Chapter 2: Rachel’s Game

“Ms. Chen, the contract with Runyon Corporation is signed. I’m here to request the raise you promised.”

I stepped into her office, clutching the thick folder like a life raft. I tried to sound confident, but my words came out thin, my throat tight. The contract had taken months of after-hours calls and enough Red Bulls to keep a college kid awake through finals week.

Rachel barely glanced up, her eyes already back on her inbox. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Who let you in? You close one deal and want a raise? I don’t like employees who haggle.”

Her tone was sharp, slicing through any hope I had left. She flicked her pen in my direction, making me feel like a kid caught sneaking snacks before dinner.

I forced a smile and reminded her, again, that she’d promised me. “You said if I landed the Runyon project, we’d talk about my salary.”

That night was burned into my brain—her in that red blazer, glass of wine in hand, telling me I’d finally get what I deserved. I’d even called my mom on the drive home, sure things were finally turning around.

But before I could finish, she cut me off, annoyed: “Didn’t I tell you already? The company’s under market pressure. It’s already generous that I’m not laying people off. You should be grateful you still have a job. Where else are you going to find a boss as good as me?”

She spoke like she was doing me a favor, as if the world outside her glass-walled office was a wasteland. My chest tightened, heat rising to my face.

Same old excuse. I couldn’t help but remind her, “But, Ms. Chen, all these years my salary’s been just $2,500…”

I tried to keep my tone even, but my voice cracked. I stared down at the carpet, counting the stains, anything to avoid her glare.

“$2,500 and you’re still not satisfied? With your abilities, who would want you if you left? Don’t think just because you closed a couple of deals that the company can’t do without you, understand?”

Her words felt like ice water down my back. She made a show of stacking some papers, deliberately ignoring my shaking hands.

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. The silence stretched, oppressive. I grabbed the contract folder and shuffled out, her words echoing behind me.

Swallowing my anger, I said, “Ms. Chen, I’ve always been grateful to you, but I need to eat, I need to live. This salary just isn’t enough.”

It was the most honest thing I’d said all day. My stomach growled—whether from hunger or nerves, I couldn’t tell.

She jabbed her finger into my forehead, furious: “Derek, all you think about is a raise! Why haven’t I given you one all these years? Because you haven’t done well enough, your contribution isn’t big enough!” Her acrylic nail dug in, sharp enough to leave a dent, and I fought the urge to rub the spot after she turned away.

Her words were sharp, but her finger sharper. I flinched, embarrassed, as a couple of people glanced over through the glass wall. My cheeks burned.

Hearing her deny all my efforts, I couldn’t help but let out a cold, brittle laugh. All those late nights and sacrificed weekends, reduced to nothing.

Five years. I’d lost count of the times I took clients out for drinks, sometimes until I was puking in the bathroom from a bleeding stomach. The nights always started with steak and handshakes and ended at some dive bar, nursing cheap whiskey until my insides burned. Sometimes, I’d wake up with a headache so bad I could barely see, but I still dragged myself in before sunrise, tie askew, pretending it was all worth it.

If it weren’t for my feelings for Rachel Chen, I’d have left ages ago. I hated admitting it, even to myself. There was something about her—a confidence, a drive—that kept me coming back, even when every part of me screamed to run.

Now, with just one sentence, she dismissed me, and my heart turned cold. For the first time, I wondered what it would feel like to walk out and never look back.

Seeing me stunned, she barely looked up, as if she was offering me a piece of leftover cake at a birthday party. “Enough. I’m busy. Next month, your salary will go up by $100.”

$100? Does she really think I’m a beggar? I did the math in my head. That was barely enough for a dinner out, let alone my bills. I wanted to laugh, but it stuck in my throat.

Back at my desk, several female colleagues started whispering and snickering. Their voices drifted over the rows of gray cubicles, mixing with the hum of the vending machine and the stale scent of burnt popcorn: “Told you Derek’s nothing but a lovesick fool. Ms. Chen humiliates him and he doesn’t even dare make a sound.”

They didn’t even try to hide it. I stared at the blinking cursor on my computer, pretending to be too busy to notice.

One girl covered her mouth, laughing: “Right? All these years, trailing after Ms. Chen like a lost puppy who never figured out the front door was open. Does she even like him? He’s just a toad hoping for a princess. Has he ever looked in the mirror and seen what a sorry mutt he is?”

I could see her smirk reflected in the glossy screen. The joke was always on me. My hands curled into fists under the desk, nails digging crescent moons into my palms.

I flexed my fingers, trying to breathe through it, counting in my head, willing myself not to snap in front of them. I remembered my last HR warning. I kept quiet.

That night, I dropped my keys next to a stack of unopened mail and slumped onto my thrift-store couch, the city lights flickering through my blinds. The phone buzzed just as I was about to kick off my shoes. Rachel’s name lit up the screen. I stared at it, part of me wanting to let it ring.

“Why did you leave as soon as work ended? We’re about to sign a contract with Sterling Group, don’t you know? Did you finish the proposal?”

Her voice was sharp, the kind that made you want to stand up straighter, even when nobody was watching. I could picture her, still in her office, tapping her nails on the desk.

“Ms. Chen, didn’t you have Natalie handle that proposal? And even if I start now, I’m afraid it’s too late.”

I tried to keep my tone neutral, but there was an edge I couldn’t hide. My laptop sat unopened on the couch. It was already past seven—most folks were winding down, not gearing up for all-nighters.

Before I could finish, Rachel exploded: “How many times have I told you to cooperate with Natalie? What’s wrong with you? Do you think my company is a charity?”

Her voice shot up a notch, sharp enough to make my ears ring. I could picture her pacing in heels, the city lights behind her, the rest of us just lines on a spreadsheet.

“Ms. Chen, that’s not my responsibility. Plus, my own projects have deadlines. I really don’t have time…”

I trailed off, knowing it wouldn’t matter. I slumped onto the couch, rubbing at the ache blooming between my eyes.