Chapter 3

Todd walked out into the hallway, and I followed.

"Mr. Swanson?" he said, speaking into his phone, his tone instantly becoming deferential in a way I knew so well.

From the other end of the line came Steven's gravelly voice.

"How are things on your end, Todd? How is he? How's he doing today? Is he doing okay?"

"Don't worry," Todd replied, lowering his voice. "I've been keeping an eye on him. He's still working frantically on the final materials and hasn't suspected a thing. I even brought him some water last night, and he seemed quite touched."

"Good." Steven's tone was one of satisfaction. "Make sure you keep him steady. He's the core, the 'heart' of this project. We can't afford any hitches in these final days. Once the investors' meeting is over tomorrow, everything will finally be set in stone."

"Understood," Todd replied, his voice tinged with a subtle, sycophantic edge. "It's all thanks to your brilliant strategy, Mr. Swanson, using his dedication to keep him anchored to his post. But about that position you promised me—"

"Don't worry about it," Steven interrupted, his tone firm and decisive. "If the project succeeds, the position of VP of Technology at the new company is yours."

He added, "For now, your job is to act as a 'fuse' to ensure that the 'heart' keeps beating until the very last second!"

"Got it, Mr. Swanson! I'll keep a close watch on him!"

Todd hung up, the look of deference vanishing from his face. He then walked back into the private room, and his laughter rang out once more.

It turned out I was the person they were talking about.

So, to them, I was nothing more than a disposable component to be used until the very last second.

As this cold, sharp anger flickered through my mind, the scene shifted. I was now standing on a rooftop terrace overlooking the entire business district.

A gentle evening breeze stirred, and a champagne tower shimmered with an alluring, golden glow. A small celebration was underway, and at the center of the crowd stood the man himself—Steven, the very person who claimed to have "gone gray from the stress of the project".

He looked radiant, with his hair meticulously styled and his body dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. He held a champagne glass in his hand, laughing and chatting with ease. There wasn't even a trace of exhaustion to be found.

"So, when it comes to managing a team—especially one filled with top-tier technical talent—you can't rely on money alone," he said, his voice resonant and brimming with confidence.

"You have to give them a sense of purpose. You have to use phrases like 'The survival of the company depends on you', 'We're all in this together', and 'We are the change the future needs' on them. I swear that they're far more effective than a fat paycheck."

Laughter and applause rippled through the room. Someone asked, "Like that key player of yours? The one I heard works himself to the bone every single day?"

Steven offered a faint smile. "He's a sharp blade. You just have to keep telling him, 'The company can't survive without you,' or 'Everything rests on your shoulders'—and he'll gladly work himself to death."

He swirled his glass, adding, "And the cost? A few cups of coffee and a bit of praise here and there. I'm telling you, it's an incredible return on investment."

The group raised their glasses in knowing agreement. The atmosphere was just as lively as ever.

"By the way," another person asked casually. "When does this 'last stand' of yours actually come to an end?"

Steven remained perfectly composed. "Tomorrow's investor meeting is the final curtain call. Once that's over, this company's mission is complete.

"The core assets and the best of the team will be seamlessly folded into our new venture. As for the empty shell and the debts left behind…"

So, that "last stand", the one I'd ​​staked my very life for, was nothing more than a meticulously calculated asset transfer.

But I'd really died for this.

I hovered at the edge of the brightly lit celebration and stared at them, completely stunned. Deep within the heart-like structure formed by streams of data, a faint, residual pulse seemed to twitch.

All those sleepless nights, all those impassioned speeches about the company's survival—they had been nothing but a management script, carefully staged by him.

In a daze, I recalled a late night when I'd caught a glimpse of Steven's computer screen showing a minimized private email, an invitation to an exclusive club for high-end fund managers. He'd closed it instantly, dismissing it as junk mail.

I also remembered the mechanical watch on his wrist. He'd claimed it was a memento from a former boss and worth nothing.

I recalled a corner of a villa garden visible behind him in a group photo from a team-building event. When I asked about it, he just waved his hand with a smile, explaining that he'd borrowed the space from a friend just to ensure a better experience for everyone.

As it turned out, those moments that had once made me think that life as a director wasn't easy on him either were nothing more than props on his carefully constructed stage.

I had been the only one acting like a true martyr in this project, wholly immersed in the mission he had woven, draining every last drop of my own energy.

A hint of sorrow at the tragedy of my own life shot through me like an electric current, only to be instantly swallowed by a profound sense of nothingness.