Any old hand in the workplace knew that if you shone too brightly at work and turned your superior into a mere backdrop, then you were not far from bad luck.
No superior was willing to serve as a subordinate's backdrop, unless that subordinate had the backing and nerve to go head-to-head with their superior. Otherwise, they would definitely be dealt with harshly—made to wear little shoes, take the blame, one thing after another, enough to leave them wanting to cry without tears.
Feng Shuyun had no special background or backing. Her own performance had never been particularly dazzling, and in all her years following Cong Jinhong, she had always been cautious and obedient. Yet when Cong Jinhong encountered a "calamity," she still chose to make Feng Shuyun take the blame.
On the day Li Ye left the capital for the southwest, Cong Jinhong called Feng Shuyun into her office and even warmly poured her a glass of water.
"Shuyun! You've been with me for more than three years now, right? Over these past three years, how do you think I've treated you?"
How had she treated her? Didn't she know perfectly well herself?
If this had been in the past, Feng Shuyun would surely have been moved to tears of gratitude, declaring, "Sister Cong, your kindness toward me is as weighty as a mountain. Give the word, and I'll brave ten thousand deaths without refusing."
But today, a powerful disgust rose in Feng Shuyun's heart, and she could barely keep the smile on her face.
For where there was something abnormal, there had to be something sinister. What Cong Jinhong considered gentle warmth looked unspeakably hypocritical in Feng Shuyun's eyes.
And Feng Shuyun could more or less guess what was about to happen next.
When Cong Jinhong had asked