My entire family consists of ruthless, type-A corporate monsters. Even our estate manager runs an offshore hedge fund on the side. Naturally, I turned out to be a complete slacker. My loftiest ambition in life has always been waking up only when my body decides it’s good and ready. My parents couldn’t stand watching me lounge around the penthouse all day, so they insisted on shoehorning me into one of the family’s subsidiaries. So, I simply changed the scenery for my lounging. During office hours, I tended to my little desktop plant. When the clock struck five, I logged on to play games with my squad. If a wave of exhaustion hit mid-afternoon, I’d pull a cashmere throw over my shoulders and take a glorious nap right in my cubicle. The division managers had all received discreet calls from executive leadership long before my first day; they knew better than to ruffle my feathers. They happily turned a blind eye. Until head office parachuted in a brand-new division supervisor. The man demanded two mandatory hours of unpaid overtime from the entire team every evening. On top of that, he instituted a rotating schedule where team members were expected to run his personal errands, pick up his dry cleaning, and fetch his iced Americanos. I don't play those games. Every day at five o’clock on the dot, I grabbed my coat and walked out the door. Today, he lost his mind and flipped my desk in the middle of the open-plan office. He smashed the little potted succulent I’d spent two weeks nursing into a dozen terracotta shards across the floor, then snatched my iPad off the desk and hurled it directly into the trash can. "A lazy, good-for-nothing freeloader thinks he can put on airs with me?" he sneered, his face flushed red. "Do you have any idea who I am? One word from me, and I’ll make sure you can’t even get hired to flip burgers in this town!" I looked down at the wreckage at my feet. I let out a soft, tired sigh. Silently, I slipped my phone from my pocket and dialed my father. "Dad. Someone just flipped my desk. He says he's firing me." On the other end of the line, my father took a slow, measured sip of his private-reserve vintage tea. "Which subsidiary was that again? You need to be specific, kiddo. We own too many holding companies; Dad loses track." 1 "The hardware subsidiary over in the tech corridor. Aegis Dynamics." I leaned against the wall and sighed into the receiver. My father’s dismissive voice came floating through the speaker. "Oh, right, that little place that manufactures scrap components. Fine, I’ve got it. Go treat yourself to high tea at the lounge across the street. I’ll send people over right away." "Click." The line went dead. I pocketed my phone and looked up at Simon. The wild, furious rage he’d displayed just seconds ago while overturning my furniture seemed to vanish into thin air. He smoothed the French cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, his expression shifting into one of measured patience—almost pity. "Asher," he said, shaking his head. "I have to admit, that was quite a performance." He pulled an individually wrapped sanitizing wipe from his breast pocket and began cleaning his fingers with excruciating care. "I’ve seen plenty of boys like you fresh out of school. Vain. Fragile. Completely incapable of handling constructive feedback. Do you honestly think staging a fake phone call to pretend you’re some billionaire’s son erases the fact that you’re dead weight on this team?" His tone was quiet, soft, and drenched in unearned moral superiority. Around us, the rest of the floor had gone dead quiet. Everyone stared at their keyboards, playing dead, terrified of catching his eye. I looked at the shattered remains on the laminate floor. It was a little jade succulent the front-desk guy had given me when I started. I’d spent two weeks coaxing it along, and it had just sprouted its first tender green shoots. "You broke my things," I said evenly. Simon offered a small, calibrated smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with rehearsed benevolence. "Asher, it was an accident. I was simply trying to help you clear away the clutter so you could focus. I might have been a bit too forceful, sure. But look at this mess—it looked more like a day-care than a professional workstation." He opened his leather wallet, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and set it delicately on the edge of the nearest partition. "Consider that reimbursement. Go buy a new planter. Use what’s left to grab an espresso so you can actually stay awake during working hours." Before I could reply, the glass double doors of the department swung open. Camille Fontaine stepped inside. She wore a sharp, bespoke ivory pantsuit, her dark hair pinned back without a single stray strand out of place. The heiress of the Fontaine Group—and, on paper, my arranged fiancée. She had concealed her family background to take the general manager position at this modest branch, calling it "gaining ground-level