Chapter 3: The Golden Boy

“Derek, can’t you think about things from my perspective? I’m exhausted every day. Can’t you be a little more considerate?” I could hear men toasting and laughing in the background on her end.

It sounded like she was at some fancy downtown steakhouse, the clink of glasses and low hum of old-school Sinatra in the background. My apartment felt even lonelier in comparison—a single lamp, leftovers in the fridge, my only company the hum of traffic outside.

I gritted my teeth, thinking she was having a hard time too, and decided to compromise yet again.

I swallowed my pride, reminding myself she was under pressure too. Maybe if I met her halfway, things would finally change.

So I gently reminded her, “You should get some rest. It’s late, and you’re still out drinking with clients—it’s not good for you.”

I pictured her swirling wine in a glass, makeup still perfect, that weary look in her eyes that sometimes flashed through the ice queen persona. It was a small thing, but I meant it.

Before I could finish, Rachel snapped: “Derek, who do you think you are, telling me what to do? If you weren’t an old employee, I’d have kicked you out long ago. Do you believe me? Once you’re gone, there are plenty of people lining up to take your place.”

She didn’t even give me a chance to answer. The words hit like a slap, echoing in my empty kitchen. I gripped the phone tighter, knuckles aching.

With that, she hung up in a rage.

The line went dead, replaced by the hum of the fridge and the distant wail of a siren outside. I sat there, staring at the black screen, wondering how I’d become so expendable.

Whether I believed her or not, the next day, the office was abuzz with gossip: the company was hiring a fresh out of Harvard intern, with a monthly salary of $7,000—many times what I made.

By the time I got to my desk, the news was everywhere. Someone had even printed out his offer letter and taped it to the breakroom fridge, like a twisted joke. It was all anyone could talk about, and I felt every word like a personal jab.

This time, I finally couldn’t take it and barged into her office again.

I didn’t knock—I just marched in, adrenaline surging. The glass door slammed behind me, louder than I meant. She looked up, surprised, but I didn’t care.

“Ms. Chen, a colleague just told me you hired an intern with a salary several times mine. Is that true?” I tried to keep my tone steady.

My hands trembled, but my voice was steady. I stood my ground, for once refusing to shrink under her glare.

Rachel Chen snorted, “Do I need to report to you when I hire someone? Don’t think just because you’ve been here a while that I owe you anything. Look at yourself—almost thirty and still a nobody.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, eyes cold and unimpressed. The words stung more than I’d admit.

My anger trembled in my voice: “But why does he get $7,000 a month his first day, and I’m still at $2,500?”

My fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms. My heart pounded so loud I was sure she could hear it.

She rolled her eyes. “Can’t you figure it out? Caleb Grant is a Harvard grad, exactly the kind of talent we need. Every company wants people like him. What do you know?”

She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, as if Ivy League credentials alone were worth more than years of loyalty and real work.

I bit my lip and asked quietly, “So that’s why you won’t give me a raise?”

The air in the room grew heavy. I felt like a kid again, caught sneaking cookies before dinner, waiting for the inevitable scolding.

Rachel slammed her hand on the table: “Derek, are you crazy? I’m the president. Who I hire is none of your business. If you want to work, work. If not, get out.”

Her voice echoed through the office. I flinched at the sharpness, but didn’t budge. I saw a couple of heads turn outside the glass walls.

Holding onto my last bit of hope, I pleaded, “Ms. Chen, I’m asking for a raise. I really can’t keep going like this.”

My voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop now.

Rachel sneered: “Are you deaf? Next month, your salary goes up by $100. And this proposal—what kind of garbage is this? Take it back and redo it.”

She snatched the file from her desk and shoved it at me so hard it smacked my chest, papers spilling across the floor like a busted piñata. For a second, I just stared at them, numb.

She slapped the proposal right in my face. My cheek stung. I pressed my hand to my face, feeling the heat rise. I blinked hard, willing myself not to show any weakness.

I knew she was picking on me on purpose; the proposal had been done days ago. It was flawless, and she knew it. But humiliating me had become her favorite pastime.

Returning to my department, frustrated, I found my colleagues looking up at me, some with mocking smiles. I met their gazes head-on this time, daring them to say something to my face. Nobody did, but their smirks said enough. I dropped into my chair, feeling the world close in around me.