Chapter 1

"Roy Fox, the group just approved a fifty-million-dollar year-end bonus into your account, and the very next day you hand in your resignation? Have you lost your mind?!"

Chairman Whitney hurled the resignation letter hard into my face.

I didn't flinch. I calmly brushed the scraps of paper off my suit, looked at this older brother who had been through life and death with me for fifteen years, and let out a cold laugh.

"Chairman Whitney, fifty million? You'll have to go ask your good nephew about that."

I took out my phone and shoved the bank transfer notification, which showed only "$500.00," right in front of his eyes.

"Keep this five hundred and buy funeral paper money for you Whitneys. I'm done serving you!"

I earned that fifty million with my life.

As Executive Vice President of Ruicheng Group, for the past three months I'd driven my team like dogs on the Starfish Bay land-reclamation project, worth eight billion dollars.

To land the permits and the core suppliers, I pulled twenty-three all-nighters in a row, coughed up blood four times, and spent three days in the ICU before I finally clamped that impossible bone—the one everyone said couldn't be cracked—firmly in Ruicheng Group's jaws.

On the day the project contract was signed, Chairman Whitney raised a glass of top-shelf whiskey to toast me at the celebration banquet, in front of every senior executive in the company.

He clapped me on the shoulder, his face flushed and beaming, and promised:

"Roy! You're my own blood brother! One percent of the Starfish Bay profits—fifty million dollars—that's your personal year-end bonus, and it lands in your account before the end of the year!"

That was a promise everyone in the company heard, and it was even written into the project's pledge.

December 31st, five in the afternoon.

I sat in my office, rubbing my still faintly aching stomach, the newly finalized strategic plan for next year up on my computer screen.

Ding—

My phone screen lit up. It was the salary-and-bonus payment text from the bank.

I picked up my thermos, blew on the wellness herbal water inside, and casually tapped open the unread message.

Your account ending in 8812 received a transfer of $500.00 at 17:05 on December 31st. Transaction type: year-end bonus payment. Payer: Finance Department, Ruicheng Group.

I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, or that the system had dropped a few zeros.

I set down the thermos, took off my glasses and wiped them, then leaned close to the screen and counted the digits one by one.

Five hundred.

Only three digits before the decimal point.

No tens of thousands, let alone millions.

I had just pulled out my phone to call the CFO and verify when someone kicked the frosted-glass door of my office open.

"Well, well, Mr. Fox, staring at your phone? Get your year-end bonus?"

A young man in a flashy Gucci sweater and limited-edition Air Jordans swaggered in.

It was Dale Whitney.

Chairman Whitney's nephew, back three months ago from gilding his résumé at some diploma-mill college abroad, parachuted straight into Ruicheng Group as Vice President of Finance.

Dale walked up to my desk, dropped himself onto the broad mahogany top, picked up my strategic plan, and flipped through a couple of pages like he was sorting trash.

"Five hundred bucks—I approved that for you myself, right there in the finance system."

Dale had an unlit cigar dangling from his lips, his whole face full of mockery and scorn.

"Vice President Fox, you'd better spend that five hundred carefully. Buy a couple pounds of pork ribs, go home and stew some soup to nurse that rotting stomach of yours. That'll be plenty."

I stared at his arrogant face and laughed in pure fury. "Dale, the fifty-million bonus pool was approved by Chairman Whitney personally. You dare tamper with it in the middle?"

"Don't wave my uncle at me!"

Dale slammed the plan to the floor, leaned in close, dropped his voice, his eyes full of venom.

"Listen up, Fox. Get it straight—Ruicheng Group belongs to the Whitneys! You're nothing but an old dog we keep, one that knows how to bite. This eight-billion project—what does it matter whose name it's under? Why should an outsider like you skim off fifty million?"

He straightened up, adjusted his collar, and laughed without restraint.

"That fifty million—I've already paid it into my own account as the 'Starfish Bay Project Coordination Award.' After all, stamping and approving the funds for you people back in the office is hard work too."

"As for you—five hundred is your keep-quiet fee, old dog. Don't like it? Go ahead and sue me."

Watching Dale saunter off, smug as could be, I didn't explode the way he expected, and I didn't lunge up to grab his collar.

I just sat quietly in my chair, listening to the hot water evaporating in the thermos.

Fifteen years.

From back when Ruicheng Group was a ragtag outfit of barely a dozen people, I'd been at James Whitney's side.

In the 2008 financial crisis, the company's cash flow snapped, and it was staring down bankruptcy and liquidation.

It was me, Roy Fox, who poured in the entire $120,000 down payment I'd saved to buy a wedding home for my wife, using it to cover the workers' wages for him.

My wife was so furious over it that she divorced me and aborted the child in her belly.

In 2013, when we pivoted into manufacturing, someone deliberately set the plant on fire.

It was me who led a few security guards, charging through the toxic smoke into the flames, and pulled out the most critical equipment blueprints.

To this day there's a large burn scar on my back that will never fade.

James Whitney used to tell everyone he met, "Roy Fox is my most loyal knight. Without him, there'd be no Ruicheng."

But as it turned out, no matter how loyal the knight, in front of the king's own sons and nephews he was still just an outsider.

Over the past six months and more, James Whitney had grown more and more wary.

He started slipping people from back home into the company one after another.

Purchasing, logistics—all swapped out for his assorted aunts and uncles and cousins, people who couldn't even work Excel properly.

It wasn't until Dale parachuted in as Vice President of Finance that I finally understood: James Whitney was moving to clip my wings.

During the most critical negotiation window of the Starfish Bay project, Dale nearly swapped out our core eco-friendly materials supplier on his own, just to pocket a five-hundred-thousand-dollar kickback.

If I hadn't caught it overnight and forced it to a stop, Ruicheng Group would already have been kicked out of the deal for failing environmental standards.

Afterward, I took the evidence to James Whitney.

And what did James Whitney say?

He held his teacup, smiled that smooth everything's-fine smile. "Roy, Dale's still young—paying some tuition on the way is normal. Let's treat this like it never happened, and you take him under your wing. After all, this company will be handed over to these young people someday."

That time, half the fire in my heart was put out.

And today, this five-hundred-dollar year-end bonus wasn't just Dale's provocation—it was James Whitney's quiet, sanctioned test.

For the finance system to approve a fifty-million transfer, it had to pass three digital authorization keys: the Vice President of Finance, the CFO, and the chairman.