Nine million.
The number in the upper-right corner kept climbing.
9.3 million.
9.7 million.
Then ten million.
I stared at the screen for two seconds before reaching toward the control panel.
The door behind me slammed open.
“CO NIEM SO!”
Tran Trac rushed into the livestream room, his face red with rage.
Behind him came Manager Luu from Human Resources and two security guards.
“Turn the camera off!” Tran shouted.
I looked at him.
“You told me I was no longer an employee.”
His expression froze.
“So why are you still giving me orders?”
The comments exploded.
“SHE DIDN’T TURN OFF THE STREAM!”
“WE CAN HEAR EVERYTHING!”
“Ten million people are watching! Someone record this!”
Tran’s face drained of color.
He lunged toward the control desk.
Before he could touch anything, another voice came from the doorway.
“Don’t.”
Everyone stopped.
Susan Lee stood there.
The Asia-Pacific general manager of Khau Thi Dai had removed her headset. Her expression was colder than anything I had seen during three months of negotiations.
She looked at Tran.
“Did you just fire Ms. Co?”
Tran immediately changed his tone.
“Ms. Lee, this is an internal personnel adjustment. It won’t affect our cooperation.”
Susan stared at him for several seconds.
Then she laughed.
Not loudly.
That made it worse.
“Won’t affect our cooperation?”
She stepped into the room.
“Mr. Tran, have you actually read the contract your company signed?”
Silence.
Susan turned toward her assistant.
“Bring me clause seventeen.”
The assistant opened the contract on a tablet.
Susan read calmly.
“Khau Thi Dai selected Tinh Dieu Media under the condition that Co Niem So serves as the designated presenter and project leader for the entire annual campaign. Any replacement requires written approval from Khau Thi Dai.”
Tran’s lips parted.
Susan continued.
“We never approved a replacement.”
Manager Luu suddenly looked toward Tran.
Obviously, Human Resources had never been told about that clause.
Susan closed the tablet.
“Therefore, from the moment you terminated Ms. Co’s employment during this livestream, Tinh Dieu Media became incapable of fulfilling the contract.”
Tran finally panicked.
“Ms. Lee, we can discuss this privately.”
“No.”
Susan pointed toward the still-running camera.
“You chose to fire her while millions of customers were watching.”
Her eyes hardened.
“So we can discuss it right here.”
The viewer count reached eleven million.
Then something even worse happened.
Khau Thi Dai’s official account entered the livestream.
A golden verified badge appeared in the comments.
The account posted one sentence:
“Khau Thi Dai was not informed of Ms. Co Niem So’s dismissal.”
The livestream nearly crashed.
I heard someone in the control room swear.
Orders stopped rising.
Then cancellations began.
82 million.
81.4 million.
79 million.
The numbers were falling.
Tran looked as though someone were draining blood directly from his body.
He turned toward me.
“Niem So, tell everyone this is a misunderstanding.”
I almost smiled.
Twenty minutes earlier, he had told me to finish my “professional responsibility” before leaving.
Now he wanted me to save him.
Again.
“Director Tran.”
I folded my hands on the table.
“You fired me.”
“That decision can be withdrawn.”
“In front of ten million people?”
“I’ll apologize.”
“You don’t need to.”
His eyes brightened for half a second.
Then I finished.
“Because I’m not coming back.”
His face collapsed.
Behind him, another person had appeared.
Tham Kha.
She was still wearing the expensive white suit the company had bought for her promotional photos.
“Niem So,” she said, “you’re being too emotional. The company trained you. Without Tinh Dieu, nobody would even know your name.”
I looked at her.
Then at the camera.
Then back at her.
“Good.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“You think the audience belongs to Tinh Dieu.”
I stood.
“Then sit down.”
I pushed the livestream chair toward her.
“Sell.”
The room went dead silent.
Tham Kha stared at the chair.
The comments became merciless.
“YES! LET HER SELL!”
“Isn’t she the new star?”
“Come on, 80 million is already there. Just finish the remaining 20 million!”
Tham Kha’s face turned pale.
Tran whispered sharply, “Sit down.”
She had no choice.
I stepped away from the desk.
Tham Kha slowly sat beneath the lights.
The director placed the essence bottle in her hand.
She forced a smile.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Tham Kha. From now on, I’ll—”
The audience count dropped immediately.
11.2 million.
9 million.
7.6 million.
She hurried into the product introduction.
She mispronounced one ingredient.
Then she quoted the wrong discount.
The brand representative corrected her through the headset.
She panicked and announced a gift package that did not exist.
