Chapter 4: Betrayal Unmasked

As I left the boss’s cabin, HR Sneha Joshi happened to be walking in.

She clutched her files, her dupatta slipping off one shoulder. Our eyes met; she looked away, fiddling with her ID card. She knew.

She looked uneasy, guilt written on her face. Maybe she was thinking, ‘Ab toh bura ho gaya.’

She probably guessed why I was there.

She avoided my gaze, quickening her steps. No one wants to be in the line of fire.

I lingered outside the door for a moment.

I could hear muffled voices through the plywood. Boss’s tone sharp, Sneha’s reply trembling.

“…It was my mistake, boss, I’m sorry…”

Sneha’s voice shook, papers rustling. She was always careful, but today her face was pale.

“She dares to ask for a raise? Does she even understand salary structure? It’s not about seniority.”

Rajeev Malhotra’s voice boomed. He sounded angrier about the leak than my feelings. That’s how it is—protect the company, not the people.

“And anyway, Amit’s overtime has dropped these six months. Maybe he’s had issues with the company for a while…”

I almost laughed. Issues? If anything, my health was breaking and they’d dumped all the easy work elsewhere.

My fists clenched, thumb running over my ring as I forced myself to stay silent. Even the corridor’s tube light buzzed with tension.

Is HR blind?

I wanted to storm in, but what was the point? They’d already decided.

A few years ago, my workload was massive—overtime like mad. Others did 9 to 9, I did 7 to 7.

No one remembers the Diwali I missed for an urgent edit. Sab bhool gaye.

This year, as the company expanded, non-content tasks shifted to the new team.

Now, I was told to focus on “creative”. Hours dropped, stress stayed. Plus, my health started failing.

Doctor said, “Amit, you’re too young for BP.” But what to do? Boss expects you to run like you’re twenty.

Even now, I do more hours than most.

Ask anyone—Amit’s in before the sweeper, leaves after the peon. But no one counts those hours.

Blind, or pretending. HR is always on the company’s side.

“Boss, what if he really leaves?”

Sneha’s voice was so soft, I nearly missed it.

“Let him go. He thinks the company can’t do without him? At worst, I’ll just hire new people. Newcomers are smart, not like old fossils.”

So that’s what we are—fossils. Outdated, disposable. Not even worth a second thought.

Fine, fine, fine.

Let them manage. Let them see what it’s like without us.

So much for wanting to keep me—it was always about saving costs.

I see now—it was never about respect, only squeezing every last drop.

I gave my all, but the company never cared.

Like that old tea glass in the pantry—once the handle broke, just throw it away.

The real joker was me.

I was the bakra, dancing for their amusement, hoping for a little applause.

Passing Neha Sharma’s desk, she was gone.

Her fancy water bottle sat untouched, headphones dangling, a hint of her perfume in the air.

On a whim, I glanced at her screen.

The screen was unlocked—chat window open. I know it’s wrong, but curiosity won.

A new message popped up: “Hahahahahaha, damn. You mean, as long as you play dumb, your supervisor who doesn’t even make ten thousand does your work every day? That’s really flipping the script.”

My blood ran cold. So that’s what she thought—a glorified peon, a joke in some WhatsApp group.