All they saw was the $8 million commission on a $40 million design contract. None of them saw me crawling through construction sites every day, caked in mud like a stray dog.

The guy they called incompetent, the "glory hog," the one who "hogged all the credit" — I was the one holding up more than half the company's revenue, making sure they had salaries to collect and bonuses to spend.

I held my breath, walked to my desk.

Picked up the glass "Outstanding Contribution Award" trophy, and hurled it into the aisle.

CRASH.

Glass shattered everywhere, the sound ripping through the entire office.

Every whisper died instantly.

The whole floor went dead silent.

The conference room door flew open. Kenneth still had a cigarette pinched between his fingers, not even bothered to put it out.

He spotted the shattered trophy on the floor and strolled toward me with a smirk.

"Ronnie, come on, no need for all that. If you've got a problem with how things were decided, I can step aside for you."

I sat in my chair, chin tilted up to meet his eyes.

Same face from three months ago when he first walked in as an intern. But the humble act had long been replaced by the gloating mask of a man who'd lucked into something he didn't earn.

"Sure."

I said it calmly.

"Go tell Mr. James right now. I'll wait."

The smirk on his face froze solid. His eyes shifted from shock to irritation, then landed on pure embarrassment.

He forced out a stiff laugh. "Bro, I was kidding. That's above my pay grade."

I ignored him and turned to my computer, sorting through my files.

Kenneth draped one arm over the glass partition of my cubicle.

The other arm planted itself on my desk. He leaned in, watching my face with that lazy, entitled look.

"Ronnie, Edmund wants you to hand over all the Cloudridge client files. Everything."

"Everything?"

"Yeah. Proposals, material quotes, contact agreements, and the design drafts."

He blew a lazy smoke ring, watching me like he had all the time in the world.

Last month, Cloudridge had requested a lighting design package. Kenneth submitted over a dozen proposals. Every single one got rejected.

On the last day before the deadline, he called me at midnight begging for help.

I pulled an all-nighter to finish it.

The next morning, he walked in with my designs and took full credit.

When Edmund reported to the boss, he said the entire design department had worked overtime to get it done.

I nodded.

"Fine. I'll organize them and send them over."

He smiled, satisfied, and turned to leave.

The stench of cigarette smoke lingered over my workstation long after he was gone.

I opened my hidden files and clicked on a folder labeled "IMPORTANT — DO NOT DELETE."

Inside were eight floor plans for Cloudridge, 108 design proposals, and 2,888 design sketches.

Every single one drawn by my hand. Every single one revised by me alone.

Every last sketch had only one name on it. Mine.

Not one of the other twelve people in the design department had contributed a single line.

Because none of them ever believed I could land this project.

When the Cloudridge luxury renovation project first launched, Edmund had been eager enough to submit a bid.

But out of 150 design firms, only 44 made the cut.

Pinnacle Design got eliminated in the first round.

Edmund gave up on the spot. I was the only one who kept going.

Every day, I showed up at the construction site and worked alongside the laborers.

Whenever I spotted something wrong, I spoke up. I was more thorough than Cloudridge's own construction supervisor.

One time, I noticed the bathroom drain placement was off and flagged it immediately.

"The drain's positioned so the washing machine and the toilet are going to collide. The machine door won't be able to open. I'd recommend shifting it back about four inches."

The site supervisor was a guy named Ken Lawrence, a stubborn old bulldog of a man who made no effort to hide his annoyance with me.

"That's how it was designed. Whether the door opens or not isn't my problem. I build to the blueprints."

I smiled. "But the interior finishing is on your team. A layout like this is going to cause major problems during renovation. Unless you swap the front-loader for a top-loader, but would the homeowners agree to that? Wouldn't that count as fraud?"

He checked the blueprints, measured the dimensions over and over again.

Then he looked up the washing machine specs, and went completely silent.

After a long pause, he finally asked me.

"How do you know all this so well?"

I didn't bother hiding my calculating smile.

"Because I want this project. I know the exact deviation of every single unit you've got here."

He studied me for a moment, something shifting behind his eyes.

"Kid, you've got grit. Reminds me of myself when I was your age."

It wasn't until later that I learned he was Herbert Delgado's uncle.

Three days later, I walked into a meeting with Delgado himself, carrying a thick stack of proposals.

He glanced at the first page and shook his head.

"Pinnacle doesn't have a Senior Designer on staff. You're not qualified."

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, cold straight through to the bone.

But I wasn't ready to give up. I pulled out the certificates for my two national design awards.

"Mr. Delgado, I've already applied for my Senior certification. I meet all the requirements. It's just that the Housing Authority's approval process has been slow."

He looked at the two awards. The dismissiveness in his eyes faded, degree by degree.

"I've seen both of these winning designs. At the time, I remember thinking the designer had a remarkably intuitive sense of space. So that was you."

Only then did he start going through my proposals carefully, his expression growing more focused with every page.

"You did over a dozen variations for a single floor plan? Each one in a different style. You've got something going on up here." He tapped his temple.

My heart was racing, but I kept my face composed.

He nodded. "Leave these with me. If I have questions, we'll talk."

That day, he added me on WhatsApp. His initiative, not mine.

On my way out, his assistant Alfred Chavez said, "Forty-four firms sent representatives. You're the first one he's given his personal contact to."

I rushed back to the office, buzzing with excitement, and reported everything to Edmund.

No excitement. No praise.

He didn't even look up.

