Feel-Good Story Short Stories & Hypocrisy Workplace Novels

Every year, I organize a company trip over Founders' Week. We've gone everywhere from the Silverpine Range to the Northreach, from the Coral Keys to the Wildgrass Plains. Sign-up is voluntary, and the trip costs an average of over $750 per person. Anyone who doesn't go gets an extra $150 holiday stipend from the company. But then a new intern posted online that I was hijacking everyone's time off for pointless team building just to feed my own vanity. I posted one line in the company group chat: "Since the trip is pointless, starting this year, all extra perks are canceled." The next day, he confronted me in the chat: "Fine, we can skip the trip. But why is the $150 gone too?" I looked at the screen and laughed. You can't keep only the most valuable piece of a benefit package and toss the rest.

Todd Robyn, the intern, had used some kind of savings-transfer trick on me. No matter how much money I put into my bank account, the balance always turned into fifty dollars. In my previous life, I dreamed of buying a place of my own near the office. At last, I scraped together a five-thousand-dollar down payment. But when I swiped my card, the sales agent told me it had been declined for insufficient funds. I checked my transaction history, confronted the bank, and even went to the police, but everyone treated me like a lunatic. After all, every single purchase on my bank statement was recorded in black and white. But I lived so frugally. I had never made any of those purchases! When I told my coworkers about it, a few of the men took one look at my statement and started mocking me, "Drew's always dropping thousands at some bar in the middle of the night. That's exactly the going rate for an all-night escort!" No matter how hard I tried to explain, no one believed me. I posted the whole story online anonymously. The comments accused me of making things up for attention so I could start selling products. Only one person suggested I keep an eye on the people around me and see whether anyone's spending matched the charges on my statement. So I watched closely, and sure enough, I noticed something about Todd, the new intern in our department. Every time he spent money, the same amount was deducted from my card. Even when he ordered a drink, the charge showed up on my account right away. Once I was sure, I confronted Todd directly. He laughed in my face and said I was a spendthrift who couldn't save a dime and now wanted to pin it on someone else. He said I'd completely lost my mind. He even got our coworkers to help him have me committed to a psychiatric hospital. After two years of torment there, I finally found a chance to escape and threw myself into the river. But when I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day before I was supposed to buy my home.

On my third day at the company, my supervisor suddenly patted me on the head. “Anna! I saw you won the lottery! I’m giving you a chance to make a good impression. The day after tomorrow, I’ll get everyone together for a private party aboard the luxury yacht Black Pearl. It’ll be your treat, of course!” Before I could even decline, Sarah was already rattling on. "There are over a dozen people in our department. We'll need at least ten bottles of XO, Australian and Boston lobster for everyone to pick from, and we all need terrace suites." “You can afford a little thing like that, can’t you, Miss Moneybags?” I frantically tried to explain that the ticket was one I'd bought for someone else. I didn't have any money at all. But Sarah just shot me a look of pure contempt and walked away. That night, the work group chat exploded. She announced to the entire group, "To celebrate Anna winning the lottery, we're having a blowout bash on the Black Pearl the night after tomorrow! Everyone sign up!" Over fifty people jumped on the list within seconds. Even the cleaning lady signed up with her three grandchildren in tow. "Oh my God, our parties are usually just drinking beer in someone's apartment. We've never been on a luxury yacht! Thank you, Sarah!" Sarah's private message came through. "Anna, I noticed the account you used to claim the lottery ends in 0663. The club booking is already confirmed. We're counting on you, Miss Moneybaaags~" I stared at the booking screenshot she sent, breaking into a cold sweat. That lottery ticket was one I'd claimed on behalf of the company's CEO!

