Chapter 14 - Tong Tong’s Total Ruin and Shiaoza’s Begging
Six months later.
The early autumn sun bathed the glass facade of the newly renovated Vane Global Tower in brilliant, golden light.
The towering corporate emblem at the pinnacle of the skyscraper had been completely replaced. The name Shiao had been erased from every sign, every letterhead, every elevator directory, and every corporate server across four continents.
Under my direct operational leadership, Vane Global Holdings had experienced the most profitable two quarters in its twenty-year history. The thirty-two million dollars in recovered embezzled assets had been reinvested into our high-speed automated logistics centers, generating a forty percent surge in operational efficiency and driving our stock price to an all-time record high.
At 8:15 AM, I stepped out of my private electric town car in front of the gleaming corporate headquarters.
The ground-floor lobby was immaculate. The old, restrictive executive barriers had been completely torn down. In their place stood a modern, open-concept atrium with artisan coffee bars, lush indoor gardens, and eight high-speed smart elevators accessible to every single employee regardless of their corporate rank.
As I walked through the glass entrance, the young woman who had whispered to me on that fateful rainy morning six months ago—now promoted to Senior Operations Coordinator—smiled warmly and bowed her head.
“Good morning, Chairwoman Vane!” she said, her voice filled with genuine pride and confidence.
“Good morning, Sarah,” I replied with a warm smile. “Excellent work on the European logistics presentation yesterday.”
Sarah beamed, her eyes shining with professional fulfillment.
Just as I approached the central elevator bank, a sudden disturbance outside the revolving glass doors caught my attention.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, I saw two building security guards escorting a disheveled, ragged figure away from the perimeter.
It was Shiaoza.
Having been released on conditional administrative bail pending his transfer to the federal minimum-security correctional camp in Pennsylvania, he looked completely unrecognizable. He wore faded, ill-fitting thrift store clothes, his shoes were worn down at the heels, and his face was gaunt, hollow, and weathered by months of public disgrace and financial ruin.
When he caught sight of me standing inside the sunlit lobby—radiant, powerful, and beloved by her entire workforce—he broke away from the guards and threw himself against the reinforced glass window, his palms slapping frantically against the transparent pane.
“Elena!” his muffled, desperate voice carried through the glass. “Elena, please! Just five minutes! I’m begging you! I have no money for rent! My mother was evicted from her apartment! Nobody in the city will hire me! Please, Elena, give me a job in the mailroom! Just let me work for you!”
The entire lobby fell quiet. Dozens of employees turned to watch the pathetic spectacle of their former tyrant groveling like a stray dog outside the very glass tower he had once claimed to rule.
I stood in the center of the lobby, looking at him through the glass.
I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel hatred. I felt nothing at all. He was merely a ghost from a past life, an irrelevant speck of dust left far behind in the wake of an unstoppable empire.
I gave a slight, subtle nod to the head of security.
The security team gently but firmly pulled Shiaoza away from the glass, guiding him off the private corporate plaza and out into the bustling, indifferent street.
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I turned around, stepped into the open elevator alongside three junior data analysts who greeted me with bright, respectful smiles, and pressed the button for the seventieth floor.
The doors slid shut with a smooth, whisper-quiet chime, carrying us effortlessly upward toward the sky.
