Episode Eleven
1263 Words
Chapter 11
The Resignation Letter
The next morning, I arrived at Yale Group earlier than usual.
The city outside was still pale, caught between night and morning. The glass walls of the lobby reflected a woman in a cream blouse and dark skirt, her hair pinned neatly behind her ears, her expression calm enough to fool anyone who was not looking closely.
I signed in.
I took the lift.
I walked through the president’s office floor with the same steady steps I had used for years.
Nothing looked different.
My desk was still in its place. Charles’s office door was still closed. Dakota’s desk was still too new, with the West City folders arranged carefully in a neat pile.
Only my bag felt different.
Inside it was a plain white envelope.
One sheet of paper.
One signature.
One ending.
At nine, Dakota arrived with coffee.
Instant coffee again.
She carried it carefully, her fingers wrapped around the paper cup as if it contained something precious.
“Morning, Mia,” she said softly.
“Morning.”
She hesitated. “Are you all right?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
She looked as though she did not believe me, but she did not ask again. Instead, she knocked on Charles’s office door and went inside.
Through the glass, I saw Charles look up.
I saw Dakota place the coffee on his desk.
I saw him take it.
And then, as he had every morning since she arrived, he drank it.
No frown.
No pause.
No displeasure.
Not even a small tightening of his brow.
A strange calm spread through me.
Yesterday, that sight had hurt.
Today, it only confirmed what I already knew.
I waited until Dakota came out. Then I took the envelope from my bag and walked to Charles’s office.
I knocked twice.
“Come in.”
Charles sat behind his desk, reviewing the West City board presentation. The paper cup stood near his right hand, already half-empty.
He did not look up immediately.
“Put the revised guest list on the table.”
I stood still.
“Mr Charles.”
Something in my tone made him pause.
He raised his eyes.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I stepped forward and placed the envelope on his desk.
Charles looked at it.
“What is this?”
“My resignation letter.”
The room became very quiet.
Outside the glass wall, people continued working. Phones rang softly. Keyboards clicked. Somewhere, Shane laughed under his breath at something someone said.
Inside Charles’s office, the air seemed to stop moving.
Charles did not touch the envelope.
His brows drew together slowly.
“Why?”
I had imagined this moment many times the night before.
I had imagined anger.
Disbelief.
Indifference.
I had not imagined that single word could still make something ache.
Why?
As if he truly did not know.
As if the answer had not been sitting between us for weeks in the shape of a paper coffee cup, a changed schedule, a project folder with my name stripped from it.
I smiled softly.
“I’m at that age,” I said. “Maybe it’s time for me to focus on something other than my career. Finding someone suitable, getting married. Things like that.”
A beat of silence passed.
Charles stared at me.
Then his lips moved into something that almost resembled a smile.
“That’s good.”
The words were calm.
Too calm.
But he still did not touch the resignation letter.
Instead, his hand closed around the edge of the envelope. The paper bent slightly under his grip.
His pen lay beside him, but he made no move to sign anything.
He looked down, his expression unreadable from across the desk.
When he finally spoke, his voice had lowered.
“Have you found a new job already?”
“No.”
“Phillip Corp?” His eyes sharpened. “Or that man who tried to recruit you last month?”
“No.”
“If it’s about salary, I can adjust it.”
“It isn’t.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then what is it?”
“I told you.”
“You expect me to believe you’re leaving to get married?”
I looked at him calmly.
“Is that impossible?”
Charles leaned back in his chair.
His gaze moved over my face, cold and searching, as if I were a document with a hidden clause he had not yet found.
“That’s not like you.”
I almost laughed.
Not like me.
After so many years, Charles still believed he knew what was like me.
Work was like me.
Silence was like me.
Efficiency was like me.
Staying was like me.
Wanting anything else apparently was not.
“What kind of man do you like?” he asked suddenly.
I met his gaze.
“That’s none of your business.”
A short, humourless laugh escaped him.
His expression changed then. The composure cracked, just enough for something sharper to show beneath it.
“None of my business?”
“Yes.”
“Mia.”
He said my name as if warning me.
I held his gaze.
From the beginning, Charles had made the rules clear.
Whatever we were, it belonged in the shadows.
No one could know.
It would cause unnecessary gossip and trouble.
So I had followed his rules. I had taught myself to be silent, invisible, and useful.
Now he looked offended that silence had finally learned to leave.
Charles’s fingers tightened around the envelope.
“You’re angry.”
It was not a question.
It was a conclusion.
“I’m resigning.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I need to give.”
His expression darkened.
“Mia, don’t be childish.”
The word landed softly.
Still, it landed.
Childish.
I had swallowed years of namelessness and called it understanding. I had watched him carry another woman in his arms and called it professionalism. I had handed over the first project that had ever felt like mine and called it company property.
And now, because I wanted to leave, I was childish.
I looked at the half-empty cup of instant coffee beside his hand.
Then I smiled.
“Perhaps I am.”
Charles followed my gaze.
For a second, something flickered across his face.
Embarrassment.
Irritation.
Or perhaps only impatience.
He picked up the coffee and took another sip, as if to prove that I had no right to care.
I watched him drink it.
Calmly.
Easily.
The last fragile thread inside me snapped without sound.
Charles set the cup down.
“I don’t approve.”
I looked back at him.
“What?”
“I don’t approve your resignation.”
He pushed the envelope away, as if returning an unwanted gift.
“And I don’t think what you said qualifies as a reason to resign.”
I was not surprised.
He had once told me himself.
I was the most efficient person he had ever worked with.
Replacing me would take time, effort, and energy.
Of course he would not let me go easily.
Still, even though I had prepared myself for it, even though I had promised myself not to expect anything, it hurt.
I had thought that after all these years, Charles might care for me a little.
But the truth was simpler.
He did not want to lose a useful person.
That was all.
I lowered my eyes to the envelope on his desk.
Then I asked quietly, “Charles, where is your scarf?”
- Writer
