Page 18 of Letting Go

Chapter 8

LENI– This Morning

I’m behind the wheel, driving away from the house, hands clenched so tight on the steering wheel that my knuckles are screaming. To anyone watching, it looks like I’m headed to a yoga retreat, the one Michael got me as a “peace offering” months ago. A subtle way of telling me to get my shit together without saying the words.

But I’m not going to a retreat. I’m going to war.

First stop: the headquarters of Marx Corporation. I’m going to walk in, look the CEO in the eye, and sign my goddamn exit papers. With grace. With finality. Then I’m filing an official complaint against Leonard. For every belittling comment, every backhanded compliment, every meeting where he gave Chris thecredit for my work and called it “team effort.” For pushing me down, again and again. I’m done letting people shove me into corners and calling it opportunity.

Last night changed everything.

It started in that bar, the one I used to work at when I was clawing my way through law school. I sat at the counter, drowning in memories and regret, and that’s where I met Hans.

Older. Wiser. Tired-looking. He saw right through me. Offered me something no one had in a long time: a plan.

FLASHBACK - CHUCKY’S, LAST NIGHT

"Go home," Hans said, sliding me another water I didn’t ask for. "Pack a bag and leave. Tell your husband you’re going to a spa, or a solo trip- somewhere he’ll believe. But don’t go there. Stay out of sight for the day. Book a hotel, park somewhere off-grid. Just be gone."

I sipped, staring into my glass. "I’ll just go to my best friend’s."

"Is this best friend a woman?"

"Yeah..."

He shook his head. "Don’t. Don’t tell anyone. Not your friends. Not your parents. Not your therapist."

I raised an eyebrow. "You don’t want me to talk to my therapist?"

He looked at me dead in the eyes. "Trust me."

And maybe I shouldn’t. But in this moment, I do.

"Fine," I said, more to the universe than to him.

"Do you have any way to track him?" he asked casually, like we were discussing fantasy football and not my marriage imploding.

"I have an Air Tag," I said, and he blinked.

"Seriously?"

I rolled my eyes. "I travel a lot. I put one in my luggage. My clothes are expensive, okay?"

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, rich girl. Then use it. Hide it in his car. Track him to know whether he leaves the house or not. When he gets home in the evening, wait an hour. Then go back."

"And if he’s alone?" I asked.

"Tell him you weren’t feeling well. Needed to be home."

"And if he’s not alone?"

Hans shrugged. "Then you’ll know for sure."

So here I am, morning light spilling through my windshield like a truth I’m not ready to face. The Air Tag is already in the back pocket of the passenger seat in Michael’s car, dropped it in last night when I came home.

The underground parking lot of Marx Corp HQ is exactly what I expected: sterile, dimly lit, and smelling faintly of oil and ambition. I park like I’ve done this before, like I belong here, even though I’ve never stepped foot in this building until today.

Five years. Five years of busting my ass, jumping through hoops, walking the tightrope between too ambitious and not ambitious enough. All for it to come to this. Not because of performance. Not because of cuts. But because Leonard couldn’t handle a smart woman not laughing at his lazy jokes.

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