No Invite to Team Dinners, But Stuck with AA Fees

Alice, for the team-building event, please transfer the money. It's $386 per person.

Charlotte slammed her payment QR code onto my desk, tapping her nails impatiently. This was the 23rd time Id received that QR code in my two years and three months at the company. I had never attended.

Alright, I said, scanning the code, entering $386, and hitting send.

She pocketed her phone, walking away without a backward glance. Laughter erupted behind her. Ben from the next team leaned over to ask her, "Charlotte, that sushi place last night was fantastic, wasn't it? The salmon sashimi was incredibly rich."

"Right? We should go again."

I stared at the transaction record: $8,878. Two years and three months, $8,878. I turned off my phone and returned to refining my proposal.

"Alice, is the proposal ready?" Mr. Davies' voice drifted from his office doorway.

"It's ready, Mr. Davies."

I emailed the file to him, then printed a copy and brought it over. He flipped through a couple of pages, nodding. "Good, we'll present it to the client this afternoon."

I turned to leave, hearing him call out to Charlotte. "Charlotte, you'll join me for the presentation this afternoon."

"Of course, Mr. Davies."

My steps faltered, but I didn't turn back. I'd spent three days writing that proposal, pulling two all-nighters. Charlotte hadn't touched a single word. Yet, she was the one presenting it. It wasn't the first time.

Back at my desk, Sarah was touching up her lipstick. Seeing me, she pursed her lips. "Oh, Alice, Charlotte said she optimized your proposal for you."

"Oh."

"Honestly, you're too kind. Letting Charlotte touch up your own work, it's a bit much, isn't it?"

I said nothing, opening the document to check the revision history. Last modification: Alice, yesterday 11:47 PM. Where was this "optimization"? I closed the document and continued working.

At four that afternoon, Charlotte emerged from the conference room, a smile on her face. "Mr. Davies said the client was very pleased," she said as she passed my desk, her voice just loud enough to be heard. "The project bonus should be substantial this time."

Ben crowded closer. "Amazing, Charlotte!"

"Oh, it was mostly because the proposal was so well-written," she replied, glancing at me. I couldn't decipher the look in her eyes. Or rather, I pretended not to.

At closing time, I received a group message. "Celebration tonight, same place, 7 PM." It was from Charlotte. I glanced at the group name: "Operations Team Socials." There were seventeen people in the group, and I was one of them. Over a dozen replies had already come in: "Okay," "See you there," "Got it." I didn't respond. Because I knew, though the message was sent to the group, it wasn't really meant for me.

Sure enough, at half past seven, Charlotte sent me a payment QR code. "Alice, for tonight's dinner, it's $412 per person." I stared at the number, $412. A celebration dinner. Celebrating a proposal I had written. I opened the transfer page, entered $412. My finger hovered over "Send" for three seconds. Then I pressed it.

The next morning, I opened my computer. A new email lay in my inbox. Sender: Ms. Jenkins, HR. Subject: Q3 Project Bonus Disbursement. I clicked it open and scrolled down. "Operations Department Q3 Key Project C [Brand Name] Promotion Proposal, Bonus 0-05,000, Recipient: Charlotte Hayes."

I stared at that line of text for a long time. 0-05,000. My proposal, my sleepless nights, my lost hair. 0-05,000, and not a cent for me.

"Alice, what are you staring at?" Sarah's voice came from beside me.

I closed my inbox. "Nothing."

"Oh, right. Charlotte said to put together next month's schedule for her; she needs it this afternoon."

"Okay."

I opened Excel and started creating the spreadsheet. Halfway through, I heard Charlotte's voice. "Mr. Davies, I received the bonus, thank you!"

"You're welcome. The proposal was indeed excellent this time."

"It's mainly because of good teamwork; everyone contributed."

My fingers paused. Everyone contributed. I looked up, meeting Charlotte's gaze. She smiled at me, a gentle, polite smile.

"Alice, is the schedule ready?"

"Almost."

"Hurry up, don't hold things up." She left. I continued working on the spreadsheet.

During lunch, Lily, the new intern, sat across from me. "Alice, can I ask you something?"

"Hm?"

"Well, yesterday I heard Charlotte say that the [Brand Name] proposal was hers, but I remember..." She paused, lowering her voice. "I remember I printed the first draft of that proposal for you, and it had your name on it."

My hand, holding my fork, stopped. "You must have misread it."

"But..."

"Lily," I interrupted her, "in the workplace, ask less, say less, and mind your own business less."

She froze, her mouth opening, then closing. She said no more. I continued eating. My hand holding the fork trembled slightly.

At five that afternoon, Charlotte sent another message in the group chat. "Friday department social: Escape Room + Hot Pot. Reply with '1' to sign up."

The messages quickly piled up.

"1"

"1"

"1"

Over a dozen "1"s, but none from me. I didn't reply. Because I knew, even if I did, no one would acknowledge it. I had tried it once, two years ago. I replied with "1" in the group, then waited at the office until seven that Friday. No one called me. I messaged Sarah, "What time are we leaving?" She replied, "Oh? Are you coming? I thought you weren't. We're already there."

