Excuse Me, Where Has My Bonus Gone?

In the meeting room, my boss, Peter Hurley, spoke with a pained tone and a deep frown. "We hope everyone can be understanding and support the company during these challenging times."

If it weren't for the luxury watch on his wrist, I might have believed him. The green of the watch face was so bright that it hurt my eyes.

He had just bought it last week, and its market price was valued at over a hundred grand.

That was what Peter meant by challenging times?

I sat on the left side of the conference table, twirling a pen in my hand until it grew warm.

I was the company's top sales performer this year.

This year, I had generated 30 million dollars in revenue for the company, with a net profit of at least eight million.

According to my employment contract, my year-end commission plus bonus should have amounted to 20,000 dollars.

I had already planned how to use that money.

Dad had been pressuring me to go back for a blind date. I needed to buy a couple of bottles of fine wine to shut him up, as well as use the money to show him what I had achieved from the past few years of me "experiencing life".

Peter's tone shifted, and a smile spread across his face. "Although times are tough, the company won't shortchange those who've contributed greatly."

With a wave of his hand, someone from the administrative department walked in carrying a stack of envelopes.

"Soren, you're this year's top performer. You first."

Peter handed me an envelope, then pulled a clothed item from under the table.

I took the envelope and rubbed it between my fingers. Without opening it, I could already tell from feeling the thinness of the stack. It only contained 700 dollars.

My 20,000-dollar commission had turned into 700 dollars—reduced by a whole 96.5%.

I said nothing and simply stared at Peter.

He grew uncomfortable under my gaze and immediately unveiled the clothed item in his hand.

With a whoosh, the cloth was pulled back, revealing a plaque.

Complete with engravings and made of wood, it had several large characters embossed on it—Award for Outstanding Contribution.

"Soren Neal! This plaque holds immense value!" Peter said loudly. "It represents the company's highest recognition of you! It's an honor!

"Don't focus too much on money. Money is something you can't take with you when you die."

Applause broke out, and a few of his sycophants started cheering.

I looked at the plaque, then at the envelope in my hand.

Feeling frustrated, I laughed.

I came to work at this crappy company to get some peace and quiet, as well as to help my family check out the end-market for medical equipment.

I didn't need the money. But that didn't mean I was an idiot.

I had worked diligently for a whole year, even using some of my family's connections to land deals.

And he thought he could brush me off with this piece of junk?

"Mr. Hurley." I stood up and tossed the envelope onto the table. "You can keep the money for a massage visit.

"When will my 20,000-dollar commission be paid?"

The meeting room fell silent instantly.

The people who had been clapping a moment ago froze, their hands in mid-air. They glanced at each other awkwardly.