Chantelle
It had been two weeks since I last had to interact with him directly, and there had been no further conflicts with other women. It had been a peaceful two weeks with him barely showing up at the office.
I started doing most of my reports from the lunchroom; nobody questioned me since the Wi-Fi was better there anyway.
Every time I had to go into his office, I noticed something new. A lipstick-stained glass. A half-empty bottle of whisky.
And lately, condom wrappers—not hidden, just tossed carelessly near the trash can. Like he wanted everyone to know.
Of course he did!
I tried not to think about it. Tried not to picture what he did after hours. But it was hard not to after all I had seen.
I didn’t care. At least, that’s what I told myself.
So, when I found a quiet corner
