CHAPTER 8
1164 Words
mia
For the past couple of days, I’ve forced myself to stay busy. By day, I wander the city, handing out my CV to anyone who will take it, uploading it online, and filling out applications on cold park benches. Autumn has crept in, nipping at my fingers and toes, but I stay because the truth is simple:
I don’t want to go home.
The only time I return is late at night, slipping in like a ghost. Damon barely notices. Or maybe he notices—just not me. Lately, he’s been taking Anna out. At least, that’s what I assume. Every evening when I get home, the two of them are nowhere to be found, so I picture her tugging on his hand, asking to go somewhere, and him agreeing like it’s the easiest decision in the world.
All while forgetting I exist.
It’s as if we were never married. As if whatever we built together was nothing more than a passing arrangement that expired the moment she stepped into our lives. We had problems—sure—but I never imagined things would dissolve into this cold silence.
Even the house I poured my heart into has begun to erase me. Our photos have vanished from the walls, including the wedding picture that used to hang by the staircase. The Christmas decorations I put up before everything fell apart have been moved or thrown away. The silver tinsel I draped above the fireplace has been replaced with stockings—one labeled Anna, the next Damon.
My name is nowhere.
The worst was the tree. My beautiful white tree, decorated with pinecones and red berries—the one I spent hours perfecting—was sticking out of the trash can two nights ago. A new pink tree stood proudly in its place.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. But it still hurt.
Maybe that’s why finding a job feels so urgent—not just for my mother, but for me. I need out. I need my own place. But every application I send out seems to disappear into the void.
Until last night.
Ten o’clock. I was lying on the guest room bed—my new room—with a bag of chips on my chest, ice cream beside me, and a movie playing half-forgotten. When my phone lit up with an unknown number, my heart nearly leapt out of my ribcage.
I answered instantly.
“Miss Willow?”
I decided to use my maiden name for my applications. It doesn’t feel right to use my married name anymore. “This is she.”
A soft female voice continued, “Hi, I’m Mr. Turner’s assistant. I hope I’m not calling too late. Mr. Turner has had a chaotic schedule, but he was very impressed by your CV and would like to meet with you tomorrow morning, if you’re available.”
I sat up so fast the chips scattered everywhere. “Yes—absolutely. Tomorrow works. Thank you.”
Her voice brightened. “Perfect. Nine o’clock?”
“That’s perfect.”
“We’ll see you then.”
The moment the call ended, I pressed a hand over my mouth. An interview. Finally. Was this the universe throwing me a lifeline after holding me underwater for days—no, scratch that—weeks?
I slid off the bed and rummaged through my wardrobe of expensive dresses—relics of a life Damon once spoiled me with. I chose a black pencil skirt and a white button-down, pairing it with black heels. I ironed everything with trembling hands before hanging it carefully on the closet door.
I had to nail this interview—not just for me, but for Mom. She needs the support I used to provide before Damon convinced me to quit my job. At the time, I thought it was a blessing—more time with her, no strangers she’d be uncomfortable with. But now I’m starting to believe it was a way to make me dependent on him, to remind me that he pays for her medical bills while I “do nothing.”
Unfortunately, determination doesn’t prevent stupidity—because I woke up thirty minutes late.
I hadn’t set my alarm. Classic me.
I rushed around the room like a madwoman. As I darted toward the door, Damon appeared in the hallway, eyes narrowing as if truly seeing me for the first time in weeks.
“Where are you going at this time of morning?”
Of course he noticed today, of all days.
My curls were already an unruly mess, so I twisted them into a bun, avoiding his gaze as I applied a quick swipe of gloss.
“You’re not the only one who has things to do, Damon.”
Before he could respond, I grabbed my bag, opened the door, and slammed it behind me with far more satisfaction than necessary.
Now I stand outside Turner Industries, staring up at the towering glass building, my stomach twisted in knots. Brad Turner—New York’s most successful real estate investor. A man whose name alone makes interns shake.
And somehow, he wants to meet me.
I clench and unclench my hands, breathe deeply, and step inside. The air smells like polished marble, fresh coffee, and something faintly sweet.
“Excuse me.”
A woman’s voice comes from behind me just as I’m about to step into the main elevator. I turn to find a tall woman with sleek hair and black-framed glasses perched neatly on her nose.
“Miss Willow.”
“Yes.”
Relief warms her expression. “Good. I was beginning to believe you got lost.”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot to set my alarm—it’s been a while since I’ve had to get up early.”
Her heels click sharply as she leads me toward a private set of elevators. She glances at me, sympathetic.
“You’re a little late, so expect an earful. But he’s a good man once you get to know him.”
“Am I the only candidate?” I ask quietly.
She shakes her head. “No. He’s been interviewing all morning. You’re the last.”
Great. My tardiness mixed with his exhaustion. Perfect combination.
She looks back at me, noticing my anxiety. “Don’t worry—you’ll be fine.”
Easy for her to say. She doesn’t have to sit across from a man known for being meticulous and borderline ruthless when it comes to his work—according to the articles I read at three in the morning. One mistake, one misplaced word, and you’re dismissed.
The elevator doors slide open. She gestures to a sleek chair outside a glass office door.
“Sit here. I’ll let Mr. Turner know you’ve arrived.”
As I do, I feel a trickle of sweat run down my back. Either I’m going to nail this interview—or he’s going to eat me alive. I really hope it’s the first.
- Writer
