The Friend I Promoted Fired Me FirstChapter 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."