To say I've had a bad week is an understatement. After quarelling with my boss, I booked the cheapest flight I could get to New York and sat down to cry on my cold kitchen floor.
I even avoided Sloane. All her messages I left unread and her calls went straight to voicemail. I only answered when she came banging my door at night.
Honestly?
I feel terrible.
I feel like a failure.
I was so happy when I got the job to work as a PR intern. I could finally break the embargo on my shoulders.
Like always, hope has played a cruel trick on me once more.
Because joke's on me, I'm only a few months away from sleeping on the street.
Maybe I could take up waitressing again.
Dreams and aspirations can wait.
I can't afford it now.
But today is Monday and I have to go submit my resignation letter, before Xavier fires me, cos' it's quite obvious that he will, especially after our type of parting.
I don't want that on my record and if I can have a little bit of power on how my life will go, is to determine if I'll resign or get fired all in one day.
I down half a glass of water to soothe my parched throat courtesy of my nervousness and head out of my apartment, locking it firmly behind me.
...
The elevator ride feels longer than usual. My palms are clammy around the envelope, and I swear the paper inside knows it's about to end my dignity.
I rehearse the words in my head, short, polite, professional. Dear Mr. Steele, I resign. No drama. No begging. Just finality.
When the doors slide open, I step out before my courage can change its mind.
Xavier's office door looms ahead, heavy and silent like the final boss level of my career.
I knock once.
"Come in."
His voice, that smooth, low, devastating tone, slices through the air.
I step in, keeping my gaze anywhere but his.
He's at his desk, sleeves rolled, tie loose, the usual look of power and chaos beautifully blended.
I set the envelope down. "Sir, this is my resignation letter."
He doesn't look up. "Resignation?" The word falls flat, like it's foreign to him.
"Yes, sir."
He takes his time flipping a page in the file before finally lifting his gaze. Green eyes land on me, sharp and unreadable. "You're quitting?"
"Yes, sir." My voice comes out smaller than I intend. "Effective immediately."
His fingers tap the desk once before reaching for the envelope. He doesn't open it right away, just stares at it as if it's an offense by existence.
"Why?"
The question is soft. Too soft for someone that is named Xavier Steele.
I blink. "Sir?"
"Why are you quitting?"
There's no good way to answer that. Because you're impossible? Because you make me feel small? Because you make me feel too much?
I straighten my shoulders. "It's personal."
He hums, the sound low, almost amused. "Personal."
His thumb slides under the flap and pulls out the letter. His eyes move over the words once, before he looks up again.
"This is a joke."
"It's not."
He leans back in his chair, one brow arching. "You think walking away is that simple? That you can throw a tantrum and leave?"
I swallow hard. "It's not a tantrum. It's a decision."
"And poor ones are still decisions, aren't they?" he says, voice steady, maddeningly calm.
My jaw tightens. "I'm not obligated to stay where I'm treated like a mistake."
His expression doesn't shift, but something flickers behind his eyes, but it's unreadable, "You think you've been mistreated?"
"I don't think. I know."
For a long beat, neither of us speaks. The air feels heavy, my heartbeat far too loud.
Then, without warning, he tears the letter in half. The sound is sharp, each tear shattering my already fragile heart.
I think Xavier wants to fire me instead.
"Hey!" I step forward instinctively.
He tears it again. And again. Until it's nothing but confetti in his hands.
"Congratulations, Miss Dawson," he says coolly. "You're officially still employed."
My mouth falls open. "You ... you can't just..."
"I can," he interrupts, voice smooth as silk, hard as steel. "I just did and you are late."
I stare at the bits of paper in his hand, disbelief giving way to anger. "That's not your decision to make."
His lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. "It is when you work for me."
"That's evil."
"Thank you. I've been called worse." He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, eyes narrowing just enough to make my skin prickle. "You don't get to walk away because you got your feelings hurt."
"I didn't get my feelings hurt!"
"Didn't you?"
The silence between us thickens. My pulse pounds in my ears.
He rises from his chair, every movement screaming control.
He comes around the desk until he's standing close enough that I can smell his cologne, subtle, expensive, infuriating.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" he asks.
I want to step back, but I don't. "An employee who's resigning."
He shakes his head. "I see potential. Wasted, reckless potential. You run when it gets hard. You think quitting makes you free. It doesn't. It just makes you ordinary."
His words hit harder than I expect.
"You don't know me."
He studies me like he's dissecting me. "I believe we are past that already. I know you hide behind excuses. You have brilliance buried under fear, and you waste it because someone bruised your ego or told you the truth you couldn't handle. And if I say something like I did in Excelente Repos, it'll be another case of running away."
"That's not fair," I whisper.
"Neither is life," he says quietly.
I catch something in his expression, a glint of something that doesn't belong to the arrogant CEO persona. Concern. It flashes and disappears before I can name it.
This is the second time I've noticed the expression on Xavier.
Then he's cold again. "Get back to your desk."
Yeah, I was most likely dreaming.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I just told you I'm resigning ..."
"And I just told you that you're not."
"Mr. Steele .. "
"Miss Dawson," he cuts in, tone edged with finality. "If you truly want to leave, do it after finishing the project you ran away from. Until then, sit at your desk, do your job, and stop dramatizing your employment status."
My throat tightens. "You can't talk to me like that."
He smirks. "I just did."
I hate him. I hate him for being right. I hate him for making me feel small and seen all at once.
He tosses the shredded pieces of paper into the bin beside me. "You're dismissed."
I don't move.
"Was that unclear?"
My voice barely makes it out. "Crystal."
I turn, fingers trembling, pride shattered somewhere between his desk and the door.
The pieces of my resignation crunch softly under my shoes as I walk out.
Outside, I exhale a shaky breath and force my feet toward my desk.
The silence stretches. I stare at my blank screen, eyes burning, the taste of humiliation still bitter in my mouth.
I want to
cry, scream, but I also want to laugh. I won't be homeless anymore.
I'm happy again with my slavery, because I need this job.
Ladies and gentlemen, Coffee bastard wins again.