Within four minutes, Susan raised her hand.
“Stop.”
The livestream was terminated.
Final GMV:
76.8 million yuan.
Almost six million yuan in orders had been canceled after my dismissal.
Susan turned toward Tran.
“Khau Thi Dai is suspending cooperation with Tinh Dieu Media effective immediately.”
Tran stumbled toward her.
“Ms. Lee—”
“Our legal department will contact you tomorrow.”
Then Susan looked at me.
“Ms. Co, may we speak outside?”
I nodded.
But before leaving, I looked back at Tran.
“There’s one more thing.”
I pulled out my phone.
“Last week you accused me of refusing to share company resources.”
His jaw tightened.
I opened the message he had sent me three days earlier.
The instructions were clear.
Meet Susan Lee personally. Finalize the livestream terms. The brand only trusts you.
Then I opened another file.
Security footage from the office corridor.
It showed Tham Kha sitting at my desk after midnight, photographing pages from the private brand-contact directory.
Her smile vanished.
“I reported this to Human Resources,” I said.
Manager Luu looked down.
“They ignored it.”
Finally, I opened the dismissal notice.
“The company claims I was fired for unauthorized contact with brand partners.”
I looked directly at Tran.
“Yet the person ordering those meetings…”
I raised my phone.
“…was you.”
Nobody spoke.
For the first time in four years, I walked out of Livestream Room No. 1 without looking back.
The story should have ended there.
It didn’t.
By morning, clips from the broadcast had more than 300 million views across social platforms.
Three hashtags dominated the rankings.
#TinhDieuFiresTopStreamer
#DontBuyAnymore
And the most damaging one:
#WhoIsThamKha
Employees began posting anonymously.
Screenshots surfaced.
Internal messages.
Meeting records.
Evidence showing that Phuong Chinh Vien had pressured departments to transfer my team, scripts and campaigns to his niece.
Then someone leaked Tham Kha’s real performance data.
Her supposed five million followers?
Most had come from paid promotional campaigns.
Her “three years of top-tier sales experience”?
Impossible to verify.
Her 78% return rate?
Very real.
Tinh Dieu Media’s board called an emergency meeting.
Within forty-eight hours, Tran Trac was suspended.
Manager Luu resigned.
And Phuong Chinh Vien was removed from operational authority pending an internal investigation.
Tham Kha deleted every social-media account she owned.
But the biggest blow came three days later.
Khau Thi Dai officially terminated its annual partnership with Tinh Dieu Media.
Seven other brands followed.
Not because I asked them to.
I didn’t.
They called me.
One after another.
For the first time, they weren’t calling Tinh Dieu Media.
They were calling Co Niem So.
Susan was the first person I met.
She placed a contract in front of me.
Not an employment contract.
A partnership proposal.
“Build your own team,” she said.
“We’ll be your first client.”
I stared at the signature line.
Four years earlier, I had entered Tinh Dieu Media with one cheap ring light and fewer than one hundred viewers.
I had believed success meant building something big enough that nobody could replace me.
I had been wrong.
Success meant becoming strong enough that being replaced no longer frightened me.
I signed.
Three months later, my new studio conducted its first livestream.
No giant office.
No twenty-person executive team.
No deputy general manager’s niece.
Just six people I trusted.
Before the broadcast began, my daughter called.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“Parent-teacher meeting tomorrow. You remember?”
I smiled.
For four years, my answer had always been the same.
I have a broadcast.
I have a campaign.
I’ll try.
This time I said:
“I’ll be there.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I hung up and looked toward the camera.
The red light came on.
Viewers poured in.
One million.
Three million.
Five million.
Someone typed:
“Miss Niem, tell us what to buy.”
I picked up the first product and smiled.
“No.”
The comments slowed.
I continued.
“Tonight, I’m not going to tell you to buy everything.”
I looked directly into the lens.
“I’ll tell you what is worth buying.”
The number of viewers climbed again.
Behind the camera, Susan quietly raised her thumb.
And somewhere across Shanghai, the livestream room that Tinh Dieu Media had once called its greatest asset stood nearly empty.
They had believed they owned my audience.
My relationships.
My reputation.
My future.
They were wrong.
They owned a room.
I had built the trust inside it.
And that night, when our first independent livestream ended, the screen displayed a number larger than the one Tinh Dieu Media had wanted so desperately.
103,700,000 yuan.
I stared at it for a moment.
Then I turned off the light myself.
Not because anyone had fired me.
Not because anyone had ordered me to leave.
But because tomorrow morning, for the first time in years, I had somewhere more important to be.
