Nine months later.

Annual performance review time.


I've been here exactly one year. I've written sixty percent of our team's core code, fixed countless bugs, and never once turned down emergency weekend work.

My performance metrics top everyone else's on the team.

On review day, David summoned me to the conference room.


"Emma, you've done quite solid work this year," he said, pausing dramatically.

"But..."


Here it comes—there's always a "but."

"But you still lack organizational skills. At the senior engineer level, we need to see stronger leadership qualities."

"I proposed three architectural solutions last month," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "All three were implemented. I also led the database migration project. Doesn't that demonstrate leadership?"

"Technical leadership counts, of course," David waved dismissively, "but I'm talking about presence. You're too quiet in meetings. You need to speak up more, be more visible. More... enthusiastic, you understand?"

I thought about those meetings.

Every time I opened my mouth, someone talked over me. Every suggestion met with "let's hear from others first." Every attempt to contribute countered with "Emma, don't be hasty."

But I need to be more enthusiastic?

Right. Sure.

"So I'm not getting promoted," I stated flatly.

"Not this time," David smiled his patronizing smile. "But next year for sure. You're still young—plenty of time."

I stood up. "Anything else?"

"No... Emma, don't be disappointed. This is perfectly normal. Most people in their first year don't—"

I walked out while he was still talking.

Cheering erupted from down the hall.

Mike burst from another conference room, grinning ear to ear. "Yeah! Finally got that promotion!"

He high-fived another male colleague in celebration.

The company had just posted promotion announcements on Slack. I clicked to check: Mike Peterson, promoted to Senior Engineer.

A stream of congratulations followed, everyone saying how much he deserved it.

I returned to my desk and accessed the internal HR system. Most people don't realize this, but if you know where to look, you can see everyone's annual performance ratings.

I scrolled down.

Found it.

Mike's annual rating: "Meets Expectations."

Mine clearly stated: "Exceeds Expectations."

He got promoted.

I didn't.

I stared at those two ratings for a long time.

Then I took a screenshot and saved it.

Evidence folder.

Entry ninety-eight.

But that wasn't all. I opened another file.

A salary spreadsheet from HR that I'd "accidentally" seen six months ago. Someone had left their computer unlocked. As I walked by, I snapped a photo with my phone, transferred it to my computer, and backed it up in three different locations.

I opened it again now.

My annual salary: $120,000.

Mike's annual salary, same level, worse performance rating: $170,000.

A $50,000 difference.

I stared at this number, letting it sink in.

Then I did some math.

With the standard three percent annual raise, if I stay here three years, I'll earn about $200,000 less than Mike.

Two hundred thousand dollars. Just because I'm a woman.

We do exactly the same work—sometimes I do better.

I took another screenshot.

Evidence number ninety-nine.

Save.

That night I stayed late, not to work, but to think in the quiet.

Around ten, the only people left on the floor were me and Rosa, the cleaning lady.

She arrives at this time every night. We usually exchange nods, sometimes chat briefly.

"Working late again, miss?" she asked in accented English.

"Hmm," I said. "Just thinking."

She wheeled her cart closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"These men—I've cleaned here five years, watching their smug faces every day. They take and take. Since you arrived, they've stolen your work, your ideas, everything you do. Never a thank you, never giving what you deserve."

I looked up at her.

She smiled, a bitter edge to it. "I used to work in an office too. Secretary. Good job. I loved it."

"What happened?"

"I got pregnant," she said. "Boss told me I was 'no longer suitable for the position.' Two weeks' severance, and that was it."

She paused her work and looked me straight in the eye.

"But you're different. Young, smart, with real skills—not just typing and answering phones, but technical skills. Don't let them break you like they broke me."

With that, she pushed her cart away and left.

I sat alone in the empty office.

Outside the window, San Francisco glittered like a jewelry box. Traffic on the Bay Bridge flowed like a river of light.

A beautiful city.

But sitting there, I felt cold.

Bone-chillingly cold.