Her second day.
Her second chance.
She whispered a small prayer under her breath, one her mother always used to chant whenever life felt too heavy:"God, guide my hands and my head today."
The transport ride was noisy and chaotic, yet her mind drifted far away from the chatter and blaring horns. Yesterday had ended with her mother's warm embrace, her siblings' excited squeals, and Aminata's comforting words over the phone. That had given her strength.
But now, standing at the entrance of the glass building of Lexon Consults, her heart thumped like a drum. The building towered above her, impressive and intimidating—and very much indifferent to her fears.
She took a breath.
Then stepped in.
The reception area was already buzzing. Phones rang. Shoes clicked. Printers hummed. The cool air-conditioning swept over her skin like crisp ocean wind.
The receptionist, Melvin—tall, soft-spoken, with a friendly-but-tired smile—looked up at her.
"Good morning, Miss Ruthie," he said.
She smiled. "Good morning."
"Second day, huh?" he teased lightly.
"Feels like the tenth."
He chuckled as he pressed a button to open the inner door for her. "Don't let them eat you alive. Especially the girls in Admin—they're… something."
"That's what I'm scared of."
She stepped into the main hallway, where cubicles aligned like tiny houses in a busy village. Someone glanced at her. Then another. Whispering began almost immediately—soft, sharp murmurs floating behind her as she walked.
She kept her head straight.
Just get to your desk. Just breathe.
The Administrative Unit sat near the back—a cluster of desks decorated with fake plants, colourful sticky notes, and one loud Bluetooth speaker playing soft Afrobeats.
Three women froze as soon as Ruthie approached.
One, with tight braids and sharper eyes, smirked.Another leaned over to whisper to the third, who giggled into her palm.
Ruthie cleared her throat. "Good morning."
They responded in staggered monotones.
"Morning."
"Yeaah… morning."
"Hmm."
Their indifference hit her like cold rain.
Her assigned desk stood in the corner—small, neat, with a computer, a phone, and two stacks of files arranged by yesterday's admin officer. She sat down, trying to appear confident, even though her palms were sweating.
Then she heard a voice from behind.
"You're sitting on my chair."
Ruthie stiffened.
She turned slowly.
The lady with the tight braids—Stella, if she remembered correctly—was staring at her with raised eyebrows, arms folded, nails long and pointed like she used them for slicing egos.
"Oh—sorry. I thought… I thought this was assigned to me," Ruthie said softly.
"It is. But that's my chair. I use it when I'm working with the printer."She pointed dramatically to a printer a few feet away.
Ruthie blinked. "But there's a chair there already."
Stella rolled her eyes. "I like this one."
Her friends laughed quietly.
Ruthie swallowed hard, stood, and stepped aside. She didn't say another word. She simply dragged the spare chair from the printer station back to her desk and sat down.
Don't fight. It's just your second day. You need this job.
She forced herself to breathe.
At exactly 9:12 AM, her office phone rang.
She answered quickly. "Good morning—Ruthie speaking."
"Come to my office," Dave said. His voice strong, clipped, and impatient as always.
Her stomach tightened.
She left her desk and walked to the glass-walled office at the end of the hallway. She knocked gently.
"Enter."
He didn't look up.
He was typing at a speed that stunned her—fingers flying, jaw tight, brows furrowed. A man in permanent urgency.
"Sit," he said.
She obeyed.
Finally, he stopped typing and looked at her.
"You're early. Good." He pushed a stack of files toward her. "I need you to draft letters for these clients, send emails, schedule follow-up calls, and file their contracts before noon."
Her heart dropped. "Before… noon?"
"Is that a problem?"
"No, sir."
"Good. And Ruthie—"
She froze.
"Yes, sir?"
"Try not to make mistakes today."
The words stung more than she expected.She nodded.
He waved her away. "You can go."Back at her desk, she opened the files.
They were dense—legal jargon, figures, client requests, cross-check pages, missing attachments.Her fingers trembled slightly.
You can do this. You can do this.
