Three years ago, I championed Amelia Thorne's entry into the company. From intern to HR Director, every promotion she received, I had vouched for her. Now, there were 23 names on the redundancy list. Mine was at the top. She had submitted it. "Helen, I couldn't help it." Her eyes red-rimmed, "It was decided by management." I said nothing. Her phone vibrated. A text message. Top contact, marked with a red heart emoji. The profile picture was a man's side profile. A dark blue plaid shirt. The same one I had personally ironed for Oliver Goddard last night. Oliver Goddard is my husband. I put the list into my bag and stood up. "Amelia, the shirt the person in your top contact is wearing—" "I ironed it last night." Her face went white. 1 "Helen! Helen, wait!" Amelia's voice, tinged with a sob, chased me down the corridor. I didn't look back. My heels clicked on the tiled floor, a steady rhythm. The elevator doors opened. She caught up to me, grabbing my arm. "You misunderstood, that person isn't Oliver..." "Dark blue plaid shirt, with a small scorched hole under the left chest pocket." I looked at her hand. "I accidentally ironed it like that last night." Her fingers loosened. "Helen..." "Amelia." I pressed the elevator button. "You've been using that trick on me for three years—your left eye reddens first, then your right. It's not very effective anymore." The elevator doors closed. I leaned against the elevator wall, watching the numbers drop. Basement one. Parking garage. I got into my car, closed the door. My phone lit up. A message. Amelia sent a voice note; I didn't open it. Another text came: "Helen, if you don't believe me, you can ask Oliver directly. He'll explain." I stared at the message for ten seconds. I opened Oliver's social media. Last Wednesday, he posted a picture of coffee with the caption: "Working late, this coffee delivered tastes extra good." That night he told me he was busy with a project at work; I hadn't sent him any coffee. The first comment was from Amelia: "You're working hard [heart emoji]." Oliver replied with a smiling emoji. I scrolled down further. A month ago, during the holiday weekend, he said he was taking clients for golf in the Bahamas. No pictures posted on his feed. But Amelia had posted. A beach, sunset, red bikini, with the caption: "Be good to me, holiday." In the bottom right corner of the second photo, a man's hand, wearing a very familiar wedding band on the ring finger. The scratch was on the left side—Oliver always rested his left hand on the steering wheel when driving, wearing it down. I exited the app, started the car. I arrived home at 7:30. Oliver poked his head out of the kitchen, smiling. "You're back? Why so early today?" "Nothing much, so I came home." "Wash up, dinner's ready. The ribs just came out of the oven." At the dining table, he served me food, recounting his day at the office. "You remember Mark from finance? Today he added an extra zero to a report, and the boss thought our department's revenue had increased tenfold. He was happy for a whole hour..." He smiled very naturally. I smiled too. "Oh, right," he said, "you ironed my blue plaid shirt, didn't you? I have an important meeting tomorrow." "It's hanging in the third compartment of the closet." "Thanks, wife." He reached over and squeezed my fingers. His fingertips were warm. After dinner, he went to wash the dishes. I went into the bedroom and opened the closet. The blue plaid shirt was hanging there. I picked it up and sniffed it closely. Beneath the scent of laundry detergent, there was a faint fragrance. Bleu de Chanel. I had given it to Amelia for her birthday three years ago. "I love it so much!" she had hugged me then, saying, "Helen, you're truly the best person in the world to me." I hung the shirt back up. In the pocket, I felt a crumpled receipt. Two cups of coffee from a local cafe. One Americano, one low-sugar latte. I drink Americano. Oliver also drinks Americano. Whose was the low-sugar latte? The sound of water stopped in the bathroom. He walked out, wrapped in a towel. "Wife, I might be home late tomorrow; a project needs finishing." "Okay." "Don't stay up too late." He kissed my forehead. "Oliver." "Hm?" "How long has it been since you celebrated our wedding anniversary with me?" His movement paused. "Last month wasn't..." "Last month you said you had an unexpected business trip to the Caribbean." "Right, that client couldn't be put off..." "Did that client wear a red bikini?" His expression flickered, then returned to normal. "What are you talking about? The client is a bald man in his fifties." "Oh." "Why are you suddenly thinking about this?" "Nothing. There's a small hole under the pocket of your shirt. I accidentally did it while ironing; I hope you don't mind." "Not at all." He smiled. "You ironed it for me; even the hole looks good." I turned off the light. In the darkness, his breathing gradually became even. My eyes remained open. At 2 AM, his phone lit up. A message popped up, labeled "Project Team - Kevin": "Hubby, I've handled the last issue. She won't have a chance to turn things around. Don't worry." Followed by a kissing emoji. Hubby. She. Turn things around. The screen darkened. Oliver turned over, his arm resting on my waist. "Mmm... wife..." he mumbled indistinctly. I didn't move. "Goodnight," I said. No one replied. 