Page 40 of Letting Go

“Well,” he says, like he’s smiling. I canhearit. “Blunt is exactly what I need. My father stepped downbecause he knew it was time for a change, to clean house; modernize, make the company less of a boys’ club. Which means I need someone smart, tough, and unafraid to piss people off.”

I blink. That’s… oddly flattering. And uncomfortably accurate.

“So basically, you need a feminist with a legal degree and no time for bullshit.”

“Exactly,” he says. “So, tell me- what would it take to make you reconsider?”

Oh god.Do not say wine and a foot rub. Do not say wine and a foot rub.

Chapter 15

I wake up with a start, tangled in the guest room sheets. My hair is channelling feral raccoon, and my breath? Yeah. Lethal. Wilt-your-grandma’s-fern lethal. Normally, this is when my brain hits play on the morning highlight reel of my personal hell; sister, betrayal, bed, yada yada; as if it’s some kind of sick trauma ASMR.

But not today. Today, my subconscious has gifted me something even more cringe: the sound of my own voice word-vomiting my entire trainwreck of a life to a man who is not only stupid hot, but also my would-be boss.

Caden Marx.

God help me.

Other women dream about hot CEOs saying tell me what you want. I apparently use that moment to emotionally strip down as if I’m on a live therapy podcast.

I groan, roll over, and bury my face in the pillow. It still smells faintly of lavender linen spray.

He had asked a simple question, “So tell me, what would it take to make you reconsider?”

And I, in all my freshly devastated, wine-loose glory, said something so mortifying I wish the universe had just struck me down with a lightning bolt right then and there. I mean, what did it take? I could’ve said a raise. Or a signing bonus. Or free parking.

But no.

No.

I said, and I quote:

“I came home yesterday and found my husband screwing my nineteen-year-old sister on our bed- the same sister who’s always been the golden child, by the way. And now I can’t take the job you’re offering because if I do, I’ll be making more money than my soon-to-be-ex, and that means I might owe him alimony, which is so disgusting it makes me physically itchy. Also, if he finds out I got this job, his ego is small enough to drag out the divorce just to punish me. So, I just need to be free. That’s all.”

I let the words hang there, expecting… I don’t know. Pity, maybe. Or polite corporate silence. Or a weird HR follow-up about emotional boundaries in workplace communication.

What I don’t expect is what he actually says.

“Idiot.”

Just that. Crisp, no hesitation. A simple fact.

Then:

“If I had a woman like you, I’d never give you a reason to leave.”

And there it was. The line. The one that hit me with the force of a slap and a kiss at the same time.

Better because- hello?

Worse because, seriously? Now? This was supposed to be my villain origin story, not the setup for a romantic subplot. I’m still legally married. I still have mascara crusted in my eyelashes and trauma clinging to my hair.

And yet.

My stomach flipped. My heart did something stupid and fluttery.

He had said it so easily too. As if I’m already worth fighting for. As if I’m not just the woman who got blindsided by her husband and her sister.

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