She typed carefully. Slowly. Cross-checking everything.
Two hours passed.
Then—with her heart racing—she emailed the final document to Dave and printed a copy for his desk.
She returned to her seat, exhaled shakily, and whispered, "Thank you, God."
Fifteen minutes later…
"RUTHIE!"
His voice thundered down the hallway.
Every head popped up.Someone gasped.Stella smirked.
Ruthie stood. Her legs felt weak. She walked down the hallway like a child being taken to the principal.
She entered the office.
The mistake lay on his desk.
"Why," Dave said slowly, "did you address the letter to Mr. Aluko when the account belongs to Mrs. Aluko?"
Ruthie blinked. "I… I thought—"
"You THOUGHT wrong." His voice sharpened. "Do you understand how disastrous this could be? Do you understand professionalism at all?"
Her eyes burned.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to—"
"That is not the point. You must never assume. EVER."
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Fix it. Now. And double-check everything before coming back here."
"Yes, sir."
She turned to leave, but he added softly—almost too softly:
"I don't want to regret giving you a chance yesterday."
Her heart cracked.
She walked out stiffly, chin raised, even though tears threatened to fall. The moment she reached her desk—
Stella let out a theatrical whisper:"Second day and she's already in trouble. Wow."
Her friends giggled.
Ruthie pretended not to hear.She wiped her eyes quickly and opened her computer.
Fix it. Just fix it.She retyped the letter.Checked every name.Checked every number.Checked every punctuation.
Her chest tightened with stress.
Her phone buzzed—it was her mother.
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Not now.
By noon, she submitted the corrected file. Dave read it silently, then nodded.
"This is better," he said. "Don't repeat that mistake."
"I won't, sir."
He didn't smile. But he also didn't shout.
That felt like a small victory.Back at her desk, Ruthie pressed both palms over her eyes.
Is this what I've been begging God for?Is this the job I wanted for years?Why is it this hard? Why does it feel like everyone is waiting for me to fail?
A small voice answered her—her mother's voice:
"Nothing good comes easy, my daughter."
She straightened her back.
She inhaled deeply.
She wiped her face and kept working.
Because she had no choice.
Because failure was not her portion.
Because yesterday she almost lost this job and she would NEVER let that happen again.
Not for anyone.
Not even for a boss like Dave.The third morning dawned with a sky heavy like wet wool, thick clouds sagging low over the city as though the heavens themselves were exhausted. The wind carried the smell of night rain and the distant rumble of traffic waking from slumber.
Ruthie stood before the mirror in her room, adjusting her blouse for the fourth time. Her face was calm on the outside, but the reflection told a different story—shoulders tense, eyes carrying a faint tint of fear and determination intertwined.
Yesterday had almost broken her.
Almost.
But she was still standing.
Her mother's voice echoed from the sitting room:"Ọmọ mi, make sure you eat something small before you go."
Ruthie didn't feel hungry, but she walked out anyway. Her mother pressed a warm slice of yam and egg into her hands.
"You cannot fight on an empty stomach," she said softly.
Ruthie smiled weakly. "Thank you, Mama."
Her siblings were still half-asleep on the couch, blankets wrapped around them like cocoons. When they saw her, they waved sluggishly.
"Good luck, Aunty Secretary," her youngest brother mumbled.
That made her laugh.A real laugh—brief but needed.
She stepped outside, breathed in the dewy air, and began her journey once again.
The moment she entered Lexon Consults, she sensed it—an invisible shift in the atmosphere. Conversations dimmed as she walked past the reception. Melvin gave her a sympathetic smile.
"Today might be… something," he whispered.
"Hm?"
But he just shrugged, helpless.
She took a careful step inside the main hallway.
Eyes followed her.
Not in curiosity this time.
In expectation.
It was like the entire office was waiting to see whether she would drown or swim today.
She walked to her unit. Stella was already at her desk, lips coated in fiery red lipstick that matched the sharpness of her mood.
