Choosing The Assistant Over The Ruthless CEO

Dessie POV

I decided to erase him from my life long before the sun went down.

The cardboard boxes were piled high in the living room, looming like tombstones in a graveyard of my own making. I was burying five years of my life in brown tape and bubble wrap.

I picked up a vase. We had bought it in Italy on our honeymoon. I remembered the sunlight on the cobblestones. I remembered how he had kissed me by the fountain.

I threw it into the trash bag. The sound of shattering glass was satisfying. It sounded like a bone breaking.

Marching into the bedroom, I pulled his clothes off the hangers. The smell of his cologne lingered on the fabric. It used to make me feel safe. Now, it made my stomach turn.

I shoved his suits into a donation pile. I took the framed photos from the nightstand. I didn't bother to look at our smiling faces. I just dumped them into the bin.

The door code beeped.

Craig walked in. He stopped dead when he saw the chaos.

"What are you doing?" he asked. He sounded annoyed, like I was a maid who had missed a spot while cleaning.

"Leaving," I said. I didn't look at him. I kept folding my sweaters.

"Don't be dramatic, Dessie," he said. He walked over and tried to touch my shoulder.

I flinched. My body reacted before my brain could catch up. I stepped back, creating a wall of air between us.

"Don't touch me," I said.

"Look, I know you're upset about the papers," Craig said. He put on his reasonable face. It was a mask I had seen him wear with difficult clients. "Legal made a mistake. They drafted the wrong file. I didn't know."

"You signed it," I said. "Yesterday."

"I sign a hundred things a day," he lied. He didn't even blink. "I'm fixing it. But you moving out? That looks bad for me. The board likes stability."

"I don't care about the board," I said.

He sighed, the sound heavy with exaggerated patience. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.

"This is for you," he said. "Consider it a bonus. For being so supportive."

I took the envelope. Inside was a check. The amount was significant. It was enough to buy a small house.

It was hush money.

"Is this what I'm worth?" I asked. "Five years. My career. My dignity. All for this?"

"It's more than you'd get in court," Craig said. His voice dropped the reasonable tone. It became cold. "Take it. Don't be stupid."

"Get out," I whispered.

"This is my apartment," he said. "According to the document you signed."

"I'm leaving," I said. "Just let me finish packing."

"Hurry up," he said. "Chanel is coming over later to measure for new curtains."

He turned and walked out. He didn't look back. He checked his watch as he left, like I was a meeting that had run over time.

I sank onto the edge of the bed. The room spun.

A wave of nausea hit me. It started in my gut and clawed its way up my throat. I ran to the bathroom.

I retched into the toilet bowl until there was nothing left. My hands shook as I gripped the cold porcelain.

This wasn't just stress. I knew my body.

I walked to the pharmacy down the street. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. I bought the box with the pink stripe.

Back in the empty apartment, I sat on the bathroom floor. I waited for three minutes. It felt like three years.

I looked at the stick.

Two red lines.

Pregnant.

I laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound.

I was carrying the child of a man who had just bought me off with a check and invited his mistress to measure the curtains.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I had forgotten to block him.

It was a text from Craig. Left my phone on the couch. Don't snoop.

I walked to the living room. His other phone was wedged between the cushions. The screen lit up.

It was a message from Chanel.

Can't wait for tonight, baby. Finally getting rid of the dead weight. Love you.

I felt the bile rise again.

Dead weight. That's what I was.

And inside me, a new life was forming. A life that tied me to him forever.

I looked at the pregnancy test in my hand. The two lines stared back at me. They weren't a blessing. They were a sentence.

I couldn't do this. I couldn't bring a child into a war zone. I couldn't let Craig use a baby to control me the way he used everything else.

I dropped the test into the trash can. I covered it with a wad of toilet paper.

I grabbed my suitcase. I left the check on the counter. I tore it in half, right through his signature.

I walked out the door and left the key under the mat. The hallway was empty. The elevator dinged.

I stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. I was going down, but for the first time in days, I felt like I could finally breathe.