I kept silent for a while.

"How should we handle this?" My voice was unnervingly calm. "If we release the actual numbers now, will anyone believe them?"

"They'll just say we made up the figures under public pressure. Or they'll ask why, with a forty-percent profit increase, we're only giving three months' salary. And the employees who joined the online uproar—will they step forward to clarify on the company's behalf?"

My assistant said nothing.

I stood and walked to the window. The final board meeting of the year was next week. I had planned to report profit growth and propose raises for the management team.

No need for that now.

I returned to my office and opened the PR department's social media report.

The video had been shared over ten thousand times. The hashtag "cold-blooded capitalist" ranked seventh in local trending searches.

The comment section had begun digging into the company's history. Some claimed we'd laid off employees ruthlessly two years ago, others said we were slow paying suppliers, and some even swore they'd seen me yell at security guards in the parking lot.

Truth and rumor were tangled together, indistinguishable, and the public was marching to the beat of someone else's drum.

At nine o'clock, I called everyone into the conference room.

"I've gathered you here today primarily regarding year-end bonuses."

I paused, letting my gaze slowly sweep across the room. Many instinctively avoided my eyes.

Everyone held their breath.

"You've all seen the online backlash. Since everyone thinks cherries represent thoughtfulness, starting tomorrow, the company will distribute cherries to every employee."

"Two boxes each, same quality as Midea Tech."

A sharp intake of breath ran through the room, followed by whispers.

"So he's finally compromising… Mr. Bassett actually softens sometimes."

Another voice piped up, "See? Nothing beats public opinion." There was a hint of schadenfreude in the tone.

"Yes," I continued. "Since the company's year-end bonus system doesn't satisfy everyone—everyone seems to think it's too little money and are envious of other companies' cherries…"

The corner of my mouth curved into a faint smile. "The original year-end bonuses are canceled. This year, year-end benefits will be issued in cherries—fifty boxes per person. Two boxes a day, every day, until the New Year."

There was silence.

Everyone froze.

Disbelief, shock, panic, regret—all played across the stiff faces before me.

Several seconds passed before someone's trembling voice broke the quiet.

"Mr. Bassett… are you saying… no bonus money?"