"Oh, you're early," Stella said in a tone dripping with mock sweetness.
The others snickered.
"Yes," Ruthie replied, trying to sound steady.
"I hope you brought your brain today," another coworker whispered loudly.
Laughter.
Ruthie pretended not to hear, but her fingers tightened around her notebook.
By 8:45 AM, the tests began.
First, Stella tossed a stack of mixed, disorganized files onto Ruthie's desk.
"Please sort these into the correct folders and label them. They've been pending."
But the files were deliberately shuffled—duplicates mixed with originals, missing pages tucked between unrelated documents. A maze of confusion created specifically for her.
Ruthie blinked at the pile.
"This wasn't discussed with me by HR," she said gently.
"Well," Stella fired back, "in this office you learn fast—or you pack your bag."
Her friends burst into smug chuckles.
Ruthie's stomach twisted.
But she said nothing.She opened the first file.
She would not cry.Not today.Not again.
At 9:18 AM, her office phone rang again.
She felt the vibration through her bones.
"Yes, hello—"
"Come to my office," Dave said.
The same clipped tone. No emotion. No mercy.
Her legs felt heavier as she walked.
When she entered, Dave didn't even look up.
"I sent you a ten-item list yesterday evening. Did you complete it?"
She froze.
"What… list, sir?"
He finally looked up. Slowly.
"I emailed you at 11:52 p.m."
Ruthie swallowed hard. "Sir… I was asleep by then."
Dave sighed, long and sharp.
"In this firm, work doesn't sleep until deadlines do. Haven't you learned that?"
She stared at the floor, heat crawling up her neck.
"Check your inbox and complete everything before closing today. And come back after reviewing the files on your desk."
Files?She frowned.
"What… files, sir?"
Dave pointed vaguely toward her desk at Admin.
"I asked one of your senior colleagues to place them there. You should have seen them."
Her heart dropped.
The pile Stella dumped.The one deliberately sabotaged.
She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt.
"Yes, sir. I'll handle it."
He waved her off.
She stepped outside, throat burning, eyes stinging.
She returned to her workstation and opened the ten-item email list.
Her heart sank further.
It wasn't simple tasks.
They were intense:Client data entry Account verification Internal documentation updates Filing scanned contracts Scheduling three important follow-up calls Drafting two letters Reviewing one partner contract Summarizing a full PDF document Entering six new leads into the CRM Preparing the morning report
All before end of day.
Her pulse quickened.
She started working.Hard.Fast.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, her eyes scanning names, numbers, dates, policies until everything blurred together. The sound of the office washed over her like crashing waves.
At 1:06 PM, disaster struck.
She uploaded a document to the wrong client's file.
Her vision swirled.
"No, no, no—no—" She scrambled to fix it, but the system had already saved the changes.
She tried again.
Access denied.
Her heart pounded like war drums.
Behind her, Stella noticed.
"Aww," she said in mocking pity. "Another mistake?"
Her friends cackled.
Ruthie pushed back from her desk and whispered to herself:
God, help me. Please.
She carried herself back to Dave's office, hands shaking, chest tight.
He didn't look up at first.
When he did—
He saw her eyes.
Her trembling.
Her fear.
His face hardened.He leaned back in his chair slowly.
"What happened?"
She swallowed. Hard.
"I… I uploaded a document to the wrong client account and I can't reverse it. I'm very sorry, sir. It was a mistake—"
He closed his laptop sharply.
The sound echoed.
"Ruthie…"He stood, walked around the desk, and approached her.
She froze.
"I need you focused," he said quietly—too quietly."I need you alert.""This is the second mistake in 24 hours."
Her voice came out broken."I know, sir. But I'm trying."
"Trying isn't enough here."
Her eyes finally brimmed with tears.
She turned her face away, embarrassed, struggling to breathe.
He sighed heavily.
"Go to the IT department. Tell them I approved the correction. And Ruthie—wipe your face before you go."
She nodded quickly and hurried out before the tears spilled.
She wiped her face.
She steadied her breath.