executive experience." In reality, she was hiding out to avoid her family's relentless pressure to finalize our marriage. She despised me. To her, I was nothing more than an aimless slacker with no drive to conquer the world. Camille walked over, her heels clicking against the tile. Her gaze swept over the dirt and broken pottery, her brow furrowing slightly. "What happened here?" Her voice was refined, cool, carrying the effortless chill of generational wealth. Simon immediately stepped forward. His eyes took on a slight, hurt shine, his voice dropping to a humble, apologetic register. "Ms. Fontaine, it’s my fault. Asher leaves at five on the dot every day and refuses to join our post-mortem strategy sessions. I tried to speak with him today to offer some mentoring, but I suppose my tone was too direct. I lost my balance and knocked his table over." He lowered his head, the picture of a devoted team leader quietly taking the blame for an unruly subordinate. Camille sighed. She tapped her manicured index finger against the partition, her cool gaze drifting over my face. "Asher," she murmured, using that patronizing tone older relatives use on delinquent children. "You are far too volatile. Simon is a seasoned industry veteran. Having him mentor you is a privilege you should be grateful for. Instead of learning from him, you throw a tantrum on the office floor. Do you honestly think this behavior is dignified?" I looked at her calm, self-righteous expression. "He flipped my desk and threw my tablet in the garbage. That's what you call a mentoring privilege?" Camille shook her head, looking at me as if I were a child crying over spilled milk. "Simon already apologized. It was an accident. Why must you turn every minor friction into an existential grievance?" She stepped closer, leaning in slightly so her gaze locked onto mine. "Asher, do you really intend to spend your entire life drifting like this? You have no elite credentials, no notable background, and not an ounce of ambition. If you continue with this childish attitude, don’t blame me when I withhold your performance bonus entirely." A dry laugh nearly escaped my throat. "No background?" My mother bought this entire commercial office tower last year simply so I could collect rent checks whenever I felt like checking the mail. "No credentials?" I had an Ivy League degree hanging in a gilded frame at home; I just never bothered to brag about it. Still, I couldn't be bothered to argue. I crouched down, picked up my tablet with its spiderwebbed screen, and dusted off my jeans. "Whatever you say." I grabbed my jacket and turned toward the exit. Camille’s hand shot out, catching my sleeve. Her tone remained controlled, but an undercurrent of cold command leaked through. "Apologize to Simon." I looked back at her. "For what?" Her eyes darkened. "Because he is your direct supervisor. Because he works late into the night every single day for this team. Because he is better than you, Asher, and he works harder than you ever will." Beside her, Simon reached out and gently touched Camille’s forearm with practiced grace. "Ms. Fontaine, please, let it go. Asher is young; he doesn't know any better. I don't mind enduring a little friction as long as the department hits its targets." Camille covered Simon’s hand with her own, giving it a reassuring pat. When she turned back to me, the faint glimmer of patience was gone, replaced by pure disdain. "Fine. If you refuse to apologize, your desk will be relocated to the end of the hallway starting tomorrow. All your current projects are being reassigned. You can sit out there by yourself and reflect on your character." With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, Simon trailing faithfully at her side. 2 The next morning, I swiped my badge right on time. The moment the elevator doors parted, I spotted my belongings stacked haphazardly next to the industrial copy machine at the far end of the corridor. The spot was right across from the restrooms. The heavy, sharp scent of commercial bleach hung thick in the air. "Reflect on my character." That was Camille’s idea of corporate discipline. I walked over, pulled out the rickety swivel chair, and sat down. Yesterday’s hundred-dollar bill had been tucked neatly beneath my mousepad—Simon’s little signature touch. A moment later, he emerged from the breakroom holding a tall iced Americano. He stopped beside my makeshift station, a warm, paternal smile playing across his lips. "Morning, Asher. The air moves a bit better out here. Might help clear your head." He paused, letting his gaze linger on my cramped corner. "I know you’re bitter. But business isn't a charity. We reward value here, nothing else." He reached out, his fingers neatly squaring a stack of printed scrap paper resting on my desk. "Your task for today is to feed all of this through the cross-cut shredder. Don't look down on clerical work, Asher. Every role has its purpose." With that little sermon delivered, his