Chapter 11: Chapter 11

~Ye jun~

I thought that was it, thought I’d won the round, but by afternoon the first project I’d been handed a client pitch deck for a major merger started crumbling. The data I’d pulled from the shared drive was wrong, numbers off by millions, and the client called furious, “This is amateur hour, who approved this?” I scrambled, fixed what I could, but the damage was done, the team looking at me like I’d personally insulted them. The next day, worse: the marketing campaign outline I greenlit had a typo in the headline that went live, social media blowing up with memes, “Genius director strikes again.” I laughed it off in the break room, “Hey, typos happen, right? We’ll fix it,” but inside I was boiling because how the hell did these slip through? I double-checked everything.

In the second week of chaos after chaos, the supply chain report I presented to the board had missing pages, literally blank sections where numbers should’ve been and Dad was on the call, face darkening on the screen, “Ye Jun, what is this?” I stammered, “Technical glitch, sir, I’ll resend immediately,” but the silence after was brutal. People started whispering louder, “Kid’s in over his head,” “Vice chairman was right, he’s not ready.” I bumped into Min-ji from accounting in the hall, coffee in her hand, and she “accidentally” spilled half on my shirt, hot liquid soaking through, “Oops, sorry, director,” voice dripping fake apology. I forced a laugh, “No worries, happens,” wiped it with napkins, kept walking, but my hands were shaking.

Next day, same shit, different guy from sales, bumped me hard in the elevator, coffee down my sleeve again, “Whoops, crowded in here,” smirking. I snapped this time, shoved him back, “Watch it, asshole, do it again and I’ll make sure your next review sucks.” He laughed slightly it’s not like he’ll get fired with all these errors I was making. The elevator dinged, doors opened, people staring, and I stormed out, face burning, because yeah, they were right, but fuck if I’d admit it.

Two weeks of this hell. Every project I touched turned to shit deadlines missed, clients pissed, team morale tanked, and the gossip never stopped: “He’s talentless,” “Riding family coattails,” “Vice chairman must be laughing his ass off.” I tried harder, stayed late, fixed what I could, but the sabotage was invisible, sneaky files corrupted overnight, emails rerouted, approvals delayed just enough to fuck me over. I knew it was him, had to be, but no proof, just that smug look when we passed in the hall, him nodding politely like we were strangers.

Home got worse. Dad stopped talking to me at dinner, just sighed heavy when Mom asked how work was, “Disappointing.” Mom started yelling, first time in years, cornered me in the kitchen one night, “Ye Jun, what is going on? Your father is ashamed, I’m ashamed, we stuck our necks out for you and you’re embarrassing us! Did you just want the title? The car? The attention?” Tears in her eyes, voice cracking, “We thought you were ready, baby, but maybe you’re not.” I stood there, throat tight, “Mom, I’m trying, I swear, it’s not… ” But she cut me off, “Trying isn’t enough! Fix it or don’t come home crying about it.” I left the kitchen, slammed my door, punched the pillow until my knuckles hurt, because fuck, I was trying, harder than anyone knew.

Si-woo watched it all, quiet at first, then bolder. One night he cornered me in the hallway after Mom stormed off, me still red-eyed, him smiling slow, “Rough day, director?” I shoved past, “Fuck off.” He grabbed my wrist, yanked me back, voice low, “You wanted this, remember? The title, the power. How’s it feel now?” I yanked free, voice shaking, “You’re doing this, aren’t you? Sabotaging me.” He laughed, soft, “Prove it. Or better yet, quit. Leave the house, leave the job, leave everything to me like you should’ve from the start.” I stared at him, chest heaving, anger mixing with something sadder, heavier, because part of me wanted to scream yes, just give up, but fuck that, I wasn’t done.

Next morning I marched into his office, door slamming behind me, “You win, okay? Happy? Three projects down, everyone hates me, Dad’s disappointed, Mom’s crying, you happy now?” He leaned back in his chair, legs spread, that same damn smirk, “You done whining?” I stepped closer, fists clenched, “I said you win. I don’t want the job anymore, I don’t want to jump through your fucking hoops, I’m leaving, house, company, all of it. You can have it.” His smile widened, slow, vicious, eyes lighting up like I’d handed him a gift.

“No.”

I froze. “What?”

He stood, walked around the desk, right up to me, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper, “No, you’re not quitting. You’re staying. You’re going to keep showing up, keep failing in front of everyone, keep crying to Mommy and Daddy about how hard it is, and you’re going to beg me quietly, privately every time it gets too much. Because that’s what you do best, Ye Jun. Beg. And I like watching you break.” He grabbed my tie, yanked me closer, breathed on my face, “So no. You don’t leave. You stay right here, director, until I decide you’ve learned your place.”

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