Since then, I never replied with "1" again. But the money, they always collected.

That Friday afternoon, Charlotte sent the payment QR code right on time. "Team-building fee, $298 per person."

I stared at the number, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted. Not physically, but a weariness that seeped into my very bones. Two years. I had been in this department for two years. I had written over thirty proposals, and not a single one bore my name. I had attended zero team-building events, but paid for twenty-three. I was like a ghost, only remembered when money was needed.

"Alice, have you transferred it?" Charlotte's voice came from nearby.

I looked up at her. "Charlotte, can I ask you a question?"

"What?"

"Why am I never invited to these team-building events?"

She paused, then chuckled. "You are invited, I post in the group, don't I?"

"But no one ever tells me the specific time or location."

"Well, why don't you ask?" Her tone took on a hint of impatience. "Everyone's busy, who has time to notify each person individually? Besides, you usually don't talk much to anyone, so we just assumed you didn't want to come."

"But the money..."

"It's splitting the bill, it's normal. If you don't come, that's your choice. But everyone pays their share, we can't expect others to pay more just because you don't show up, can we?"

She sounded perfectly righteous. I opened my mouth, unsure how to refute her. Her logic seemed wrong, yet somehow also perfectly sound.

"Alright, hurry up and transfer it, I still need to book the private room." She urged me.

I lowered my head, scanned the code, entered $298, and hit send. "Transfer Successful." I stared at those two words, and then I laughed. Laughed at myself.

Monday morning, I arrived half an hour earlier than usual. The office was empty. I opened my computer and logged into the company intranet. I was going to do something. Something I should have done two years ago.

I opened the project management system and clicked into the [Brand Name] Promotion Proposal document. All revision histories, exported. Then the six proposals from the first half of the year, all exported. Then the twelve proposals from last year, all exported. Every document, every revision, who made it, what was changed, when it was changedall clear as day. I saved them to a USB drive.

Then I opened my phone and pulled up all my transaction records from the past two years. $8,878 + $298 = $9,176. I took screenshots and saved them to the USB drive.

Finally, I opened my messaging app, found the "Operations Team Socials" group. This group was created two years and three months ago, the month I joined. I clicked on the member list, counting them one by one. Seventeen people. Then I clicked into the chat history, searching for the phrase "team-building." One hundred and forty-seven messages. I scrolled through them one by one. Beneath every team-building announcement, there were dozens of replies. None were mine. It wasn't that I didn't want to reply; it was that every time I did, no one acknowledged me. Over time, I simply stopped replying. I screenshotted these chat records too, saving them to the USB drive.

Done with all this, I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. Two years. I had spent two years weaving a cocoon around myself. I thought if I just endured, it would pass. I thought if I spoke less, I wouldn't offend anyone. I thought if I just did my job well, I would be seen. I was wrong. The workplace wasn't an exam where you got points for correct answers. The workplace was a jungle. If you didn't bite, people would bite you.

"Alice? What are you doing here so early?" Sarah's voice came from the doorway.

I closed my laptop screen, turned, and smiled at her. "Couldn't sleep, so I came in early."

"Oh." She gave me a suspicious glance, saying nothing more.

At nine, Charlotte arrived, right on time. As she passed my desk, she casually said, "Alice, the team-building event last Friday was a lot of fun. Too bad you missed it."

"Really? I'll definitely go next time."

She paused, probably surprised by my answer. Usually, I was silent. "Alright then, remember to come next time." She smiled and walked to her desk. I watched her back, a faint smile playing on my lips. Next time? There wouldn't be a next time.

Wednesday afternoon, a notice was posted in the company-wide chat. "Notice regarding Employee Satisfaction Survey and Work Feedback Collection. This Friday, at 3 PM, the Human Resources Department will conduct a session in the third-floor conference room..." I scrolled down and saw a line of text. "For any work-related issues or suggestions, written materials can be submitted to the HR office in advance."

I stared at that line for a long time.

"Alice, what are you spacing out about?" Lily walked over with her water bottle, curiously peeking at my screen.

"Nothing." I closed the page.

"Oh, by the way, Alice," she lowered her voice. "About that proposal are you really not going to say anything?"

I looked at her young face, suddenly remembering myself two years ago. Fresh out of university, full of vigor, believing that effort would always be rewarded.

"Lily, you know," I said softly, "some things, saying them doesn't always help."

"Why?"

"Because even if you say them, no one believes you."

She fell silent. "But that's not fair."

"Where is anything fair in the workplace?" I smiled. "You're new. You'll get used to it."

She lowered her head, saying nothing more. I patted her shoulder and continued working.

At five-thirty, I left work right on time. As I reached the elevator, I heard someone call my name from behind.

"Alice, wait up."

It was Mr. Davies. I stopped, turned. "Mr. Davies, can I help you?"

He hurried over, lowering his voice. "We have a client visit tomorrow afternoon. Could you organize the [Brand Name] proposal again? I need to present it to them."

"Of course."

"Oh, right," he paused, "that proposal it was really well done."

