Three years ago, I brought Vivian into the company. From intern to HR director, I spoke up for her every time she got promoted. The layoff list had 23 people on it. I was first. She put me there. “Wendy, I really had no choice.” Her eyes were red. “It came from upstairs.” I said nothing. Her phone buzzed. An Ins message. Pinned contact, marked with a red heart. The avatar was a man’s profile. A dark blue plaid shirt. The one I had ironed for Henry myself last night. Henry was my husband. I put the list back in my bag and stood up. “Vivian, the shirt on your pinned contact—” “I ironed it last night.” Her face went white. “Wendy! Wendy, wait!” Vivian’s voice chased after me into the hallway, thick with tears. I didn’t look back. My heels clicked against the tile, one step at a time. The elevator doors opened, and she caught up, grabbing my arm. “You misunderstood. That person isn’t Henry…” “Dark blue plaid shirt, with a tiny burn hole under the left chest pocket.” I looked at her hand. “I accidentally scorched it while ironing last night.” Her fingers loosened. “Wendy…” “Vivian.” I pressed the elevator button. “When you cry, your left eye goes red first, then the right one follows. You’ve used that trick on me for three years. It doesn’t work very well anymore.” The elevator doors closed. I leaned against the wall and watched the numbers drop. Basement one. Parking garage. I got into the car and shut the door. My phone lit up. It was a message. Vivian sent me a voice note, but I didn’t open it. Then another text came in: “Wendy, if you don’t believe me, you can ask Henry directly. He’ll explain.” I stared at that line for ten seconds. Then I opened Henry’s Ins. Last Wednesday, he posted a photo of coffee with the caption: “Working late into the night. A cup of coffee someone brought me felt extra warm.” That night, he told me he was at the office rushing a proposal. I hadn’t brought him any coffee. The first comment was from Vivian: “You worked hard [heart].” Henry replied with a smiling emoji. I kept scrolling. A month ago, he said he was taking clients out to golf. He didn’t post any photos on Ins. But Vivian did. A beach, a sunset, a red bikini, with the caption: “Be nicer to me on vacation.” In the bottom right corner of the second photo, there was a man’s hand, with a wedding ring I knew very well on the ring finger. The scratch was on the left side—Henry always used his left hand on the steering wheel when he drove, and that was where it had worn. I exited Ins and started the car. By the time I got home, it was 7:30. Henry leaned out of the kitchen and smiled. “You’re back? Why so early today?” “Nothing to do, so I came home.” “Wash your hands and eat. The steak just came off the pan.” At the dinner table, he served me food and talked about work today. “Remember that finance guy, Mark? He printed one extra zero on the report today. The boss thought our department’s revenue had multiplied by ten. He was happy for a whole hour…” He laughed naturally. I laughed too. “By the way,” he said, “did you iron that blue plaid shirt for me? I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow.” “It’s hanging in the third section of the closet.” “Thanks, babe.” He reached over and squeezed my fingers. His fingertips were warm. After dinner, he went to wash the dishes. I went into the bedroom and opened the closet. The blue plaid shirt was hanging there. I took it down and brought it close to my nose. Under the scent of laundry detergent, there was a very faint fragrance. Bleu de Chanel. I had given it to Vivian on her birthday three years ago. “I love it so much!” She had hugged me and said, “Wendy, you are the best person in the world to me.” I hung the shirt back up. Inside the pocket, my fingers found a crumpled receipt. Blue Mountain coffee, two cups. One Americano, one less-sweet latte. I drink Americano. Henry drinks Americano too. Who was the less-sweet latte for? The sound of water in the bathroom stopped, and he came out wrapped in a bath towel. “Babe, I may come back a little late tomorrow. I’ve got a project to finish up.” “Okay.” “Don’t stay up too late.” He kissed my forehead. “Henry.” “Hmm?” “How long has it been since you spent our wedding anniversary with me?” His movement paused. “Didn’t we last month…” “Last month you said you had a sudden business trip.” “Right, that client couldn’t be pushed off…” “Did that client wear a red bikini?” His expression flickered, then returned to normal. “What are you talking about? The client was a bald guy in his fifties.” “Oh.” “Why are you suddenly bringing this up?” “Nothing. There’s a little hole under your shirt pocket. I accidentally made it while ironing. Don’t mind it.” “I don’t mind.” He smiled. “You ironed it for me. Even the hole looks good.” The lights went out. In the dark, his breathing gradually evened out. My eyes stayed open. At two in the morning, his phone lit up once. A pop-up Ins message appeared on the screen, marked “Project Team – Kevin”: “Hubby, I already handled what happened last time. She won’t get a chance to turn it around. Don’t worry.” Followed by a kiss emoji. Hubby. She. Turn it around. The screen went dark. Henry rolled over and draped an arm over my waist. “Mmm… babe…” he mumbled indistinctly. I didn’t move. “Good night,” I said. No one answered.