polished Oxfords carried him smoothly back down the hall. I glanced at the stack. It was nearly two feet tall. If I actually stood there feeding pages into the machine one by one, I wouldn't get a wink of sleep all day. I shoved the papers to the far corner of the desk, folded my arms, buried my face, and drifted off. I’d stayed up until three in the morning carrying my squad to a diamond rank; petty corporate hazing didn't register on my emotional radar. I don't know how long I was out before a rhythmic tapping woke me. "Tap. Tap. Tap." Soft. Measured. Demanding. I cracked an eye open. Camille stood above me, holding a comb-bound, glossy executive dossier. "Is this how you reflect on your character, Asher?" Her voice was entirely devoid of anger. It carried that quiet, resigned condescension reserved for someone who had already written you off as hopeless. "I told you," I mumbled, my voice rough with sleep as I rubbed my eyes. "I just want to live a quiet life." Camille let out a faint scoff. "A quiet life? Do you know what happens to people without wealth or connections who decide to 'take it easy' in the real world?" She dropped the heavy report onto my desk with a dull thud. "Take a look at Simon’s market analysis. The depth of data, the analytical framework—that is what real competence looks like." I glanced at the title page: "Predictive Trends in Commercial Hardware for the Greater Metropolitan Sector." The title sounded familiar. I flipped open the first few pages, and my eyes caught on the core methodology. The regression models. The three critical inflection points for market penetration. Every single formula had been drafted by me the previous Thursday afternoon out of sheer boredom while waiting for the clock to hit five. I hadn't felt like emailing it to my personal account, so I’d dropped the raw draft into our division’s shared internal server. "Simon wrote this?" I asked, looking up. Camille nodded, her expression glowing with genuine professional admiration. "He pulled three all-nighters to finalize it. An executive from headquarters is visiting next week, and this report is our branch’s ticket to securing a major partnership." She looked at me, her tone turning patronizing once more. "If you had even ten percent of Simon’s work ethic, your family wouldn't have dumped you here and forgotten you exist." I stared at her in silence. "Dumped me here and forgotten about me?" I thought of my father, a man whose net worth fluctuated by hundreds of millions on any given Tuesday. Just last month, he purchased a private island in the South Pacific simply because I casually mentioned I wanted to stargaze without light pollution. I thought of my mother, an iron-willed venture capitalist whose biggest grievance in life was that I rarely touched the black card tied to her trust fund. I thought of my older sister, Serena Lancaster—the woman Wall Street called the "Widowmaker" because of how ruthlessly she dismantled competitors in boardrooms. When she flew to London for acquisitions, she practically begged me to come along just so she could make sure I was eating properly. They placed me at this sleepy subsidiary solely because the office was a ten-minute drive from our family estate, meaning I could stroll home for lunch whenever I wanted. "Camille," I said, using her first name without any honorific. "Are you entirely certain Simon drafted this himself?" Her brow furrowed into an icy line. "What are you implying? You’re so consumed by jealousy that you’re resorting to slander now?" Her patience had completely evaporated. "I’ve always known you lacked drive, but I didn't realize your character was this rotten. You simply cannot bear to see someone outshine you." She snatched the report off the table. "Men like you aren't fit to shine Simon’s shoes. Go back to shredding your paper." She spun around and strode off, not sparing me a single backward glance. I sat up straight, watching her disappear around the corner. I pulled out my phone and logged into the division’s shared server. Sure enough, right there in the file’s audit log, the username that had downloaded and exported my raw drafts three nights ago was plain as day: "Simon Evans". Fine. If they wanted to play games, I’d let them set the board. 