My heart stirred. I looked up at him. His expression was a little complex, as if he wanted to say something but held back. "Thank you, Mr. Davies."

"Hm, you should head home early." He turned and left.

I stood there, watching his retreating back, and a thought suddenly occurred to me. He knew. He knew who wrote that proposal. But he didn't say anything. Why? I didn't know. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that I knew.

Thursday evening, I was at home organizing the files on my USB drive. Project document revision histories, transaction screenshots, group chat recordsall printed out and bound into a booklet. Eighty-seven pages in total. This was my "accomplishment" of the past two years. And my humiliation.

I looked at the stack of papers, suddenly remembering something. Last year, at the department's annual party, during the raffle, I won an air fryer. Charlotte smiled and said, "Oh, Alice, you're so lucky! My air fryer just broke. Do you even need one?" I said I did. She said, "Well, you can take it for now, but if you don't need it later, give it to me, okay?" The next day, that air fryer appeared in her kitchen. She posted a picture on her social media: "First meal in my new air fryer, fried chicken wings!" I liked the post.

And the mid-autumn festival the year before last, the company gave out gift boxes of mooncakes. Charlotte said, "Alice, can you eat all of these by yourself? How about you give me two boxes?" I gave them to her. And last winter, the company issued down jackets. Charlotte said, "Alice, that size is too big for you, but it's perfect for me. Should we swap?" I swapped. That "too big" down jacket fit me perfectly. That "perfect" down jacket, she wore all winter.

What was I thinking back then? I thought: Never mind, it's just minor stuff. Why bother squabbling with colleagues over these things? I thought: She's a senior employee, I'm new, I should be accommodating. I thought: As long as I'm agreeable, they'll like me.

But what was the result? The more agreeable I was, the more they took advantage. The more I tolerated, the more they treated me like a pushover.

I stared at the stack of documents, my eyes stinging. Not from hurt. From hate. Hate for myself.

My phone rang. It was my mother. "Honey, are you coming home for Christmas?"

"Yes, Mom."

"How many days can you stay this year?"

I paused. "Mom, I might be staying a bit longer this year."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just feeling homesick."

I hung up the phone and shoved the stack of documents into my backpack. Tomorrow, Friday. Employee satisfaction survey day. And my judgment day.

At 2:50 PM on Friday, I walked into the third-floor conference room with my backpack. Ms. Jenkins, HR, was already there, looking a little surprised to see me. "Alice? You're early?"

"Hello, Ms. Jenkins. I have something I'd like to give you in advance." I pulled the stack of documents from my backpack and placed them before her.

"What is this?"

"You'll see."

She opened the first page, intrigued. It was a project ownership summary. On the left was the project name, in the middle the actual writer, on the right the credited person. Thirty projects, thirty names. The "actual writer" column was entirely "Alice." The "credited person" column was entirely "Charlotte." Ms. Jenkins' expression changed.

She continued to flip pages. The second section contained screenshots of the project management system's revision history, clear as day, in black and white. Every document's creator was "Alice," every revision log showed "Alice" pulling all-nighters. Charlotte's name only appeared in the final submission records.

"This" Ms. Jenkins looked up. "Is this real?"

"System records can't be faked."

She continued to flip. The third section was transaction records. Twenty-three transfers, totaling $9,176. Each entry was marked with a date and amount, accompanied by corresponding team-building group chat records.

"And what's this?"

"The bill-splitting for department team-building events," I said. "Two years and three months, twenty-three team-building events. I was never once notified, but I paid every single time."

Ms. Jenkins' brow furrowed even deeper. "They didn't invite you?"

"No. They posted announcements in the group, but never told me the specific time or location. And when I asked, no one replied."

"Then the money..."

"They collected it anyway." I smiled. "Charlotte said that splitting the bill means everyone contributes. If I don't come, that's my business; they can't expect others to pay more."

Ms. Jenkins fell silent. After a moment, she asked, "How do you want to handle this?"

"I want justice," I said, looking into her eyes. "My contributions should be returned to me; my money should be refunded; and an apology should be given."

"What if they deny it?"

"The evidence is all here," I said, pointing to the stack of documents. "Whether they admit it or not doesn't matter."

The door opened, and people started to trickle in. I saw Charlotte at the front, still smiling. Seeing me, she paused. "Alice? Why are you here so early too?"

"Employee satisfaction survey, I'm an employee too."

"Oh," she smiled. "I thought you didn't participate in these kinds of activities."

"I didn't used to," I smiled back, "today's an exception."

She seemed to sense something, her expression momentarily faltering. But it quickly recovered. "Alright then, let's do this together." She sat down beside me.

Ms. Jenkins cleared her throat. "Alright, everyone's here, let's begin."

"Excuse me, could you wait a moment?" I raised my hand.

"What is it?"

"I have something I'd like to say in front of everyone."

The room fell silent. Charlotte turned to look at me, a flicker of wariness in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

I stood up, picked up the stack of documents, and walked to the projector. "It's like this," I said, turning on the projector, "I'd like to show everyone something."