Oops, He's My Boss

“I want a divorce.” I stopped dead in my tracks, my bag still swinging off my shoulder like some kind of heavy thought I didn’t want to carry. Adam was sitting at the dining table like he had rehearsed this in front of a mirror a thousand times—hands folded, paper in front of him, staring at me like he’d just declared world peace or something. “I… I got a new job,” he said, stumbling over his words, like a middle school kid trying to act like he’s winning at life. “And I just want something… new for myself. I feel like you’re holding me back. You’re boring. I’m not… feeling this anymore.” I froze. Blinked. Blinked again. Did I hear him right? Me? Boring? Holding him back? I had to lean against the wall to keep from laughing my head off. Then I let it out. Full-on, belly-aching laughter. The kind of laughter that rattles the glasses on the shelf and makes people question their own existence. “What… what’s wrong with you? Are you… mad?” he asked, his voice shaking, eyes wide with actual fear. “Mad?” I echoed, letting my bag drop to the floor with a thud that perfectly punctuated the moment. “Do you think I’m gonna cry? Roll on the floor begging you to stay? Do you think I’ll clutch my pearls and gasp like a Victorian widow? No, Adam… this is the best thing that’s happened to me in these seven years of marriage. The absolute best.” I let the words hang, then leaned a little closer. “Oh, you want me to spell it out? Fine. Let’s do this. You’re lazy. Like, Olympic-level lazy. No ambition. No future plans. You game all day like a sad little toddler who doesn’t know how to eat with a fork. Your brain? Nonexistent. You need babysitting at every turn. And your family? Treat me like trash. Like I’m some cheap detergent they accidentally bought instead of the fancy one.” He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him. “Shut up! I'm not done talking.” I leaned back, voice dropping, eyes narrowing. “And last… the pièce de résistance… YOU CHEATED. Consistently. Oh, did you think I didn’t notice Amanda? Your ‘work colleague’ who kisses you in the corridor? Cynthia? Another one? You even had the audacity to bring them HOME. Our home, Adam. Did you think I was blind? Deaf? Or just too polite to point out that your moral compass is broken?” He went pale. Eyes darting. Hands twitching. The little defense he had crumbled faster than a cheap cookie. “Don’t even bother. There’s nothing you can say that’s gonna fix this,” I said, picking up the pen with deliberate slowness. Signing it, savoring the moment. Thud. “Sign it through. Whatever this seven-year mess was… it’s officially over. I’ll be back to pick up my stuff.” I turned, walking out like a queen exiting a court she just burned to the ground. Every step echoing with seven years of wasted patience, silent anger, and relief I didn’t even know I needed. As I left, the laughter faded, replaced by the hollow ache of realizing seven years of my life were gone, wasted on a man who thought he could play life like a video game while I played it with my heart on the line. I wandered through the streets, letting the cool evening slap my cheeks, trying to shake the mixture of relief and bitterness swirling inside me. Seven years. Seven freaking years of bending, waiting, hoping, tolerating… for what? For Adam to “change”? For him to suddenly grow a conscience? My friend had begged me a thousand times to leave him years ago. “You’re wasting your life, Ange,” she said. But did I listen? No. I clung to hope like a fool, thinking maybe today, maybe tomorrow, he’d be someone worthy. Someone who didn’t treat me like an accessory he could toss aside. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. The same anger that made me laugh when he dropped that divorce paper was still simmering, twisting in my gut. I passed a bar, the neon lights buzzing like they knew my mood. I walked past it, thinking I should just go home. But something inside me snapped. Why should I be good all the time? Why should I always care about being polite? I stopped. Turned and walked back. Hell with being nice. I pushed the door open and let the warm hum of chatter and music wash over me. The bartender gave me a glance, probably assuming I was one of those sad souls drinking away their failures. Cute. I was not sad. Not tonight. I ordered a whiskey neat and slammed it down like it owed me money. The burn hit my throat and I smiled, letting it loosen the weight in my shoulders. One drink turned into two, then three, each sip feeding the fire I’d been carrying for years. Tipsy, powerful, untouchable—I stood up, swaying slightly, ready to leave… when I noticed him. Tall. Ridiculously handsome. I don’t care now if he was a Greek god or a model—my mood did not care. And he had the audacity to stroll over, all casual charm, like he had any idea who he was about to annoy. “Hey… mind if I join you? Or maybe… can I buy you a drink?” he said, that stupid charming grin plastered across his face. I froze, then slowly turned, eyes narrowing. “What? You want to… get killed?” I hissed, voice low, dangerous, carrying the sharp edge of every year I’d wasted pretending to be polite. He laughed nervously. “No, no… I just thought—” I slapped him. Hard. Right across his cheek. The sound of skin meeting skin was glorious. His head jerked to the side. He stuttered, “W-what the hell—?” I didn’t wait for him to recover. My leg shot out, connecting perfectly with his groin. He bent over, clutching himself, the air whooshing out of him in a painful gasp. I stepped back, savoring the chaos. Then, the grand finale. I