I lent the company two hundred thousand dollars' worth of camera equipment for three years, and my boss repaid me by cutting my salary. My monthly pay dropped from two thousand dollars to six hundred. I went to ask him for an explanation. But when I arrived, the newly hired photography intern was showing him a refurbished camera. "The company can use my equipment too. Six hundred dollars a month is enough for me." My boss spotted me coming in and seized the chance to put me in my place. "See, Joe? If you won't do the job, plenty of other people will." I froze for a moment, then asked the intern, "How can you live in Fairhaven on just six hundred dollars a month?" He answered with self-righteous conviction. "Why couldn't I? I've done the math. A room in a shared place farther out costs a hundred and sixty. Food is six dollars a day, so a hundred and eighty a month. If I'm still short, I'll take out a loan." "What's wrong with enduring a little hardship when we're young? We should be working hard and learning, not constantly making demands of the company. How do you not understand something so basic?" My boss beamed as he listened. I smiled too. So, you enjoyed suffering? Fine. I bought the company. It was time to show them how a real capitalist operated.

I am born lucky. One can say I'm a money magnet. I'd even win a car when buying a can of soda. The company relies on the numbers I pick to win bids. We go from the brink of bankruptcy to the third-largest company in the city. Then, during a business trip, I casually buy a lottery ticket and win 3,000 dollars. The newly hired finance manager, Owen Pearson, immediately demands that I turn over the entire prize. When I explain that I bought the ticket with my own money, he flies into a rage. "Any profit generated during working hours belongs to the company! Who do you think you are? How dare you refuse to follow company policy? If you win three million dollars after work, that's your business. But if you win three dollars during work hours, that's company property!" I can't be bothered to argue with him, so I call the CEO's fiancée, Macy Sanford. To my surprise, she agrees with him. "He has a point. If the company hadn't paid for your business trip, you wouldn't have had the opportunity to win the lottery in the first place." Owen is even more smug as he orders, "Just hand over the money. The 3,000 dollars will be deducted from your paycheck, and we'll deduct another 30 thousand dollars as a penalty for embezzling company funds. That should teach you a lesson." I tighten my grip on the lottery ticket and say nothing more. One week later, the company participates in the biggest bidding project of the year. Everyone turns to look at me, expecting me to provide the winning numbers. I simply smile and say, "Sorry. I've already resigned. I have no obligation to fill out the bid proposal anymore."

At lunch I'd barely finished handing around the beef jerky I'd made when our department manager, Derek Pritchard, followed the smell to my desk. He grabbed a piece, tasted it, and announced at full volume. "Dylan, this is good. Way better than anything you'd buy to go with a beer." Before I could get a modest word out, his tone shifted. "Perfect timing. The owner isn't coming to the department dinner tomorrow night, so there's no sense throwing money around." He pulled three hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and slapped them on my desk. "We'll eat in the break room. Dylan Woodward's doing the cooking. There's your grocery budget. "Twenty people in this department. Spend it carefully, but I want drinks, I want meat, and I want a couple of real entrees." Three hundred dollars? For twenty people? A project I'd led had brought the company a serious profit, and I'd worn the owner down over weeks to get thirty thousand dollars approved for a team retreat. Derek meant to pocket nearly all of it and have me cover the difference so he could look generous. Looking at that oily, entitled face, I smiled. "Sure. Since you think that highly of me, Derek, I'll lay it all out nice and clear." Then I turned away and texted the owner. "Aunt Victoria, the budget came through. We're having a surprise department dinner tomorrow night. Care to come taste it?"

My name becomes the sensational topic on the trending list thanks to my company's employees, who have cyberbullied me relentlessly. It all started when an intern named Cecily Plinkton posted a complaint on her social media feed, claiming that the seafood thermidor, a new food item that had just gotten released in the company's cafeteria, was sold for 14 dollars, which was four dollars more expensive than before. "What a scum company! Are the higher-ups that crazy over money? They're just leeching from us white-collar peeps repeatedly!" The entire Internet doesn't hesitate to curse me out. They claim that I'm a cold-blooded capitalist who's greedy enough to charge her own employees for lunch. No one cares about the fact that I've been shelling out my own money in order to upgrade the cafeteria's food choices just so I could make the employees happier. Every day, they get to eat over hundreds of dishes to their fill for free. Every week, the expensive dishes, such as lobsters and crabs, are charged at the net price. Thanks to these free benefits, the administrative department has been suffering from almost a one-million-dollar loss every year. So, I announce that the food prices in the cafeteria will be changed to reflect the current market's prices. At the same time, I've fired the head chef and the kitchen staff and left the meal preparation to another company that produces instant meals. As soon as the announcement is made, the entire company goes into a frenzy. The employees all crowd outside my office while begging me to bring back the benefits with tears streaking down their cheeks.