3 By Tuesday morning, the executive from headquarters arrived. The entire branch had been scrubbed raw. Tension crackled in the hallways. In a rare burst of corporate benevolence, Simon permitted me to leave my post by the restrooms to assist in the main boardroom—as the designated coffee and water attendant. "Asher, today is critical," Simon said, adjusting his silk tie in front of the hallway mirror. He wore that same serene, polished smile. "All you need to do is keep the glasses filled. Keep your mouth shut. Don't embarrass yourself, and don't embarrass the team." He turned around and even reached out to smooth my collar with an air of older-brotherly concern. "I know there’s bad blood between us. But for the sake of the firm, I trust you can set your petty grievances aside for one morning." The sickening sanctimony was almost impressive. I said nothing, picked up the silver pitcher, and pushed open the boardroom doors. The room was packed. Camille sat at the head of the conference table, opposite Mr. Anderson, the senior director sent from headquarters. Simon stood before the massive projection screen, clicking through to his title slide. "Mr. Anderson, this presentation represents our proprietary forecasting on local hardware integration," Simon began, his delivery smooth and captivating. Every slide was an exact mirror of the data models I’d sketched out. He spoke with theatrical conviction, as if those figures had genuinely been born from late nights of sweat and mathematical brilliance. Mr. Anderson nodded along, his eyes brightening with genuine interest. "Impressive," Anderson remarked, turning to Camille with an approving nod. "The entry-point logic here is remarkably fresh. Ms. Fontaine, your branch has some serious talent tucked away. This level of modeling wouldn't look out of place at corporate headquarters." Camille offered a modest, elegant smile, her eyes softening as she looked at Simon. "You’re too kind, Mr. Anderson. Simon poured his heart and soul into this deck. He is easily one of the most dedicated professionals I’ve had the pleasure of managing." Simon dropped his head in a display of humble restraint. "Thank you, Ms. Fontaine. I was simply doing my job." He basked in the warmth of the room, looking for all the world like a man who already felt the weight of a vice presidency in his hands. I walked over to Mr. Anderson’s side of the table and tipped the pitcher, refilling his water glass. When the glass was full, I didn't step back. Instead, I turned my head toward the projection screen. "Simon," I called out softly, my voice slicing clean through the polite murmur of the room. The conference room froze. Camille’s expression hardened instantly. "Asher, what do you think you’re doing?" she hissed under her breath. "This isn't your place. Step outside." I ignored her, keeping my gaze locked on Simon. "You just told Mr. Anderson that you derived the core regression algorithm yourself, right?" Simon’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He hadn't anticipated an interruption, let alone a technical challenge from someone he considered an illiterate slacker. "If I remember correctly," I continued, "the dynamic user-acquisition model relies on a baseline coefficient. On slide eight, you have it listed as 0.75. Could you walk Mr. Anderson through how you arrived at that specific constant?" Simon’s face tightened. A flicker of panic flashed across his eyes. He didn't know the math. He had simply copied and pasted my raw work without understanding the mechanics beneath the hood. "That... that is an empirical baseline calculated from historical sector data," Simon stammered, attempting to maintain his polished composure, though his eyes darted toward Camille. "Is that so?" I let out a low chuckle. "That’s funny. 0.75 is just my birthday—July fifth. I typed it in as a nonsense dummy variable while testing the interface. The real mathematical constant is 1.32." A ripple of quiet confusion spread across the room. Mr. Anderson’s brow knitted together. He leaned forward, squinting at the screen. Simon’s face drained of color. He looked desperately toward Camille, his hands trembling slightly behind the clicker. Camille stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the floorboards. She grabbed my arm with enough force to bruise. "Asher, have you lost your mind?!" she whispered furiously, trying to keep her voice down before the guest. "Making up absurd lies just to get my attention? Do you realize how vital this presentation is to the company?" I wrenched my arm out of her grip. "I don't care about your presentation," I said flatly. "I care that he stole my work." Simon’s eyes immediately welled with tears. He slumped against the podium, the very picture of an earnest professional subjected to cruel slander. "Asher... I know you’ve always resented me," Simon choked out, his voice cracking with emotion. "But how could you try to destroy my work like this? That baseline was derived through nights of trial and error. Claiming it’s your birthday... that’s completely unhinged." Camille took a deep, steadying breath. She turned toward Mr. Anderson, offering a mortified, graceful apology. "Mr. Anderson, I am deeply sorry you had to witness this. This is an entry-level clerk who has exhibited severe behavioral issues and holds a personal grudge against management. I will handle the matter immediately." She turned back to me, her eyes devoid of anything resembling warmth. "Go to HR and collect your final paycheck, Asher. You are terminated, effective immediately." 