backhanded him across the face again, hard enough to make him stagger. “And that, darling,” I hissed, voice dripping venom and amusement, “is what happens when you interrupt a woman who’s just freed herself from seven years of bullshit.” I didn’t wait for him to protest further. I straightened my dress, picked up my bag, and sauntered out of that bar like a storm leaving ruin in its wake. I stumbled up the street, still clutching my bag and the last bit of alcohol from the bar. My house loomed ahead, familiar yet suddenly foreign. And then I saw it. The door. Slightly ajar —barely enough to slip through. I froze, heart hammering. My eyes landed on a glint of red shoes peeking from the corner. Uh-huh. This f*****g motherfucker. Two hours. Two hours after our divorce. And he’d already dragged some woman into our house. The audacity was so thick I almost tasted it. Almost. I didn’t yell. I didn’t storm. I went upstairs quietly, as if I were letting them stew in their own stupidity. After seven years, it wasn’t about making a scene anymore—it was about precision. My room—my sanctuary for the last seven years, though he never stepped foot in it—was just as I’d left it. I threw my bag on the bed and began packing. Clothes, essentials, memories of wasted patience… all into my box. I grabbed my perfume. A sly grin tugged at my lips. I sprayed it on the fire alarm outside Adam’s room. Click. The alarm screamed. Chaos erupted. I leaned against the doorframe and watched. The girl shrieked, tripped over the duvet, scrambled like a newborn deer, while Adam stumbled in the middle of the room, flailing, utterly useless. I let them flounder for a beat. Then I spoke. Calm. Sharp. Controlled. “Oh, isn’t this cute,” I said, my eyes narrowing on the mistress. “You thought you were stepping into a home that welcomed you? Sweetheart, the only thing you’re walking into is a lifetime lesson in stupidity. Enjoy the fantasy while it lasts. Trust me, it won’t last.” She opened her mouth. I cut her off, tapping my wine glass against the doorframe. A drop fell onto the floor. “And don’t even think about thanking me. Consider this free education in delusion. You? Cheap, naive, replaceable. And him? He’s exactly who I thought he was: pathetic.” I turned to Adam. His face was pale, frozen, eyes darting like a child caught stealing. I let a slow, deliberate smirk creep onto my face. “Look at you,” I said, letting the words land like punches. “Lazy, cheating, spineless, and disgusting. And somehow you still had the audacity to think you’d keep me fooled. Pathetic. Truly. I should clap for your consistency in failure.” I grabbed the wine glass, poured a little champagne on the floor by his foot. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t wait for him to say a word. I just slung my bag over my shoulder. “Sign it through,” I said, letting my voice drip with finality. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you continue your little sad life in peace… without me.” And I walked out. Outside, I called my friend. “Hey… can I crash at yours? Urgent.” “Of course. Come over,” she said, no questions asked. I hung up, and for the first time in hours, I let myself breathe. Freedom smelled like perfume, fire alarms, and whiskey. A few weeks later, I had finally carved out my little corner of the world—a modest apartment, bills and all, but mine. I had spent the past month sending resumes, polishing my CV, hoping someone would see what I was worth. And today… today someone finally did. Invitation to interview: Senior Personal Assistant – Varon Group. I read it three times before it sank in. Me. Interviewing for a position like this. My heart thudded in my chest, a mix of excitement and nerves. I spent the week preparing: outfit ready, notes memorized, my confidence rehearsed like a mantra. Friday morning, I stepped out of my apartment into the crisp air, taxi waiting. The building was massive—glass, steel, an entire city block reflected in its sleek façade. My stomach twisted. Okay, breathe, Angelina, breathe. You can do this. Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive coffee. I approached the receptionist, trying not to shake. “I’m here for the Senior Personal Assistant interview,” I said. She checked her screen, smiled, and gestured to the elevators. “Floor twelve. Someone will meet you there.” The elevator ride was quiet. When I stepped out, I noticed two other candidates, both looking nervous, fidgeting with their phones and ties. Perfect. I wasn’t alone. A man appeared to lead us down a pristine hallway. He opened a glass-walled room, and we all filed in. I took a seat in the circle of chairs, trying to steady my pulse. Then the hiring manager entered. Sharp suit, meticulous, mid-forties, eyes like a hawk scanning each of us. “Good morning,” he said. “Since this position is for the CEO’s personal assistant, he will be present for the interview. He wants to meet all candidates personally.” My stomach sank. I nodded, trying to act calm. And then the door opened. He walked in. Tall. Impeccable. Handsome. That alone would have been enough to make me freeze. But then… recognition slammed into me like a freight train. It was him. The guy from the bar. The same smug, ridiculous stranger I had slapped, kicked, and backhanded just a few weeks ago. My chest tightened. My palms went slick with sweat. He scanned the room, then… his eyes locked on mine. And he smiled. Not a polite, neutral smile. A knowing, “I remember you too” smile. I froze, heat rushing to my face. My carefully rehearsed calm evaporated. s**t. s**t. s**t. I’m doomed.