THEA
There should be a rule about facing your boss after maybe sleeping with him while maybe being drunk and definitely being an emotional catastrophe.
Like a grace period. A trauma leave. An “I begged you to touch me and now I have to look you in the eye” buffer.
But no.
Here I am.
Click-clacking down the corridor of polished shame with a venti coffee and phone in one hand, a resignation letter in the other, and my dignity somewhere on Ezra’s floor, probably folded neatly next to my missing underwear.
I should’ve called in sick. Or dead. Or flown to Peru and started a new life as a potato farmer. Anything but this.
But nooo, I’m mature. I’m composed. I’m That Girl—the one who can handle anything, even the horrifying possibility that she threw herself at her boss and liked it.
This
