Carrots Over Capitalism

There are three things I've learned about office life:

People will accept free food faster than a salary raise. No one reads full emails. CFOs are terrifying.

Especially ours.

"Your proposal is… charming," Chen Guanfeng said, in the same way that someone might comment on a dog dressed up in a raincoat. "But charm is not a budget strategy."

I was standing in front of the boardroom projector, hugging my laptop like a shield. Jinyu sat beside me, arms crossed, silent.

The AC was too cold, and the tension could've been sliced with one of our serum sample spatulas.

"Employee wellbeing," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady, "directly impacts performance. I created a small-scale incentive system—custom WeChat red envelopes, branded as Carrot Awards—to reward above-and-beyond contributions in underfunded departments."

I tapped the slide: a bunny holding a golden envelope, sparkles all around. Tasteful, okay? Corporate, but cute.

"Morale jumped by 12.7% in one week. I ran an internal poll."

Guanfeng adjusted his glasses. "And you issued these virtual bonuses... from YSHT CEO's discretionary card?"

"It was within budget, under ¥500 per employee, with attached performance metrics—"

I smiled tightly. "Yes."

"I've frozen the reimbursements," he said. "Until further review. Including your 'emergency snack activation' charges."

Wait. Wait, what?

"But—sir, the Carrot Awards are performance incentives! Like carrots—not sticks! Classic behavioral econ, Skinner box logic! I even included documentation!"

"Then they'll make a delightful case study in... enthusiasm," he replied, turning to the next page.

I stared at him. The room moved on.

Jinyu didn't say a word.

I slipped into his office after the meeting, cheeks warm—not with anger, but with something heavier. Embarrassment. Or maybe... disappointment.

"You didn't say anything back there," I said, closing the door softly behind me. "Not even one word."

Jinyu didn't look up at first. "It wasn't my place."

"You're the CEO."

"Exactly." He just replied plainly.

I blinked. That wasn't what I expected. I wasn't looking for him to baby me, but...

"I wasn't trying to go against the rules. I just thought..." I hesitated. "I thought I was helping."

"You were." He finally met my eyes. "But helping people isn't the same as managing them."

The words landed softly, but they still bruised.

"There are tax implications," he continued. "Bonus structures. Shareholder oversight. This isn't a charity."

"I know that," I said, a little too quickly. Then quieter: "I just thought... maybe we could be more than another cold company."

He looked at me for a long second. "We can be. But not if our people don't trust the process."

I nodded, even though it stung. I turned to go.

"Jiaxin."

I paused.

"You're doing good work," he said. "But the moment you expect this place to cheer for you just because you're sincere... you'll break."

I forced a smile. "So I should be more heartless?"

"No," he said. "Just harder to read."

I left his office with my head held high, but my chest felt tight.

Maybe he was right. Maybe sincerity wasn't enough.

Still, when I passed the office break room and saw people laughing over their bubble tea, comparing the ridiculous custom envelopes I'd sent out, I couldn't help it—my heart lifted just a little.

What I didn't realize was that those tiny envelopes—and the people opening them—were about to shake up our quarterly numbers.

They weren't cheering for me. But they were smiling because of me. That had to count for something.

What I didn't know was that while I was busy trying to win hearts... Other people were watching.

While I was running around throwing digital money like an influencer with a trust fund, big people were starting to notice.

Western skincare companies, to be exact.

Xuhuang and YSHT's stocks had been steadily climbing ever since Jinyu's serum went viral abroad. But now, with all the local news articles painting us as a "socially responsible luxury brand", we were becoming... kind of cool and the rates of the stocks rising were starting to speed up almost twice as much.

Too cool, apparently.

"Their messaging's too clean," one Western exec reportedly said.

"No way a legacy Chinese brand is pulling that off authentically. It's probably state-backed greenwashing. Or worse—real."

Because if it was real? That meant we were winning on purpose.

Rude.

But not wrong—Jinyu was pulling it off. And the world hated that.

I ran into Wu Zhaoyuan again that week. He was at a government event for top-level brands, sipping something dark and fancy while wearing a grey suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

He nodded at me. "Assistant."

"Assistant and company culture visionary," I corrected, sipping my milk tea like a boss.

His mouth twitched—either a smirk or a muscle spasm. "Interesting PR tactic. Play the airheaded rich girl who accidentally turns into a reformist hero."

"…That's not a tactic. That's just me."

He tilted his head, studying me like I was an investment portfolio.

"I see why Jinyu keeps you around."

"I see why you wear the same three shades of grey," I muttered.

That, apparently, made him laugh. Which scared me more than when he didn't.

He didn't say anything else, but as he turned away, I caught him glancing at his phone—probably checking stock prices like all the other high-tier capitalists in that room.

I wasn't sure if that look on his face was amusement… or curiosity.

Either way, something told me I had just become a topic of boardroom conversations.

And I was right.

I had been giving Jinyu weekly reports. Organized. Highlighted. With footnotes. I was trying to be, like, a real adult or whatever. At first, he barely glanced at them—just gave the occasional nod or grunt like a mildly impressed professor who still thought you were going to fail.

But that week?

He called me into his office.

No "Assistant Xu." No frown. Just a slow tap of the screen, where our internal financial dashboard looked like it had chugged a liter of espresso and exploded in confetti.

"Did you authorize these transfers?" he asked calmly, clicking through the breakdown of office expenses and morale budget.

"Technically… yes. From the card you said I could use. The one you slid across the table with a very vague 'just don't bankrupt us.'"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Not in the angry way—more in the "I know I said that, and now I'm paying for it" kind of way.

I held up a printed article. "Look, though! People love us now. Gen Z forums are calling us the 'realest Chinese brand in luxury.'"

Another article. "And the South China Morning Post just called us a 'symbol of localized luxury with a conscience.' "

Another one. "And this influencer called us 'the bunny-powered LVMH of the East'!"

He paused. Then clicked something again. His brow twitched.

"What is this 'Carrot Award' system that you had proposed?"

"It's an incentive model! Like bonuses, but cuter. Virtual envelopes— custom ones. Like WeChat red packets, except with themed emojis and little thank-you notes. Employees have been working harder, morale's up, and we even sponsored three rabbit shelters and a local carrot farm!"

"...A carrot farm."

"For synergy."

He stared. Then checked the stock chart. It had been climbing ever since the serum went viral, but this week, right after my company-wide wellness push—it spiked. Like, investors-are-foaming-at-the-mouth spiked.

All because of good PR. People saw us not just as a brand but as a movement.

He sat back slowly. The room was quiet for a second.

Then:

"You named the baby goat Pudding?"

"She's our new goodwill ambassador," I said proudly.

Another pause.

"...At least the employees like you now," he muttered.

Which was fair. They did like me now. I wasn't just the fluffy nepotism hire—I was the chaos princess with power, a company login, and a soft spot for rural carrot economies.

And the scary part?

The stock went up again.

I wasn't sure if that said more about me…

Or about capitalism.

Somewhere, someone in a suit probably called it "disruptive innovation."

I called it: one bunny's revenge arc—just getting started.