Reckless Nights With My Husband's Boss.

Starting From Nothing.

That night, I booked a modest hotel room and paid eighty dollars.

It was the first time in my life I was completely alone.

The room was small and quiet. Just the low hum of the air conditioner and the weight of my thoughts. I lay awake for hours, turning from side to side, staring at the ceiling as fear and hope wrestled inside me.

I’d walked away with nothing but a handbag and stubborn pride.

By morning, two things were clear in my mind—sharp, steady, unavoidable.

I needed a job.

I needed clothes.

Then I’d worry about an apartment.

One step at a time.

I took a cab to Smitheen Holdings, the company my father used to work for.

The building looked exactly the same—tall, glassy, intimidating. But standing there now, it felt smaller. Like time had drained the life out of it. The moment I stepped out of the car, my chest tightened. A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it.

The last time I’d been here was days before I lost him.

I’d just gotten admission into the university to study law. I remembered rushing in, practically floating, desperate to tell him. I could still see his smile, the way pride softened his face when he listened to me talk.

I wiped my face quickly and walked to the gate.

“Good morning, sir,” I greeted the man seated there.

“Good morning, young lady. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a job.”

He looked me over, slow and careful. “What kind of job?”

“Anything,” I said. And I meant it.

He shook his head. “There’s no vacancy right now. The boss is out of town—he’ll be back in a week. You can check back then.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, already turning away.

“Wait,” he called. “Do you know a Mr. Christopher?”

I froze.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “He’s my father.”

His face changed instantly. “Camille? Are you Camille?”

I hesitated and carefully replied “Yes”.

You’re… you’re all grown up.” he said almost tearing up.

He stood. “I’m Francis Weiz. Your father’s mentee—though he always called me his friend.”

I stared at him, disbelief giving way to something warm and fragile.

“I tried reaching you years ago,” he said. “But I was told you got married. The numbers I found weren’t connecting.”

“I lost my line,” I replied.

He studied my face, his voice gentler now.

“How’s life been? Your husband?”

“I’m divorced,” I said, steady but tired. “I’m fine, sir. I just need a job. I need to pick up what’s left of me.”

He nodded. “Can you clean?”

“Yes. I can.”

“I’ll speak to the cleaning department.

You’ll start as a volunteer—but you will be receiving stipends, until they absorb you officially, probably by next month.”

My breath caught.

“Your father helped me when I had nothing,” he added softly. “There wasn’t even a vacancy. He paid me from his own salary and taught me everything.”

Tears blurred my vision. “Thank you.”

“You’ll resume tomorrow. Fill this form—address included. We prioritize proximity.”

“I’m staying at a hotel for now,” I said. “I’m looking for somewhere to rent.”

He waved the idea away. “You’ll stay with us.”

I shook my head. “Sir—”

“Shh. You won’t inconvenience us. My daughter will be thrilled. I'll call her to come help you get your stuffs from the hotel to the house.”

“These are all my belongings,” I said, lifting my handbag.

He stared at it, stunned. Then he reached for his phone. “Ok. I’ll call her.”

Minutes later, a girl burst into the compound like a ray of sunlight.

“Daddy!”

She couldn’t have been more than sixteen—bright-eyed, carefree. She reminded me painfully of myself at that age, always waiting for my father after school.

“Olivia,” Mr. Francis said, “this is Camille. Remember I promised you a sister, well here she is.

Her face lit up. “You kept your promise! You're the best dad”

“She's my friend’s daughter. She’ll be staying with us. ”

She turned to me, grinning. “Good morning, Big Sis!”

“The pleasure is mine,” I said, still processing everything.

“We’re going to have so much fun,” she announced, grabbing my arm.

Her father slipped her some money and whispered something into her ear.

She laughed. “Come on let's go!”

Instead of taking me home, she entered a small clothes shop down the street.

The shop was wedged between two buildings, barely wide enough to breathe.

Clothes spilled from metal hangers onto plastic tables and wooden crates. Everywhere smelled of detergent and antiseptic. Some pieces were faded while others looked surprisingly decent, like they’d been worn gently and loved once.

“This place is gold,” Olivia said proudly.

“You just have to dig to get the best.”

She turned to me. “So—what’s your spec?”

“My… spec?”

“Your style.”

“Oh no,” I said quickly. “I’ll pay for mine.”

She scoffed. “Why? Dad already gave me money.”

She began pulling out skimpy dresses with reckless enthusiasm.

“No—wait,” I said. “I’m here to work.”

I chose three modest dresses.

“These look like old-woman clothes,” she frowned.

I smiled. “Then I’ll take one of yours.”

Her face lit up. “Deal! Shoes next!”

“This looks hot” she said holding up a black stiletto heel.

“Olivia, I won’t have time for fun,” I said gently. “I’m here for work.”

I picked two simple flat work shoes.

Her shoulders drooped.

Later, I bought ice cream for us.

“I promise,” I said, “I’ll make time for fun too.”

She talked nonstop until her parents returned.

A New Home

Mrs. Fiona Weiz welcomed me like she’d been waiting years.

“We searched for you,” she said. “After hearing you got married.”

“And law school?” she added. “I remember.”

“I couldn’t pursue it,” I admitted. “But I will someday.”

“Oh, poor child,” she whispered, hugging me.

“We’ll support you” Mr. Francis said.

“This is your home now,” Mrs. Fiona added. “We’re family now.”

That night, I slept peacefully beside Olivia—for the first time in years. I had peace.

By 5:30 a.m., I was at work.

Mr. Francis introduced me to the chief cleaner, Mrs. Janet—a stern woman with sharp eyes.

“You know we don’t do this,” she said.

He whispered to her.

She sighed. “Follow me.”

She handed me a uniform and gestured toward a long hallway. “Clean this. We’ll assess you.”

I worked quietly.

As I turned back toward the storeroom, a voice stopped me cold.

“Camille.”

My blood froze.

That familiar voice.

The one I thought I’d escaped.

I turned slowly.

And froze.

No.

This wasn’t happening.