Chapter 1: The Raise That Never Came

For five years, my paycheck was stuck at $2,500 a month. That number slapped me every time I checked my Chase app—especially after rent and Sallie Mae took their cuts. Even worse was the way everyone looked at me, like I was the punchline in some office sitcom nobody wanted to watch.

Everyone said I was a hopeless loser, pathetically devoted to my boss, Rachel Chen. I might as well have had my own walk-on role in their whispered break room stories: the guy who couldn’t read the writing on the wall, showing up day after day, waiting for a miracle that never came.

Counting on my fingers, I realized this was the tenth time I’d asked for a raise. Each time, I rehearsed my pitch in the elevator—sometimes even in my car, AC blasting, my palm sweaty on the steering wheel. But I always ended up the same: awkwardly in front of her desk, voice shaking, hope draining away.

She wore that frosty expression, not even looking up as she snapped, “How many times do I have to tell you? The company’s numbers aren’t good right now. Wait until the end of the year, can’t you?”

Her office was all glass and chrome, the kind of place that made you feel tiny. I caught my own anxious reflection in the window behind her—a faint, ghostly outline. She didn’t even bother to look up, just flicked her wrist in my direction like I was a pop-up ad she couldn’t close fast enough.

My coworkers’ voices drifted over the gray cubicle walls, mixing with the hum of the vending machine and the stale scent of burnt popcorn: “See? That’s what happens to desperate doormats. No shame at all, and he still can’t bring himself to leave Ms. Chen.”

Sometimes I’d catch their smirks as I walked by, clutching my sad little coffee from the Keurig. I tried to tune it out—but it stung every time.

The next day, the company brought in a fresh out of Harvard intern, with a salary of $7,000 a month. Word spread like wildfire. By noon, everyone was glued to Slack, speculating about the new hotshot. Someone even found his LinkedIn before he finished signing his W-2s.

On his first day, Rachel assigned him to my cubicle. He sauntered over in designer loafers and tailored slacks, barely nodding before setting up his dual monitors—already acting like he owned the place.

That’s when it hit me: asking for a raise had offended her. I was being replaced. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. My face went cold, hands clenched in my lap. All those late nights, all that loyalty—tossed out like yesterday’s news.

In the break room, a couple of coworkers mocked me to my face. Their laughter was sharp, echoing off the cheap tiles. I felt my face flush hot. For a second, I wanted to snap back, to tell them exactly where to shove it—but then I remembered my last warning from HR, the thin file in my personnel drawer, and swallowed it all down. My humiliation doubled: I couldn’t even defend myself without risking my job.

Fuming, I turned around and jumped ship. I sent my resume to every competitor in the city that afternoon. My heart hammered as I hit 'send' on the first application—half terrified, half giddy, like I’d just jumped off a roof and was waiting to see if I could fly. By the end of the week, I was packing my things, head held high for the first time in years. The new place had a parking garage, actual decent coffee, and a boss who called me by my first name. It felt like waking up from a coma.

Never again would I be anyone’s doormat. I looked back only once—just long enough to remind myself I was done playing the fool. From now on, I’d stand up for myself, no matter what.