After I secure a hundred-million-dollar business deal for the company, I receive a commission worth a million dollars. When I'm off to ask for maternity leave, the intern, Violet Lintell, shoots a nasty glance at my belly. "You really are a capable one, aren't you? Many of us have participated in the project, and yet all of our commissions aren't as lucrative as yours even when added together." I can tell that she's being passive-aggressive right now, so I respond to her as patiently as I can. "President Kinsley won't skim everyone out on their commissions. I'm just receiving my own commission based on the salary standards." I never know that Violet gets massively triggered by my response instead. She jumps to her feet and points at me instantly. "Everyone can tell that President Kinsley shows extra concern toward you and your unborn baby! You slept with him in exchange for this project, didn't you? "You're just taking advantage of the fact that you're pregnant with President Kinsley's child, aren't you? Even if you are pregnant with his child, you're nothing but a despicable mistress!" I'm perplexed, to say the least. Does Violet seriously think that I've sold my body just to steal my colleagues' resources from them? But the thing is, President Kinsley, who—according to Violet—is showing extra concern toward me, is actually my mother! How the heck am I even pregnant with my own mom's child, to begin with?

The day the company was exposed for accounting fraud, my CEO husband did the unthinkable. To protect his favorite assistant, Ivy Kane, he called a press conference and publicly pinned all the blame on me, vowing to make sure I paid the price. Ivy put on a heartbroken expression and said, "Olivia, I warned you a long time ago not to misuse company funds, let alone falsify financial records. Why wouldn't you listen?" My coworkers stared at me in shock, expecting me to defend myself. Instead, I smiled, accepted every accusation, and voluntarily resigned. My husband thought I had finally learned my lesson. He lowered his voice and promised, "When this is all over, I'll make sure you get your job back. And when the time comes, I'll make our relationship public. Consider it my way of making it up to you.” What he didn't know was that, to protect the company's interests, the chairman instructed me on opening day to install monitoring software on every computer in the office. The moment those system logs were retrieved, their lies would fall apart on their own. And when that happened, what awaited them wouldn't just be massive financial penalties, it would be prison.

38 years ago, my dad's student, Lena Lambert, accuses him of sexually assaulting her. In the end, he ends his life by jumping off a building. The day he dies, Lena is crying in front of the cameras while holding up her medical report. Later, she becomes an overnight sensation, known as the girl who stands up for her rights, joins the entertainment industry, and becomes an inspirational star with millions of fans. Unable to accept Lena's success, my mom, Lucy Murphy, passes away six months later. I'm only seven years old when this happens, and I spend the next 38 years gathering evidence, waiting for the chance to get my revenge. Today, Lena's daughter, Winona Lambert, sits across from me, her eyes red as she says, "Some perverted teacher ruined my mom's life, so I swore I'd become a good teacher who protects her students." The vice principal, Dave Kingston, wipes the tears from his eyes. "Mr. Fuller, this girl has a good heart. We have to keep her." I tap my finger on her résumé, then look up. She looks at me, nervous yet smug, and I smile. "Congratulations, you've passed the interview."

When the kiss cam swept across the stands at the baseball stadium Warren Doyle, a married investor in the league, had his arms around his PR director and was kissing her. The two of them went up on the jumbotron, and the crowd erupted in hoots and cheers. Warren stormed into the camera bay and demanded I hand over my camera. I told him the camera pointed wherever the control room told it to. He stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly let go and let me leave. I thought that was the end of it. The next day, audio from the crew channel shot to the top of the news feeds, with nothing left in it but two ambiguous lines from me. "Camera locked on row seven. Keep rolling. Don't cut." Overnight I became the shameless camera operator who'd filmed them on purpose. I was suspended from my job, my father's food cart was trashed, and Warren sued me for a million dollars. But he didn't know that the recording he was using to convict me could only ever convict him.