4 Fired on the spot. In all my years of dedicated loafing, that was definitely a first. I didn't cause a scene. I simply looked at Camille, then shifted my gaze to Simon, who was still wearing his wounded-innocent mask. "Fine by me," I murmured. I turned and walked out of the boardroom. If they didn't want me around, I wasn't about to waste my breath lingering in their little sandbox. Back at my desk by the restrooms, I began clearing out my personal effects. There wasn't much: an insulated travel mug, an ergonomic neck pillow, and a small, hand-carved wooden medallion my father had brought back for me from a temple pilgrimage in the mountains. The wood was dark, smoothed by years of handling, bearing intricate sacred carvings across its surface. It was fashioned from wild, century-old agarwood—a priceless family heirloom, irreplaceable in every sense of the word. I held the pendant in my palm, preparing to tuck it safely into my backpack. Footsteps approached. Simon walked down the hallway, the presentation clearly finished. A smug, triumphant smirk sat upon his face. "Packing up already?" His tone was back to that patronizing purr, but his eyes were sharp with malice. "You see what happens when you try to play the hero, Asher? Now you’re out on the street. Good luck finding another firm in this city willing to look at your resume." He reached toward my bag, as if pretending to help me zip it up. "Don't touch my things," I said coldly. Simon’s hand paused in mid-air, then came down in a sharp, deliberate swipe. "Crack." His knuckles struck my wrist with pinpoint accuracy. The wooden medallion slipped from my grasp, arcing through the air before dropping with a dull splash straight into the janitor’s rolling mop bucket beside the wall. The water was black, thick with dirt and industrial disinfectant, smelling rancid from hours of floor cleaning. My chest went cold. My father had walked thousands of stone steps in the cold rain to have that talisman blessed for me. Simon gasped theatrically, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Oh, goodness! I am so sorry, Asher. My hand slipped." He looked down at me, his gaze dancing with pure venom. "You aren't going to hold a grudge over a piece of scrap wood, are you? Tell you what—I have a designer key fob in my briefcase. I’ll give it to you as an upgrade, how about that?" He actually reached into his pocket, pulling out a cheap branded trinket and dangling it in front of my face. I stared at the dark surface of the dirty water, watching the sacred wood sink into the muck. Something inside me, dormant for years, snapped violently into focus. I lunged forward, grabbed Simon by his silk necktie, and yanked him down until his face was inches from mine. "Fish it out," I whispered, my voice flat, low, and freezing. Simon’s smug expression dissolved into genuine terror. But within seconds, he realized where he was and raised his voice into a frantic shout. "What are you doing?! This is workplace assault! I'm calling the police!" "What is going on here?!" Camille’s voice cut through the corridor. Having just seen Mr. Anderson off, she was heading back to her office when she caught sight of the scuffle. She rushed over, throwing her full weight into shoving me back from Simon. "Asher, have you completely lost your mind?!" She shielded Simon behind her, glaring at me with utter contempt. "You’ve already been fired! Get out before I have security throw you onto the pavement!" Simon cowered behind her, trembling with calculated vulnerability. "Ms. Fontaine, I was just trying to help him gather his things... I accidentally knocked over a small wooden souvenir. I offered to replace it with something expensive, and he attacked me!" Camille looked at the mop bucket, then turned her gaze back to me. The disgust in her eyes was total. "You put your hands on someone over a worthless chunk of wood?" She delivered her final sentence with cold, aristocratic finality. "I am thoroughly disgusted by you, Asher. You aren't just lazy; you are fundamentally vile. From this moment on, you are permanently blacklisted from this company. And our families' informal engagement? It is officially over. I would never lower myself to marry a man so bitter, incompetent, and pathetic." She stood there, high and mighty, delivering my execution. I looked at the two of them. Looked at their puffed-up vanity, their pitiful, self-deluded arrogance. And suddenly, I smiled. There was no point in explaining anything to people this blind. Right at that moment, the elevator at the end of the hall chimed with a clear, sharp ping. A heavy, synchronized cadence of leather soles on polished stone echoed through the corridor. A sea of dark tailored wool surged out of the lift like an encroaching storm. At the head of the formation walked a man in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, a string of dark prayer beads resting in his hand. The aura he radiated was crushing, stopping the air in everyone’s lungs. "Who," my father's voice rumbled through the quiet hallway, "is putting hands on my son?"
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