Fruit of Ruin

Since I was handing this project over to my new employer, I couldn't afford even the smallest mistake.

I practically lived at the office. The lights in my workspace stayed on all night.

Everyone at work noticed. In the group chat that didn't include me, they whispered among themselves.

[I told you. Ms. Mendez only makes 5,000 a month and depends on Mr. Holt for everything. What right does she have to throw a tantrum?]

[If she weren't relying on her relationship with Mr. Holt, the company wouldn't even need her. It's only doing well because of him.]

[I heard she dragged Mr. Holt down when he first started his company. Otherwise, we would've gone public a long time ago.]

Without exception, Larissa screenshotted every one of those messages and sent them to me privately, then recorded a voice message, pretending to comfort me.

"Hey, Myra, being married to someone as capable and powerful as Alan must make you feel insecure. I completely understand. But I should tell you, men don't like older women who only know how to work. They prefer girls like me who are young, pretty, and feminine."

Listening to her fake, overly sweet voice, I actually laughed.

"Great. I'll have HR fire you tomorrow, so you won't have any trouble attracting men."

Then, I blocked her without another thought.

Ten minutes later, Alan called, full of righteous fury.

He barked through the phone, "What did Larissa ever do to you? I worked so damn hard to bring her to Presia and convince her to forgive your behavior at the celebration dinner. Now you've made her cry again. Do you have to make trouble every single day?"

He asked her to forgive me?

I found it ridiculous. As I printed out the finalized divorce papers, I casually asked, "When are you and Larissa coming back? We need to talk about the divorce."

There was a sharp pause on the other end; then, Alan's angry breathing crackled through the phone.

"Are you done yet? You've got to stop with the sulking and jealousy at some point. If you keep this up, I'm seriously going to get angry."

I froze for a second, then couldn't help laughing out loud.

I already had the divorce papers printed in black and white. Why would I care if he got angry?

"I'll leave the signed divorce papers on your desk. Check them when you're back."

There was a loud crash. Alan must have kicked a chair.

He growled through the phone, "Fine. Don't regret it."

Then, he hung up.

I shrugged and signed the papers.

When I woke up the next morning and checked my phone, Alan's messages were the first thing I saw. He seemed to have stayed up all night.

At 4 a.m., he even posted a public social update. He and Larissa were standing in front of their hotel's floor-to-ceiling window, fingers intertwined.

The caption read, [Seven years through thick and thin. Thank God for you.]

Below it were tens of thousands of comments.

[You're finally making it official! Is this the woman you've been hiding for seven years?]

Alan didn't reply, but he pinned a "shh" emoji to the top.

He even made an announcement in the company's main group chat.

[Effective immediately, Myra Mendez's position will be replaced by Larissa Fennimore. The Westarken contract will be transferred to Ms. Fennimore. Tonight's press conference will also be handled by Ms. Fennimore instead of Ms. Mendez.]

He knew I had worked overseas for 39 days straight to secure that contract.

He knew I spent my days organizing documents and my nights drinking with clients until I felt sick, all to lock down that partnership.