"You want to waste your time chasing pipe dreams, that's your business. I'm not going to the boss with some half-baked lead and getting chewed out for it."

But the moment the project was locked in, he was the first one in Mr. Donaldson's office to claim credit.

"Mr. Donaldson, the Cloudridge project came through because I led the team and ground out every last detail."

One sentence. A full year of my sweat and sleepless nights, reduced to a stepping stone under his feet.

I selected the files, compressed them, and uploaded everything to my personal cloud.

Then I deleted them. Permanently.

I packaged up the basic Cloudridge documents and sent them to Kenneth.

Ten minutes later, Kenneth came storming out of the director's office and marched straight to my desk.

"Ronnie, why is there no building orientation data in these files? Where's the solar analysis? The ventilation simulation models?"

"No idea."

"No idea?"

Kenneth's brows twisted into a knot.

"You practically lived on that construction site. How can you not know? What the hell were you even doing out there?"

I let my gaze sweep across the office, slow and deliberate.

"They told me I was just there for show. So that's what I did."

Every pair of eyes that met mine dropped instantly, heads ducking behind monitors, suddenly very busy.

Kenneth faltered, his expression flickering with unease.

"And the design drawings? You didn't include a single one. Send them to me. Now."

I leaned back in my chair, watching him with an unhurried gaze.

"No."

"No?"

His temper was slipping.

"On what grounds? That's a company project!"

I kept my voice even, measured. "You all voted me off the team. Those designs are my personal work. Why would I hand them to you?"

He was practically snarling now. "Your personal work? Without this company, your designs are nothing but scrap paper!"

I nodded. "Sure. Then go design your own. Stop asking me for scrap paper."

"What kind of attitude is—"

"Kenneth." Edmund pushed open his office door. "Send him in. You go contact the Cloudridge people."

Kenneth shot me a glare but stepped aside to clear the aisle.

I stood and walked into the director's office, every pair of eyes in the department following me like spectators at a show.

Edmund gestured for me to sit. I didn't move.

"Mr. James, just say what you need to say."

He flashed me the same fake smile I'd been looking at for nine years.

"The decision to reassign the Cloudridge project lead was made by senior management after careful consideration."

His fingers tapped the desk in that habitual rhythm of his.

"Kenneth has the credentials and the connections. He's a better fit for this project. You've been in this industry long enough to understand how these things work without me spelling it out."

"But I've been on this for a year!" My eyes burned. "Do you have any idea how many doors got slammed in my face? How many people looked right through me? How many nights I worked until dawn?"

"Not a single person in this department believed in this project. I wrote the proposal alone. I coordinated with every agency alone. I drafted every design and drew every blueprint alone. And now that we're about to sign, you hand it to someone else? How is that fair?"

"Ronnie," he said, switching to that patronizing, fatherly tone. "I'll admit you contributed to this project. But let's be honest, it was the company's platform that made it possible. On your own, you couldn't have gotten past the front gate at Cloudridge."

He looked at me, his eyes carrying the weight of a lecture he clearly enjoyed giving.

"You came here straight out of school. All these years, without the company investing in you, would you even have a salary? A design fee? People shouldn't forget where they came from. Show some gratitude."

"Gratitude?"

I laughed. Not because anything was funny.

"My second year here, the company landed a rush project right before the holidays. Everyone left. On New Year's Eve, I was the only person in this entire building, revising design drafts alone. After the contract was signed, you didn't mention my name once at the meeting. No design fee. No overtime pay."

"Two years ago, when Chen's project blew up, I'd just come out of surgery for appendicitis. You called me in to fix the drafts. The strain tore my stitches open and I had to get re-sutured. Afterward, you told Mr. Delgado it was a 'team effort.'"

"And now you want to lecture me about gratitude? Tell me, which one of us actually has none?"

I held his gaze.

"Everyone in this department, yourself included, takes freelance jobs on the side. Have I ever? Not once. Not even a five-hundred-square-foot apartment renovation for a few hundred bucks. Every single project went through the company's books. You told me not to forget where I came from. Have you remembered any of that?"

Edmund's face cycled through shades of red and white before settling into something dark.

"Ronnie! Watch your tone! You want to know why everyone froze you out? Why you got zero votes? Maybe take a look in the mirror!"

"I'll ask you one last time. The designs. Are you handing them over or not?"

"No."

Not a second of hesitation.

"Then I take it you don't want this job anymore?"

"Take it however you like."

He was visibly seething.

"Fine. Don't come crying to me later."

Without another word, I unclipped my ID badge and set it on his desk.

"Don't worry. I won't."

I walked out of the director's office and headed for the restroom.

At the door, I heard Kenneth inside, on the phone.

"Hello, is this Mr. Delgado's direct line at Cloudridge Corp? This is Kenneth Fletcher, the new project lead from Pinnacle Design. I'll be handling things from here on out. Would it be possible to go over some details with Mr. Delgado?"

He didn't have it on speaker, but the restroom was dead silent, and the voice on the other end came through crystal clear.

I recognized it immediately. Alfred Chavez, Mr. Delgado's assistant.

"I'm sorry, we haven't received any such notification. We only work with the designated point of contact for this project. That would be Ronnie Butler."

The dial tone after the hang-up was piercing.

Like a death knell.

Kenneth stood frozen, phone still pressed to his ear.

I walked in. He looked at me, panic written across his face.

"You heard that?"

I smiled, said nothing, and stepped into a stall.