“Here, I bought you coffee, an unsweetened Americano.” Vivian stood in front of my desk, smiling gently, holding a Starbucks cup. With her other hand, she lightly rested against my shoulder. “I thought about what happened yesterday all night. It really was the call from upstairs. I fought for you.” I took the coffee. “Thanks.” “What you said yesterday… about the shirt.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “My boyfriend happens to have the same one. We just ended up in matching clothes, so don’t overthink it.” “Your boyfriend?” “Yeah, we’ve only been dating two months. We haven’t made it public yet.” She winked. “I’ll introduce you someday.” “Okay.” She walked away smiling. I took a sip of the coffee. Americano, but with sugar added. I never put sugar in my Americano. She remembered that Henry drank less-sweet lattes, but she couldn’t remember my taste. At ten in the morning, my coworker Zoe passed by my desk, put down a stack of files, and said quietly, “Director Wendy, there’s something I don’t know if I should tell you.” “Say it.” She looked around and pulled me into the break room. “That layoff list… I saw three versions on the printer.” “Three versions?” “The first version had 15 people, and you weren’t on it. The second had 20 people, and you were eighth. The third one is the current one, with 23 people, and you’re first.” “Who changed it?” “Vivian. All three versions’ edit logs are under her account. Every time someone got added—” Zoe bit her lip, “it was always someone you brought up.” I said nothing. “And there’s one more thing.” Zoe lowered her voice. “Did you see last week’s annual department evaluation report?” “I submitted it.” “Not your version.” She pulled out her phone and showed me a screenshot. On the screen, under the department evaluation section: “Wendy: average coordination ability, domineering management style, poor team cohesion. Recommend salary reduction, transfer, or optimization.” A red X was marked after my name. “Here’s another section for job recommendations.” Zoe turned to the next page. “Vivian wrote that her assistant, Emma, should take your place. Someone who’s been here less than half a year.” “When was this report submitted?” “Two weeks ago. Three days before the layoff list.” “Is the original report still in the system?” “Yes. But the permissions were changed. Only Vivian and the admin can see it. I found it when IT restored a batch of files during system maintenance last week.” Zoe looked at me. “Director Wendy, she did this on purpose.” I knew that. At noon, Vivian came to find me again. She sat across from me and put a chicken wing into my bowl. “Wendy, eat more. You’ve lost weight lately.” “Mm.” “How about hot pot tonight? Let’s call Henry too. We haven’t gotten together in a long time.” “He’s working late tonight.” “Then it’ll just be the two of us.” She took my hand in hers. “Wendy, no matter what happens, you’re my best friend.” Her palm was warm. The same temperature as when Henry had squeezed my fingers last night. “Vivian.” “Hm?” “That new boyfriend of yours. What does he do?” Her eyes flickered. “Finance.” “Which company?” “A small company. You wouldn’t know it.” “What’s his name?” “Wendy, why are you so interested in my boyfriend?” She smiled. “Jealous?” “Just asking.” In the afternoon, I went into HR’s shared folder. I didn’t have admin privileges, but the backend entry for the old system hadn’t been closed yet. Three minutes later, I found every file Vivian had submitted. Besides the altered evaluation report, there was one more thing. The title was: “Core Employee Seating Adjustment Plan.” The content was simple: move Wendy’s desk from the eighth-floor department area to the third-floor administrative area. The reason given was “optimizing office space.” Third-floor admin. Next to the bathroom drainpipe, with no windows. She had even planned where I would sit. At the bottom of the file was a note. It wasn’t Vivian’s handwriting. “Confirmed with HR. Execute next Monday. — Henry” Henry. My husband’s name appeared on a file that moved me next to the bathroom. I opened the company directory and searched for “Henry.” One result. Finance Department. Senior Finance Manager. Start date—two years ago. Two years ago, he told me he was switching to an investment company. “The company’s not big. You wouldn’t know it even if I told you.” It was exactly what Vivian had just said. He had been working at my company for two years. In the same building. I was on the eighth floor, and he was on the tenth. Between us was the ninth floor—HR, Vivian’s floor. My phone rang. Henry. “Babe, what do you want for dinner tonight?” “…Anything’s fine.” “What’s wrong with your voice?” “Just a little tired.” “Then get off work early. I’ll be waiting for you at home.” I hung up. Then I pulled up the screenshot of that message from midnight. “Project Team – Kevin.” Hubby. She won’t get a chance to turn it around. Don’t worry. Kevin. “Vivian, you really are something.”
