Page 59 of The CEO's Sweetheart Deal
Outside, the rain has stopped, but the sky remains overcast. I stand on the sidewalk, staring up at the building that houses the company Alice helped build — the company I bought, thinking it was just another smart acquisition. I never imagined it would lead me back to her, or that I would lose her all over again in such a painfully similar way.
Walking to my car with the weight of the world on my shoulders, I slide behind the wheel and sit for a long moment without starting the engine. Everything was perfect just this morning. Alice in my arms, both of us happy, the future stretching bright before us.
Now it’s all gone, slipped through my fingers faster than I could blink. And perhaps it was never really mine to begin with.
CHAPTER 24
ALICE
"Thanks again, Rebecca. I'll send over the signed contract tomorrow. Talk soon." I end the call and place my phone carefully on the coffee table, and it’s only then I notice my hands are shaking.
It's done. I've officially accepted the position as COO of Get Fresh – Rooted Pantry's biggest competitor. Oscar's competitor.
But have I done the right thing? My mind says yes, but my heart and shaking body tell a different story.
The irony doesn't escape me. Only last week, I turned down this same offer because I couldn't abandon Rooted Pantry — couldn't abandon the company I built, the people I'd hired, the vision I'd cultivated over years of hard work and dedication.
Now I'm jumping ship at the first sign of trouble. What does that say about me?
But, no. I know it’s more complicated than that. What Oscar did is only the first dick move of many. If I stay at Rooted Pantry, I’ll be making myself vulnerable to many more devious schemes.
Grabbing the half-empty bottle of Cabernet from the coffee table, I refill my glass. I've been drinking since I got home from turning in my resignation letter, and now that I’ve called Rebecca I don’t know what to do with myself next.
I should feel vindicated, maybe even triumphant. Oscar will know soon enough that I've joined his competition. I'll be actively working against him, using all my insider knowledge of Rooted Pantry to help Get Fresh gain the lead in the industry. It's the perfect revenge.
So why does it still feel like I'm the one who's been betrayed? Like, despite what I’m doing, I still feel like Oscar is the winner in all of this?
I take another large sip of wine and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. The living room feels too quiet, too empty. I've lived here for five years, but I've spent so little waking time in the house that it's never truly felt like home. It’s just a place to sleep between long days at the office.
The office that is no longer mine.
A fresh wave of anger surges through me. How could he do this? How could he look me in the eyes, tell me he cares about me, make me believe in us again, all while knowing what was coming? The layoffs, Sydney, all of it — he must have authorized it before we even left for San Diego. While I was lying in his arms, believing in our future, he was sneaking in the back door and taking what’s mine.
Like the vulture he is.
The worst part is that I knew all of this about him! I knew that he’s like this, and yet once he said the right words I melted at his feet.
I drain my glass and set it down with a slam. Sitting here wallowing isn't helping. I need to do something, anything, to stop thinking about Oscar and his betrayal.
My gaze lands on the closet in the hallway — specifically, on the top shelf where I keep the box with pictures from days past. Before I can second-guess myself, I'm up and crossing the room, pulling a chair over to reach the high shelf.
Grabbing the box, I take it over to the coffee table and pop off the lid. It was only the other week I opened it to look at old pictures of me and Oscar, but that already feels like another lifetime. So much has happened since then that I wish I could erase.
Pulling out a stack of college photos, I steel myself. The emotions come hard and fast, though, anger and grief hitting in alternating waves.
We look so young, so hopeful. So unaware of how quickly it would all fall apart.
I flip through the photos one by one, each a snapshot of moments I'd convinced myself didn't matter anymore. But they did matter. They still do. That's the problem.
Struck by a sudden idea, I stuff the photos in my back pocket and stand. This isn't helping. I need to cauterize this wound once and for all.
In the kitchen, I rummage through cabinets until I find what I'm looking for — a small ceramic pot I once used for a fondue phase that lasted approximately one dinner party. I place it on the stovetop then tear a photo in half — Oscar and me at some picnic or something — and drop the pieces into the pot. It doesn't feel as satisfying as I'd hoped. I tear another, and another, creating a small pile of paper fragments.
I grab the matches I keep for tapered candles, strike one, and drop it into the pot, watching the flame flare to life. This is it. The symbolic end of Oscar and me. I'll burn away these memories like he burned me — not once, but twice.
The paper catches and begins to curl in the heat. The smoke rises, acrid and thin.
It feels childish, this little ceremony. But I need the closure, need the finality of watching these memories turn to ash.