Carina Lewis, the head of the department, has been a friend of mine since college. While she successfully climbs up the corporate ladder, I'm stuck being the workhorse at the bottom of the totem pole. When she's late for work, I sign in for her. When she messes up, I clean up for her. I'm happy to play along with her, of course. It's not easy to find someone dumb enough to be the scapegoat. One day, a billionaire investor shows up at the company's doorstep, and the senior executives instruct me to take care of him during his visit. This evening, when the rest of the office is empty, Carina takes my hand and tells me earnestly, "Bailey, investors like him are ruthless. You won't even know what's coming for you. An innocent woman like you won't be able to handle him. Let me, your best friend, test the waters with him first. Once everything is settled, I'll make you a manager." I nod sweetly in response. Hours later, I scurry over to the presidential suite at the hotel, where the billionaire investor is staying, and kick down the door. "Open up, Dal!" It's one thing for Carina to constantly take advantage of me, but how dare she dream of becoming my sister-in-law to steal half of my family's assets? That deluded pipe dream of hers will even make the marble statues in my family's garden roll their eyes.

As I walk out of the emergency room, a woman rushes over to me. "You're a doctor, right? My son scraped his knee. Hurry up and come treat him!" I am about to explain, but she glares at me and questions indignantly, "Isn't a doctor supposed to save people? You have time to slack off, but you have no time to treat my son's wound. Is that it?" She grabs my collar and drags me toward the ward. I try to explain, "Ma'am, I’m not—" But she doesn't listen at all and slaps me across the face. "Not what? Are you blind? Can't you see my son is bleeding? Instead of helping my son, you treat those poor nobodies! If you keep delaying my son's treatment, I won't let you off! "Get on your knees and apologize to him right now! Otherwise, I'll file a complaint and have your license revoked!" I endure the sharp pain and struggle to lift my head. In my five years of practicing medicine, this is the first time I have ever been complained about by a living person. "It's not that I won't treat him. I am a forensic pathologist..."

During a weekly meeting, a new intern suddenly swapped the projection. The screen lit up with my attendance records, and all my colleagues’ eyes turned to me. The girl lifted her chin, a mix of arrogance and ignorance in her gaze, then slammed a stack of photos onto the conference table. “Mr. Anderson, I’d like to report her! She’s been using the company car to shuttle her family around, treating company resources like her personal vehicle. This must be dealt with immediately!” The room fell into an eerie silence. I looked at the eager intern, feeling a trace of sympathy. The “company car” she was complaining about was my luxury car. Three years ago, I had lent it to the company for appearances in business settings. Yet, I never charged a cent.

To scrape together my mother's surgery money, I worked myself to the bone at this company for three straight years. My performance was always number one. By myself, I supported half the sales department. Then, a newly hired HR director decided every desk needed an AI camera, claiming it was to optimize efficiency. Every blink, every breath I took was measured and calculated by the system. "Warning. Employee Nathan Gray blinked more than twenty times within one minute. Mental distraction detected. Fine: 50." "Warning. Employee Nathan Gray took 3.5 seconds to drink water, exceeding the standard by 1.5 seconds. Slacking detected. Fine: 100." "Warning. Employee Nathan Gray's mouth corners drooped for over thirty seconds. Suspected spread of negative emotion. Fine: 200." The most ridiculous part was the way he stood in front of the entire department, pointing proudly at my data on the giant screen. "See that?" he said smugly. "This is the power of technology. In front of AI, you lazy freeloaders have nowhere to hide. Nathan, your bonus for this month has already been wiped out by the system. If you don't like it, get lost. Plenty of people are lining up to take your place." What he didn't know was that the AI system he trusted so blindly had its core code written by me. Tonight, I was going to show him what happened when he angered the one who built the machine.

