Chapter 3

"Director Wendy, you should attend the management meeting this afternoon."

My assistant, Lily, came in carrying a file, her expression strange.

"What’s the topic?"

"Director Vivian is hosting it. Budget review for each department and the personnel optimization plan."

At two in the afternoon, more than a dozen people were seated in the conference room.

Vivian stood in front of the projector in a white turtleneck sweater, elegant and gentle.

"Everyone, the company is under some pressure this year, so we need to improve efficiency." She clicked to the next slide. "Let’s start with each department’s midyear performance."

A table appeared on the screen.

Marketing: 120% completion. Tech: 115%. Sales: 98%.

Operations—my department—47%.

47%.

I had led my team to 18 million in revenue in the first half of the year, with a target of 20 million. The completion rate was 90%.

Not 47%.

"The Operations Department’s performance is indeed not ideal." Vivian sounded regretful as she looked at me. "Director Wendy has worked hard too, but data doesn’t lie."

"How is this data calculated?" I asked.

"By finance." She looked at me. "Do you have an objection?"

"The data I submitted was 18 million, with a 90% completion rate."

"Finance recalculated it. The revenue attribution for a few projects was adjusted."

"What was the basis for the adjustment?"

"That’s a professional financial judgment. I’m not too familiar with it." She flipped through the file in her hand. "If you have questions, you can confirm them with finance after the meeting."

"And," she continued, "after a comprehensive evaluation, the Operations Department ranked last in productivity across all departments. So the layoff list has a high proportion of people from Operations."

Out of the 23 people, 14 came from my department.

More than half of them were going to be laid off.

"Wendy," she called me by my nickname in front of everyone, "don’t put too much pressure on yourself. It’s not a personal problem. It’s the bigger environment."

Gentle. Considerate. Like she was feeling sorry for me.

In reality, she had just used fake data to sentence my department to death.

After the meeting, I went straight to the finance department on the tenth floor.

I found Roger, the finance supervisor.

"Supervisor Roger, what standard was used to adjust Operations’ revenue accounting?"

Roger pushed up his glasses.

"Last month, Director Vivian brought over an adjustment request saying the revenue attribution of three projects needed to be reassigned, from Operations to Marketing."

"Who signed it?"

"The process requires the department liaison’s signature for confirmation." Roger handed me the file.

On the signature line was a very familiar handwriting.

Henry.

"This Henry," I pointed at the signature, "which department is he from?"

"Finance. He handles cross-department accounting coordination." Roger looked at me. "Director Wendy doesn’t know him? He’s been here two years."

"I know him."

When I walked out of the tenth floor, the window at the end of the hallway was open. The November wind blew in, cold enough to bite.

Henry had worked at the company for two years. He had helped Vivian adjust my department’s data. He had signed it.

Then he went home and cooked me steak, kissed my forehead, and said, "Babe, you’ve worked hard."

I took the elevator down to basement one and found Henry’s car—the one from my dowry.

The car wasn’t locked.

There was a beige silk scarf on the passenger seat. Hermès. The one Vivian usually wore.

I opened the glove compartment and found a hotel receipt inside.

Four Seasons Hotel, presidential suite, spent 8,600 dollars.

Date: October 15.

That was our third wedding anniversary.

Henry said he had flown to Miami for a business trip. He even sent me a photo of the beach.

I replied at the time, "The beach looks so beautiful. Take me there next time."

He said, "Definitely."

Hanging from the rearview mirror were a pair of keychains. Two teddy bears, one red and one blue, with two letters engraved on the base—W and H.

Wendy and Henry.

Not T and H.

I took a photo of the receipt and put the keychain in my pocket.

When I got back to my desk, Zoe came over again.

"Director Wendy, Vivian was just in the break room telling a few department heads—" She hesitated.

"The exact words."

"She said, ‘Wendy has been very unstable emotionally since she found out about the layoffs, and she was saying some pretty out-there things in my office yesterday. Please be understanding with her, she’s really pitiful.’"

Unstable. Out-there. Pitiful.

Once those three labels were stuck on me, anything I said later would be treated like the ramblings of someone having an emotional breakdown.

My phone rang. Vivian.

"Wendy, where do you want to go for dinner tonight?"

"You decide."

"How about a steakhouse? You said last time you wanted pizza."

"Vivian."

"Hm?"

"Where were you on October 15?"

The line went quiet for three seconds.

"Wendy, why are you suddenly asking that?"

"That was my wedding anniversary. Henry was away on a business trip, and I was at home alone eating instant noodles. I wanted to know whether everyone else had a better day than I did."

Three more seconds of silence.

"...I was working overtime that day. I was at the company until very late by myself."

"Oh, that must have been hard too."

"Yeah. So, seven o’clock at the steakhouse?"

"Okay."

I hung up.

The hotel receipt showed a check-in time of three in the afternoon.

"Working late into the night."

"Vivian, your overtime spot is really upscale."