Page 42 of Ruthless Serenade

Mistakes from my past.

Mother Earth, please open up and swallow me whole!

The room, previously silent with anticipation, suddenly erupts into a cacophony of whispers and murmurs. I see a mix of emotions ripple across the faces in the front row. Mr. Thompson’s eyebrows shoot up while Mrs. Thompson leans overto whisper something to Christine, whose expression has turned from expectant to horrified.

I spot Albert, his eyes widening with interest as he cranes his neck for a better look. A few rows back, I hear someone stifle a laugh, the sound cutting through me like a knife.

"Is this some kind of joke?" a voice calls out from the back of the room, followed by a few nervous titters.

I try to speak, to explain, but my voice catches in my throat. What would I say anyway? The whispering grows louder, spreading through the room like a raging wildfire. I catch fragments of conversations like "Did she do this on purpose?" and "She looks alright, don’t you think?"

I’m beyond mortified. I stand there frozen, wishing I could just pop out of existence. My mouth opens and closes, but still, nothing comes out.

My colleagues exchange puzzled glances, some looking embarrassed for me, others barely concealing their amusement. I see a few people pull out their phones, no doubt eager to share this mortifying moment on social media.

Christine stands up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Her face is a mask of poorly contained fury as she strides toward me, hissing under her breath, "What the hell is going on, Mindy?"

The Thompsons remain seated, but their expressions have hardened into masks of disapproval. Mrs. Thompson checks her watch pointedly while Mr. Thompson’s mouth is set in a grim line.

As Christine reaches the front of the boardroom, I finally find my voice, though it comes out as a pathetic squeak. "I… I’mso sorry. There’s been a mistake. If I could just have a moment to…"

Yeah, right.

Like there’s anything you can do to fix this, Mindy.

My words are drowned out by the rising tide of voices in the room. The professional atmosphere has completely disintegrated, replaced by a circus-like mayhem that makes my cheeks burn with shame.

This is the end of you, Mindy Williams.

So, I do the one thing that seems most reasonable in this horrific moment. I act on pure instinct. With trembling hands, I yank the flash drive from the laptop, the small device feeling like a ticking bomb in my palm. The room spins around me, the faces blur into a sea of judgment and mockery. My legs move of their own accord, propelling me toward the exit.

I don’t think. I just act, moving as fast as my legs can carry me, stumbling on my heels and nearly falling on the way out. The only thing that keeps me upright is the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My laptop, my notes, my dignity - all left behind in that godforsaken boardroom. None of it matters anymore.

As I burst through the double doors, the cool air of the hallway hits my flushed face. Tears blur my vision as I race down the corridor. I’m done. My career, my reputation, my carefully constructed life; it’s all crumbling around me like a house of cards. I’m gone, fleeing from the wreckage of my own making.

The elevator doors slide open, and I throw myself inside, frantically jabbing the ground floor button. As the doors close, cutting off the jumble of sounds behind me, I sag against thewall, my legs finally giving out. I slide to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, as I let out a strangled sob.

The USB drive that is still clutched in my hand feels like it’s burning my skin. A small, innocuous object that just destroyed my career and the life I’ve worked so hard to build. As the elevator descends, taking me away from the scene of my professional suicide, one single thought repeats in my head.

What in the everloving fuck am I going to do now?

Chapter Sixteen

Mindy

I’m sitting in my car, motionless.

I can’t bring myself to start the engine. I’m not even sure if I should. Maybe I should speak to Christine first. But what do I expect after what just happened? Surely, she’s not going to congratulate me for my performance. Besides, she’s probably busy apologizing to the Thompsons for my nudes. The situation is self-explanatory. She’s going to terminate my work contract. She’s probably done it already.

I just sit here, emptily staring at my car’s dashboard, immobile like a statue. From the corner of my eye, I notice the clock showing seven-fifteen in the evening.

Two thoughts cross my mind: first, my daughter. She must be finished with her story by now and she’s probably on the way home with Tania. Second, I need to speak to someone before I lose my sobriety completely and for good.

Betty.

I must talk to her. I know it’s early morning hours where she is, but she always tells me that she’s always there for me. Especially if it’s an emergency. I think it’s safe to say that this is one of those situations. Besides, if I don’t speak to someone, and fast, I might just drive into traffic and cause an accident.

I try calling her on our usual app, but there’s no answer. I sigh, picturing her enjoying an early morning swim in the ocean or sipping coffee on the beach with some handsome local or digital nomad guy. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in my car in a New York City parking lot, having just torched my career, wondering how on earth I’m going to clean up the mess I’ve made.

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