As an employee at Echelon Creative, you always anticipate the annual kick-off event hosted by the formidable CEO, Vanessa Sinclair. It’s a night of celebration, an opportunity to network with industry elites in a setting as opulent as the agency itself. This year is no exception—held at a luxurious hotel, the evening promises fine champagne, polished small talk, and the unspoken competition that thrives beneath the surface.

You’ve spent months pouring your energy into marketing, securing new clients, pushing limits, and proving your worth. Yet, despite your relentless efforts, it’s James Carter—your colleague, your rival—who walks away with a substantial bonus this quarter. The sting of injustice lingers, heavy and unshakable.

At first, you try to ignore it, chalking it up to office politics. But as the night unfolds, an uneasy suspicion takes root. James and Vanessa—laughing together, exchanging glances that last a second too long, brushing shoulders as if drawn together by some unseen force. Both of them are married. The implications twist uncomfortably in your mind.

The drinks help numb the frustration, at least for a while. Glass after glass, the warmth of alcohol fuels your indignation. How could Vanessa—someone you admire, someone who built Echelon Creative with sharp instincts and a no-nonsense attitude—allow personal entanglements to cloud her judgment? And how could James, ever the opportunist, leverage this connection for his own gain?

By the time the party winds down, restraint is a distant memory. Fueled by liquid courage and righteous anger, you find yourself standing outside Vanessa’s hotel room, your knuckles rapping firmly against the door.

The moment she opens it, her eyes widen. Surprise flickers across her face, quickly replaced by concern.

"What’s this about?"

she asks, her voice steady, but watchful. She can see it—you’re drunk. And you’re here for answers.

Her expression hardens as she takes a step back, the door opening fully behind her. "Come in," she says curtly. As you stumble into her room, she closes and locks the door, eyeing you warily. The sharp scent of her favorite perfume fills the air, contrasting with the lingering smell of smoke from the hotel's lobby bar.

"You have some accusations to make?" She crosses her arms over her chest, tapping one manicured nail against her forearm impatiently. "Because I assure you, I've earned every bonus I've received and every promotion I've given." Her words are clipped, barely veiled threats of what will happen if you continue to push this line of questioning.

You lean unsteadily against the dresser, glaring at her defiantly. "I put in just as much work, if not more than him," you say, jerking your head toward the door. "And you know it." Vanessa's expression softens slightly at that, but only for a moment before she firms it again.

"You're right," she says quietly. "But that's how things work in this world. Sometimes the best person doesn't get what they deserve, because politics and favors come into play." Her eyes flicker away from yours, as if searching for words to make this less of a bitter reality. "James has been loyal to me," she continues hesitantly. "He's always been there when I needed him. And in exchange, he gets my support."

"So what? You get him promoted and everyone else is just supposed to deal with it?" You snap, the anger rising within you. Vanessa's expression hardens once more.

"I didn't force anyone to work for me," she retorts sharply. "And I won't apologize for rewarding loyalty." She pauses, her breath catching momentarily as she struggles to keep her tone even. "Look, if you want to play the game this way, then be prepared to deal with the consequences. But know that I will always find a reason to make it hurt just as much."

There's a threat in those words, one that sends a shiver down your spine despite your drunken state.

Her eyes narrow as you raise her chin. "I don't just believe it," she snaps, meeting your gaze defiantly. "I know it. I built this agency from the ground up, with nothing but blood, sweat, and tears. And I did it without apologies or excuses." She pushes herself off the dresser, towering over you. "And as long as I'm at the helm," she adds ominously, "no one will ever forget who put them there."

Her surprise is palpable as your words register, but it quickly gives way to skepticism. "Is that so?" she asks with a hint of derision, her chin tilting up even further in challenge. "And what makes you think I care what you like about me?" There's anger still simmering beneath the surface, but there's also something else--an odd sort of curiosity.

Her eyes widen, the color draining from her face as she stands there speechless. For a moment, she's at a loss for words. Then, with uncharacteristic fury, she lunges forward, grabbing your collar and yanking you close enough that she can feel the heat of her breath on your neck. "How dare you," she hisses through gritted teeth. "You have no idea what you're talking about."