2 "Here, I bought you coffee, a sugar-free Americano." Amelia stood at my cubicle, smiling gently, holding a Starbucks cup. Her other hand briefly rested on my shoulder. "I thought about yesterday all night; it truly was management's decision. I tried to advocate for you." I took the coffee. "Thank you." "What you said yesterday... about the shirt," she leaned in, lowering her voice, "my boyfriend happens to have an identical one. It's just a coincidence, don't overthink it." "Your boyfriend?" "Mm, we've only been dating for two months, haven't gone public yet." She winked. "I'll introduce you sometime." "Okay." She smiled and walked away. I took a sip of coffee. Americano, but with sugar. I never take sugar in my Americano. She remembered Oliver’s low-sugar latte, but couldn’t recall my preference. At 10 AM, my colleague Alex passed my cubicle, dropping a stack of documents, and whispered, "Helen, there's something I'm not sure if I should tell you." "Tell me." She looked around, then pulled me into the breakroom. "The redundancy list... I saw three versions on the printer." "Three versions?" "The first version had 15 people, and you weren't on it. The second had 20, and you were number eight. The third is this current one, 23 people, and you're number one." "Who changed it?" "Amelia. All three revision records are under her account. Each time someone was added—" Alex bit her lip, "—it was always someone you mentored." I said nothing. "And one more thing." Alex lowered her voice. "Did you see last week's department annual performance review?" "I submitted it." "Not your version." She pulled out her phone and showed me a screenshot. On the screen, under the department review section: "Helen Fraser: Average organizational skills, aggressive management style, poor team cohesion. Recommended for salary reduction, role reassignment, or optimization." A red cross was next to my name. "Below that was a section for role recommendations." Alex scrolled to the next page. "Amelia wrote it, recommending her assistant, Beth, to replace you. Someone who's been with the company for less than six months." "When was this report submitted?" "Two weeks ago. Three days before the redundancy list." "Is the original report still in the system?" "Yes. But the permissions were changed; only Amelia and the administrator can see it. I saw it last week during system maintenance when IT recovered a batch of files." Alex looked at me. "Helen, she did it on purpose." I knew. At noon, Amelia came to find me again, sitting opposite me and placing a chicken wing in my bowl. "Helen, eat more, you've lost weight recently." "Mm." "Dinner tonight? Let's get a barbecue. It's been a while." "He's working late tonight." "Then just the two of us." She took my hand and held it. "Helen, no matter what happens, you're my best friend." Her palm was warm. The same temperature as when Oliver squeezed my fingers last night. "Amelia." "Hm?" "What does your new boyfriend do?" Her eyes flickered. "Finance." "Which company?" "A small company you wouldn't know." "What's his name?" "Helen, why are you so interested in my boyfriend?" She smiled. "Are you jealous?" "Just asking." In the afternoon, I went to HR's shared folder. I didn't have administrator privileges, but the old system's backend entry was still open. Three minutes later, I found all the documents Amelia had submitted. Besides the tampered performance review, there was something else. Title: "Core Employee Seating Adjustment Plan." The content was simple: Move Helen Fraser's workstation from the eighth-floor department area to the third-floor administrative area. Reason: "Optimize office space." The third-floor administrative area. Next to the restroom drainage pipe, no windows. She had even planned where I would sit. At the bottom of the document was a footnote. Not Amelia's handwriting. "Confirmed with HR, to be executed next Monday. —Oliver Goddard." Oliver. My husband's name, appearing on a document that moved me next to the restroom. I opened the company directory and searched for "Oliver Goddard." One result. Finance Department. Senior Finance Manager. Start date—two years ago. Two years ago, he told me he had switched to an investment company. "It's a small company; you wouldn't know it even if I told you." Exactly what Amelia had said earlier. He had been working at my company for two years. In the same building. I was on the eighth floor, he was on the tenth. Separated by the ninth floor—the HR department, Amelia's floor. My phone rang. Oliver. "Wife, what