about to close. When it does, you have to come celebrate with us!" He spotted me and ended the call. The smile vanished instantly, replaced by the magnanimous expression of someone bestowing charity on the undeserving. "Donald. Sit." He tossed me a cigarette, lit one for himself, and blew a lazy smoke ring. "So. Did you think things through last night?" He leaned back. "I know the company didn't give you much of a bonus this year, but that was to motivate you."

"Young people need to think long-term. Don't get hung up on small change!" Once upon a time, I might have nodded along like a good little employee. But now? Looking at that self-satisfied face, all I felt was disgust. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Whitney?" I didn't sit. I stood ramrod straight. Marcus frowned, clearly displeased by my cool demeanor, but he smoothed it over quickly. "Here's the situation. The $42 million project with Mr. James—you've been the one cultivating that relationship." "However, given the... issues with several of your projects last year, the leadership team met and decided that Miranda will take point on closing this deal. You'll assist her in a supporting role." There it was. The knife finally out of its sheath. Whatever lingering loyalty I'd held for this company evaporated in that instant. So this was Marcus's game. First, humiliate me with a pathetic bonus to crush my confidence. Then strip away my biggest client and hand it to his pet project on a silver platter. Once this $42 million deal closed, Miranda would be the company's golden child. And me? I'd be shoved to the margins until they could toss me out like yesterday's trash. Brilliant strategy. Too bad he'd miscalculated. "So what you're saying is... you want me to gift-wrap my client for Miranda?" I regarded him with something between a smile and a sneer. Marcus's expression darkened. "Gift-wrap? The client belongs to the company! You only got access because of our reputation and resources!" His palm slammed the desk. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking this place can't function without you." "All the groundwork is done. This deal is a layup now—anyone could close it!" "If anyone could close it, then let Miranda handle it herself. Why do you need me?" I met his gaze evenly. I knew exactly what he was after. A muscle twitched near Marcus's mouth. "Miranda just started here. She doesn't know the details! I need you to compile everything—all your notes, Mr. James's preferences, the negotiation strategy—and hand it over to her!" "That's an order!" He was losing his composure now. I allowed myself a cold smile. Then I reached into my jacket and pulled out an envelope I'd prepared days ago. It landed on his desk with a satisfying thwap. "I'm afraid I won't be able to help with that, Mr. Whitney." "What's this?" He blinked. "My resignation." The air turned to glass. Marcus stared at the envelope for a full three seconds. Then he burst out laughing—a harsh, disbelieving sound, like I'd told him the funniest joke he'd ever heard. "Resign? Have you lost your mind, Donald?"