She marched to IT and fixed the issue.
She returned to her desk.
She finished all ten tasks one after the other, even though her hands cramped and her vision blurred from staring too long at the screen.
When she finally breathed out, it was 4:52 PM.
Her body felt hollow.But she was still standing.
Still fighting.
Ruthie, seated at her desk, felt the weight of their scrutiny. But unlike the first week, unlike the early days when she would have swallowed hard and avoided eye contact, this time something inside her shifted.
She remembered the long nights at home, helping her mother through sickness, guiding her younger siblings, working tirelessly to make ends meet. She remembered every day she had stood alone against life's harshness, and now, facing people who thought power and malice could intimidate her, she drew a deep, steadying breath.
No. Not today.
Stella, Mariama, and a few others had congregated near the printer, whispering and giggling. Ruthie could hear it all. She clenched her fists for a brief second, then stood.
All eyes turned toward her as she walked toward them, her posture straight, her chin lifted. The room seemed to hold its breath.
"Excuse me," Ruthie said clearly, her voice calm but firm. "I think we need to clear the air."
Stella rolled her eyes. "Oh, here comes the little new girl. What now? Gonna cry again?"
Ruthie stopped, just a few feet from the group. "No," she said, her voice rising slightly but controlled. "I'm not going to cry. I'm going to speak."
Mariama shifted uneasily. "Speak? About what?"
"About the truth," Ruthie said. "About the files that were taken from my desk. About the documents that were tampered with. About the system being sabotaged. I know who did it, and I know why. And I'm not afraid to stand here and say it."
Her coworkers exchanged uneasy glances. Stella laughed, but it was short, sharp, defensive.
"Oh, really? You think you can just call us out?" she sneered. "Do you know who you're talking to?"
Ruthie did. She knew exactly who she was talking to—and she also knew her own strength.
"I don't need to fear anyone here," Ruthie said, her voice unwavering. "I earned this position. I earned it through years of struggle, through working harder than anyone else, through taking care of my family while the world gave up on us. If anyone here thinks they can push me around, sabotage me, or make me feel small—I'm telling you now: it won't work. Not with me. Not ever."
The room fell silent. Even Stella, usually quick with a retort, had no words. The whispers stopped.
Ruthie continued, her voice now carrying the calm authority of someone who had faced storms and refused to break.
"You think this is a game. You think I am someone you can scare. But I know what it is to struggle, to fight, to stand alone. And if you want to continue testing me, know this: I will stand for myself. I will fight for my work. I will fight for my place here. I will not allow your jealousy, your scheming, or your cruelty to take from me what I have worked for."
Her coworkers stared, caught between shock and respect. Some shifted uncomfortably; others stared, their bravado faltering.
"I am not asking for your approval. I am not asking for your friendship. But I am demanding respect. Respect for the work I do, and respect for the person I am. I will not be manipulated. I will not be intimidated. And I will not back down."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The office air was electric, charged with tension. Then, Mariama muttered something low, almost inaudible, and backed away. Stella looked at her shoes, her lips pressing tight. A few other coworkers quietly returned to their desks, unwilling to meet Ruthie's gaze.
Ruthie walked back to her desk, each step measured, each one a statement of authority. She sat down, opened her files, and began to work. But this time, she felt different: strong, grounded, untouchable. The whispers and cold glances still lingered, but they no longer carried power over her.
By mid-afternoon, Dave entered the room, noticing the sudden stillness. He glanced toward Ruthie and raised an eyebrow, silent, watching. Ruthie didn't look up; she simply continued working, her movements precise, calm, and controlled.
Dave nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if recognizing the quiet strength she now radiated.
Ruthie had stood her ground. She had fought for herself. And in that fight, she had transformed. No longer the timid girl trying to survive, she was becoming someone who demanded her place and refused to yield.
Even in the face of sabotage, even against those who had planned to destroy her, Ruthie emerged undefeated.
And for the first time in that office, the whispers changed. They no longer mocked. They watched. They waited.