do you want for dinner tonight?" "...Anything." "What's wrong with your voice?" "A bit tired." "Then leave work early. I'll wait for you at home." I hung up. I found the screenshot of that message from earlier that morning. "Project Team - Kevin." Hubby. She won't have a chance to turn things around. Kevin. "Amelia, you are truly something else." 3 "Ms. Fraser, please attend the management meeting this afternoon." My assistant, Emily, brought in documents, her expression subtle. "What's the agenda?" "It's being led by Director Thorne. Department budget reviews and personnel optimization plans." At 2 PM, over a dozen people sat in the conference room. Amelia stood before the projector, dressed in a white turtleneck, looking intellectual and gentle. "Everyone, the company is facing some pressure this year, and we need to optimize our human efficiency." She flipped to the next slide. "First, a report on each department's semi-annual performance." A table appeared on the screen. Marketing Department, 120% completion. Tech Department, 115%. Sales Department, 98%. Operations Department—my department—47%. 47%. I had led my team to achieve $18 million in revenue in the first half of the year, targeting $20 million. That's a 90% completion rate. Not 47%. "The Operations Department's performance is indeed less than ideal." Amelia's tone was regretful, glancing at me. "Ms. Fraser has worked hard, but the data doesn't lie." "How was this data calculated?" I asked. "Finance calculated it. Do you have any objections?" "The data I submitted was $18 million, a 90% completion rate." "Finance performed a recalculation, and the revenue attribution for several projects was adjusted." "What was the basis for the adjustment?" "That's a professional judgment from Finance; I'm not entirely clear." She shuffled the documents in her hand. "If you have questions, you can check with Finance after the meeting." "Furthermore," she continued, "after a comprehensive evaluation, the Operations Department's human efficiency ranks last among all departments. Therefore, our optimization list has a higher proportion from Operations." Out of 23 people, my department accounted for 14. More than half were to be laid off. "Helen," she used my nickname in front of everyone, "don't feel pressured. It's not your personal problem; it's the general economic climate." Gentle, thoughtful. As if she was concerned for me. In reality, she had just used fake data to sentence my department to death. After the meeting, I went straight to the tenth-floor finance department. I found the finance manager, Mr. Davies. "Mr. Davies, on what basis was the Operations Department's revenue recalculated?" Mr. Davies adjusted his glasses. "Last month, Director Thorne submitted an adjustment request, stating that the revenue attribution for three projects needed to be reclassified, moving them from Operations to Marketing." "Who signed off on it?" "The process requires sign-off from the department liaison." Mr. Davies handed over the document. On the signature line was a very familiar handwriting. Oliver Goddard. "This Oliver Goddard," I pointed at the signature, "which department is he from?" "Finance Department. He's responsible for liaising on all departmental financial matters," Mr. Davies looked at me. "Doesn't Ms. Fraser know him? He's been here for two years." "I know him." I walked out of the tenth floor. The window at the end of the corridor was open. The November wind blew in, bitingly cold. Oliver had been working at the company for two years. He helped Amelia adjust my department's data. Signed off on it. Then he went home, cooked me barbecue ribs, kissed my forehead, and said, "Wife, you've worked hard." I took the elevator down to basement one and found Oliver's car—the one I brought as part of my dowry. The car was unlocked. A beige silk scarf was draped over the passenger seat. Hermes. The one Amelia always wore. I opened the glove compartment, and inside was a crumpled hotel receipt. The Grand Hotel, Presidential Suite, costing $8,600. Date: October 15th. That day was our third wedding anniversary. Oliver said he was on a business trip to the Caribbean. He even sent a picture of a beautiful island. I replied then, "The island is beautiful, take me next time." He said, "Definitely." Hanging on the rearview mirror was a pair of keychains. Two small bears, one red and one blue, with the letters "W" and "H" engraved on the base. Wei and Heng. Not Tang and Heng. I photographed the receipt and put the keychains in my pocket. Back at my desk. Alex came over again. "Helen, Amelia was just in the breakroom telling some department heads—" She hesitated. "Word for word." "She said, 'Helen has been very emotional since she found out about the redundancies, and yesterday she said some rather incoherent things in my office. Please be understanding with her; she's very pitiful.'" Unstable. Incoherent. Pitiful. Three labels