“Director Wendy, you should attend the management meeting this afternoon.” My assistant, Lily, came in carrying a file, her expression strange. “What’s the topic?” “Director Vivian is hosting it. Budget review for each department and the personnel optimization plan.” At two in the afternoon, more than a dozen people were seated in the conference room. Vivian stood in front of the projector in a white turtleneck sweater, elegant and gentle. “Everyone, the company is under some pressure this year, so we need to improve efficiency.” She clicked to the next slide. “Let’s start with each department’s midyear performance.” A table appeared on the screen. Marketing: 120% completion. Tech: 115%. Sales: 98%. Operations—my department—47%. 47%. I had led my team to 18 million in revenue in the first half of the year, with a target of 20 million. The completion rate was 90%. Not 47%. “The Operations Department’s performance is indeed not ideal.” Vivian sounded regretful as she looked at me. “Director Wendy has worked hard too, but data doesn’t lie.” “How is this data calculated?” I asked. “By finance.” She looked at me. “Do you have an objection?” “The data I submitted was 18 million, with a 90% completion rate.” “Finance recalculated it. The revenue attribution for a few projects was adjusted.” “What was the basis for the adjustment?” “That’s a professional financial judgment. I’m not too familiar with it.” She flipped through the file in her hand. “If you have questions, you can confirm them with finance after the meeting.” “And,” she continued, “after a comprehensive evaluation, the Operations Department ranked last in productivity across all departments. So the layoff list has a high proportion of people from Operations.” Out of the 23 people, 14 came from my department. More than half of them were going to be laid off. “Wendy,” she called me by my nickname in front of everyone, “don’t put too much pressure on yourself. It’s not a personal problem. It’s the bigger environment.” Gentle. Considerate. Like she was feeling sorry for me. In reality, she had just used fake data to sentence my department to death. After the meeting, I went straight to the finance department on the tenth floor. I found Roger, the finance supervisor. “Supervisor Roger, what standard was used to adjust Operations’ revenue accounting?” Roger pushed up his glasses. “Last month, Director Vivian brought over an adjustment request saying the revenue attribution of three projects needed to be reassigned, from Operations to Marketing.” “Who signed it?” “The process requires the department liaison’s signature for confirmation.” Roger handed me the file. On the signature line was a very familiar handwriting. Henry. “This Henry,” I pointed at the signature, “which department is he from?” “Finance. He handles cross-department accounting coordination.” Roger looked at me. “Director Wendy doesn’t know him? He’s been here two years.” “I know him.” When I walked out of the tenth floor, the window at the end of the hallway was open. The November wind blew in, cold enough to bite. Henry had worked at the company for two years. He had helped Vivian adjust my department’s data. He had signed it. Then he went home and cooked me steak, kissed my forehead, and said, “Babe, you’ve worked hard.” I took the elevator down to basement one and found Henry’s car—the one from my dowry. The car wasn’t locked. There was a beige silk scarf on the passenger seat. Hermès. The one Vivian usually wore. I opened the glove compartment and found a hotel receipt inside. Four Seasons Hotel, presidential suite, spent 8,600 dollars. Date: October 15. That was our third wedding anniversary. Henry said he had flown to Miami for a business trip. He even sent me a photo of the beach. I replied at the time, “The beach looks so beautiful. Take me there next time.” He said, “Definitely.” Hanging from the rearview mirror were a pair of keychains. Two teddy bears, one red and one blue, with two letters engraved on the base—W and H. Wendy and Henry. Not T and H. I took a photo of the receipt and put the keychain in my pocket. When I got back to my desk, Zoe came over again. “Director Wendy, Vivian was just in the break room telling a few department heads—” She hesitated. “The exact words.” “She said, ‘Wendy has been very unstable emotionally since she found out about the layoffs, and she was saying some pretty out-there things in my office yesterday. Please be understanding with her, she’s really pitiful.’” Unstable. Out-there. Pitiful. Once those three labels were stuck on me, anything I said later would be treated like the ramblings of someone having an emotional breakdown. My phone rang. Vivian. “Wendy, where do you want to go for dinner tonight?” “You decide.” “How about a steakhouse? You said last time you wanted pizza.” “Vivian.” “Hm?” “Where were you on October 15?” The line went quiet for three seconds. “Wendy, why are you suddenly asking that?” “That was my wedding anniversary. Henry was away on a business trip, and I was at home alone eating instant noodles. I wanted to know whether everyone else had a better day than I did.” Three more seconds of silence. “…I was working overtime that day. I was at the company until very late by myself.” “Oh, that must have been hard too.” “Yeah. So, seven o’clock at the steakhouse?” “Okay.” I hung up. The hotel receipt showed a check-in time of three in the afternoon. “Working late into the night.” “Vivian, your overtime spot is really upscale.”
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