The annual performance review came around. I was the company's top revenue generator. They gave me a D. I looked at the evaluation form in my hand and laughed, because the alternative was worse. "A D? No raise? You people call this a comprehensive assessment?" Even a dog that drags a forty-five-million-dollar deal home gets a couple of bones for it. Sonia Blake, our HR director, was busy touching up her lipstick. She didn't bother to look up. "Ethan, don't get arrogant. This company values character. It values teamwork. You lean too hard on individual heroics. The D was a unanimous decision by the board." "So that's the justification for wiping out my entire year-end bonus and cutting my pay twenty percent?" I didn't understand. That was when my direct supervisor, and the man I hated most in the building, Grant Palmer, walked in. "If you don't want the job, you can leave." He was flushed with satisfaction, waving around the letter of intent I had just closed. One and a half billion dollars. "Sonia, why are you still arguing with him? Ethan, here's the termination agreement. Sign it. And while you're at it, hand over the core code for the new platform." Use a man up, then throw him away. Fine. Wonderful. I picked up the pen and signed my name across the agreement with a flourish. "I hope you don't come begging me to come back."

When I took my diagnosis of heart failure to my boss and asked for time off, he shot me down with two words. "Not approved." I pointed to the diagnosis. "I could drop dead at any moment." He pushed the report back to the edge of his desk. "But you're not dead yet, are you? This project is at a critical stage. Don't even think about slacking off and trying to get out of work." I stared at him for two seconds before nodding. "Fine. You win." The next day, I walked into the conference room right on time with a portable medical oxygen tank. Everything suddenly went black while I was presenting the fourth version of our proposal to the client. I had collapsed face-first onto the conference table. My boss finally froze when he saw that I was on the brink of death.

After graduating from high school, I helped the whole class get in touch with my uncle's factory, which offered a 3,000-dollar monthly salary with room and board included, so we could save up some money for our upcoming college life. More than 20 of my classmates signed up. Then Emily June suddenly typed: [3,000 dollars? Are you trying to rip off your own classmates? I found a job online that pays 7,000 dollars a month. It includes room and board too.] The group chat exploded, and my classmates immediately turned on me. [Jasper, are you getting kickbacks from your uncle?] [We trusted you!] Everyone withdrew their applications and followed Emily instead. Well, fine. If they trusted her that much, then they could go ahead. I would not stop them.

Hayden Jenkins, the driver whom I've recruited, often brings his girlfriend, Casey Sloan, along whenever he drives me to the company. Seeing as Casey's destination is just along the way, I don't bother commenting about it. But one time, when I open the car door, I see a note being pasted to the back seat. It says, "Car moochers aren't allowed in this car." I rip the note off the seat and ask Hayden, "What's the meaning of this?" Casey glares at me from the front passenger seat. She snaps at me, "Don't you know how to read? Every day, you keep mooching off my boyfriend's car! Seriously, are you this shameless? If you can't afford a ride, then don't ever leave your house! I hate car moochers like you the most!" I'm confused, to say the least. That's when Hayden jogs toward me and mumbles to me, "Ms. Gray, Casey doesn't know that I work as your driver. She's rather possessive, and she only sticks this note on the back seat out of her love toward me. "By the way, Casey really doesn't like sharing the car with you. I'll drop her off first. After that, I'll come back for you." After that, Hayden drives my car away. I remain rooted to the same spot, though I'm quick to call the police. "Hello. A man and a woman have stolen my car. Please dispatch an officer as soon as possible."

As the project lead, I was supposed to receive an annual bonus of $28,000. However, my wife transferred all the money to her newly hired male assistant and simply tossed me a supermarket gift card instead. “There’s $30 on this card. Buy whatever you want. I’m pretty generous, aren’t I?” I was stunned. “Joy, my mother needs that money for her surgery. You can’t be serious!” She sneered and said, “Why waste money on someone who’s dying anyway? At most, I’ll give you $700 to pick out a nice coffin.” Looking at her smug face, I smiled as well. Joy probably forgot that although she held all the company shares, the core patents of the company were registered under my personal name. I immediately sent a message to my lawyer. [Starting today, I’m releasing all patents in my name for free!]