affixed. From now on, no matter what I say, it will be dismissed as the rambling of someone having an emotional breakdown. My phone rang. Amelia. "Helen, are we still on for barbecue tonight?" "You decide." "A steakhouse? You said last time you wanted a good steak." "Amelia." "Hm?" "Where were you on October 15th?" There was three seconds of silence on the other end. "Helen, why are you suddenly asking that?" "That was my wedding anniversary. Oliver was away on business, and I ate instant noodles alone at home. I just wanted to know if everyone else had a better day than me." Another three seconds of silence. "...I worked late that day. Alone at the office until very late." "Oh, that's tough too." "It is. So, barbecue at seven?" "Okay." I hung up. The Grand Hotel receipt, check-in time 3 PM. "Worked late." "Amelia, your 'overtime' location is quite luxurious." 4 "Helen, what are you doing here?" Amelia looked up, in the process of changing the water for a bouquet of white roses. The flowers on her desk, at least thirty, were tied with a satin ribbon. "Who sent them?" I walked in and closed the door. "My boyfriend," she smiled, moving the flowers aside. "Sit, can I get you something to drink?" "No need." I sat across from her. I took three items from my bag, placing them one by one on her desk. A beige Hermes silk scarf. A Grand Hotel receipt. A pair of bear keychains, W & H. Amelia's smile slowly faded. "The scarf was found in Oliver's car, in the passenger seat. Yours, right?" She didn't speak. "The Grand Hotel, October 15th. My wedding anniversary. Oliver told me he was in the Caribbean." Her fingers subtly tightened. "The keychains are engraved with two letters. W for Wei, H for Heng." She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she looked up at me, her eyes red again. "Helen... I know you're hurting..." "I'm not hurting. I'm confirming facts with you." "The fact is—" her voice trembled slightly, "—Oliver and I do know each other." "Know each other." "But it's not what you think." "Then what is it?" "He pursued me first," she bit her lip. "Last year, at the annual gala, you left early. He had too much to drink and added me on social media." "And then?" "I rejected him! Helen, you're my best friend, how could I possibly—" "Best friend." "Yes! So I kept avoiding him, but he kept seeking me out, sending messages, gifts..." "And you couldn't avoid him, so you stayed in the Grand Hotel's Presidential Suite?" She froze. "Couldn't avoid him, so you flew to the Bahamas together?" "The Bahamas wasn't what you think—" "You posted pictures. A red bikini. His hand is in the bottom right corner of the photo, a wedding ring on his ring finger, with scratches on the left side." Amelia's tears finally fell. "I didn't mean to hurt you..." "Then what about the redundancy list?" My voice was calm. "You revised it three times. Each time, you added people from my team. My name wasn't on the first version; you added it." She wiped away her tears. "You also changed the performance review. My performance was $18 million, and you wrote it as less than $8 million. The difference was entirely reallocated to the Marketing Department." "That was a Finance Department decision—" "The person who signed it was Oliver Goddard." She fell silent. "You also wrote my seating adjustment plan. Moving me from the eighth floor to next to the restroom on the third floor. And Oliver's handwriting was in the annotation column." "Helen..." "You two work very well together." "It's not what you think!" she suddenly stood up, her voice changed—no longer a soft sob, but sharp, urgent. "Oliver promised me, he said he would handle—" She stopped mid-sentence. Realizing she had let something slip. "Promised you what?" I looked at her. She covered her mouth. "Handle me?" "No... I didn't mean that..." "Amelia. Three years ago, when you came for your interview, that internship experience on your resume was fake. I helped you cover it up." Her breathing hitched. "Your first probation review didn't pass; I found three reviewers to speak up for you. When you were promoted to manager, your competitor was stronger, and I fought for you in the meeting." "I know..." "From intern to HR Director, three years, I pushed you every step of the way." "Helen, I'm grateful to you..." "Your way of showing gratitude is to sleep with my husband, falsify my data, and put my name first on the redundancy list." She opened her mouth, wanting to explain something. The office door was pushed open. Oliver stood at the doorway. A cup of coffee in his left hand, another in his right. "Amelia, I—" He looked up. He saw me. His smile froze on his face. Both coffee cups tilted simultaneously, brown liquid spilling onto his leather shoes. He didn't move. Amelia didn't move. I didn't move either. Three people, two seconds of silence. Quiet enough to hear the coffee dripping onto the tiled floor.
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