Chapter 5
"The contract says the company owns the work I do for officially approved projects. But it doesn't say anything about my early drafts or ideas that didn't make the cut.
"I'll cooperate with the handover, and I won't hold up anything that's already been signed off," I said.
Philip's voice turned cold.
"Who taught you to talk like that?" he asked.
I used to hate it when he said that.
It always felt like a teacher grilling a student, an elder lecturing a kid, or a boss reminding one who controls one's paycheck.
I gripped the mouse, then slowly let go.
"Nobody taught me. I went over my employment contract and the project archiving policy last night," I replied.
He was quiet for a few seconds.
"You're clearly too emotional right now, so I won't hold it against you. Come to the office this afternoon and hand over the files face-to-face.
"We'll discuss your year-end bonus and any future arrangements with the company at the same time," Philip said.
Year-end bonus and future arrangements?
Those words were like bait—just a simple toss, and I'd find myself hooked, dragged right back into that conference room.
I opened the drawer and saw the wedding planner's contract inside.
I'd already put down a deposit of twenty thousand dollars.
The hotel deposit was forty thousand dollars.
Photography, makeup, wedding planning—all of it added up to another big chunk of money.
If the company really withheld my year-end bonus, it'd make things really hard for me.
I almost agreed.
The MP3 player was sitting right next to my computer. Almost without thinking, I hit the play button.
Out came the confident, energetic voice of eighteen-year-old Joanna.
She said, "If someone tries to scare you with money, first figure out exactly how much you're actually missing. Don't let some big, scary number knock you down. Was all that math for nothing?"
That line kind of caught me off guard and made me choke up for a second.
When I was eighteen, I wasn't exactly a math genius, but I sure acted like I knew it all.
I grabbed a sticky note and started listing out everything: rent for the next three months, living expenses, potential wedding losses, and the impact of losing my social security and housing fund.
Turned out, the numbers weren't nearly as terrifying as I thought.
My savings would last me six months.
Even if I had to eat all the wedding costs myself, I'd still be good for four months.
I wasn't going to die right away.
As that realization hit me, my grip on the phone steadied.
"Mr. Turner, I won't be coming in today. I'll send over the files as per company policy, and my year-end bonus should be settled according to my contract and performance review. If there's anything else, have the company email me," I said.
Philip's tone turned icy.
"Joanna, do you even know what you're doing?" he asked.
"Yeah, I know."
"You're making yourself look bad."
I glanced at the date in the bottom right corner of my computer screen.
It was the day after my thirtieth birthday.
That was something.
At least I knew a little more today than I did yesterday.
"Mr. Turner, I only accept official procedures," I said.
The call ended.
I sat in my chair, my back damp with sweat.
Just saying no took more out of me than pulling three all-nighters in a row.
I got up to pour some water, and just as the kettle finished boiling, a message from Emily popped up.
It read: [Jo, Mr. Turner said you're not coming in today? The client is really in a hurry. I just checked your previous PPT, and there are a few things I need you to walk me through.]
Right after, she sent over a screenshot.
It was a screenshot of my project outline.
She'd circled a few pages.
It read: [I want to turn these sections: the 'Scent Archive,' 'Workers' Message Wall,' and 'Vintage Item Claim Program', into something more Instagrammable for young people. Can you walk me through your original ideas?]
I stared at the circled names, my fingertips going cold.
The Scent Archive was something I came up with while interviewing retired workers at the old factory.
One old welder told me that when he was young, he'd come home every day smelling like rust, machine oil, and cigarette smoke.
His daughter used to complain about how he stank, but after the factory closed, that was the smell she missed most.
I wanted to turn those scents into a gateway to the city's memories.
The Workers' Message Wall was an interactive space inspired by the actual handwriting I traced from the peeling walls of the old dorms.
The Vintage Item Claim Program was about inviting local residents to lend old factory items from their homes for the exhibition, to be returned afterwards, each accompanied by a personal story told by its owner.
Emily circled them and said she wanted to turn them into trendy selfie spots for social media.
My anger surged, almost choking me.
But I didn't reply right away.
When I was eighteen, I said in that recording, "Don't be too quick to play the hero.
"And don't be too quick to play the villain, either."
I turned on my laptop camera and recorded a video explaining the project handover.
In the video, I went through each confirmed deliverable, the client contract scope, and the files the company could use directly. When I got to the three modules—the Scent Archive and the others—I paused and chose my words carefully.
I said, "These three modules are still in the concept development phase. They haven't been approved by the client, and there's no official internal sign-off from the company.
"Without my written confirmation, I don't recommend presenting them as part of Ms. Carter's new proposal to the client."
I bundled up the video, the basic project files, and the signed versions, then sent them to the project group's public email, with Philip, Emily, the department head, and the legal team all CC'd.
Before I hit send, I just kept staring at the recipient list for ages.
My palms were still sweaty.
Once I hit send, there was no way I could keep pretending I was just "having an off day."
I'd become the one everyone gossiped about: the one who refused to cooperate with the handover.
I'd be the ungrateful one in my boss's eyes.
And to Andrew, I'd be the one who made things ugly.
I hit send.