Eliza's POV

After failing to get promoted to management for the fifth time, my mom called again, urging me to come home for another blind date. Normally, I would’ve refused without hesitation. But this time, I answered calmly.

Maybe it was because I’d lost yet another promotion to my long-time rival, so frustrated and unwilling to accept it, I decided to confront my boyfriend, who also happened to be my boss, and ask why.

But before I could knock on his door, I overheard him talking to someone inside.

“Eliza practically grew up under your guidance. Why do you keep voting for someone else every time there’s a promotion?” the other person asked.

Sean Thompson let out a short, amused laugh. “I give her the affection she wants and give Mr. Bellamy’s daughter the position she wants to keep both of them around. Everyone gains something. Isn’t maximizing benefits the smartest move?”

The other person sounded shocked. “You’re ruthless. You string her along with the lowest-cost version of ‘love.’ Aren’t you afraid she’ll get disappointed and walk away?”

But his tone was casual, confident as he replied, “We’re just sleeping together. It’s mutual. If she leaves, it’s no real loss.”

Then he added, almost lazily, “But she stopped using protection last month. I doubt she’s actually willing to go.”

In that moment, he tore apart the last shred of dignity I had, and with it was the five years of love I had so carefully convinced myself to be real.

I ripped up the appeal form in my hand and bought the earliest ticket home. Maybe it was time to let go of the job I couldn’t earn in seven years and the love I couldn’t keep.

——

Before I could toss the shredded pieces away, Yvette Bellamy snatched them from me.

“An appeal form? You’re really planning to file again?” She let out a mocking laugh. “Eliza, people should know their limits. Failing once or twice can be chalked up to bad luck. But five times? You still think it’s bad luck?”

She flicked the shreds of paper into my face. “If your character doesn’t match the position, no amount of appeals will help.”

I suddenly remembered the four neatly stacked rejection slips tucked in the bottom of my drawer—each one stamped with “insufficient capability,” each one written by Sean. For the first time, I found it all strangely funny.

Every time he coaxed me, saying he couldn’t make it look like favoritism, it was like forcing me to swallow something unbearably bitter, with no way to spit it out.

I’d closed six multimillion-dollar deals in seven years, ranked first in quarterly performance thirteen times, ended up in the hospital twice to fix the messes my colleagues left behind, and not a single client who worked with me ever doubted my ability.

In the past, I would’ve argued with Yvette, fought to prove I wasn’t incompetent. But now, I was tired.

Because every argument would just end with me standing in front of Sean, listening to him say something like: “Past achievements don’t matter. If your overall capability isn’t enough, accept it.”

And then, manipulated again, I’d throw myself back into work, trying to prove myself and helping him reach his “low-cost, high-return” goals.

But in the end, I finally realized the truth that the person who had never been treated fairly was me.

Sean, you really knew how to plan for your own benefit.

Tears splashed onto my phone screen, then a sharp ding sounded as the screen lit up.

[Come to my office.]

My numb heart jumped twice, still foolishly holding onto a trace of hope.

But as I approached his office, I heard Yvette crying inside.

“All right, stop crying,” he said gently. “If I say you’re qualified, then you’re qualified. I’ll handle her.”

Sean's soft, patient voice stabbed my chest like a dull knife, twisting, scraping open wounds that never had the chance to heal.

Six months ago, when Yvette spread rumors that I had slept with a client to close a deal, and the client’s wife beat me so badly I could only drink liquid food for two days, I had stood in front of him just like this, begging him to clear my name.

But all he said was: “Don’t be so dramatic and naïve. In the workplace, innocence speaks for itself.”

Bitterness spread through my wounds.

But I had to admit, he never gave me much love to begin with.

Eliza's POV

I pushed the door open, feeling numb.

Sean froze mid-gesture, his hand still near Yvette’s face as he wiped her tears. His expression darkened the moment he saw me.

“I heard you’re unhappy about Miss Bellamy’s promotion.” His voice was cold. “Has no one ever told you that the workplace isn’t run on gossip? Is it really that hard to admit someone is more capable than you?”

I blinked, stunned. “I didn’t—”

But he cut me off sharply. “Write a one-thousand-word reflection. You’ll apologize publicly at the afternoon meeting.”

A baseless accusation against me, and he demanded an apology. Meanwhile, the rumors that had been hammered into his ears were treated like air.

Before, I used to convince myself he was simply keeping personal and professional matters separate.

But now that I knew I’d always been nothing more than cheap labor to him, I didn’t even have the strength to defend myself.

I swallowed the bitterness and lowered my gaze, forcing a small smile.

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I admit I’m not as capable. I’ll apologize.”

Then I bowed slightly to Yvette and added, “Miss Bellamy, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have questioned your ability. I shouldn’t have even thought about filing for a review.”

Despite that, she didn’t respond.

I was about to lift my head, but Sean pressed a firm hand against my lower back, forcing me down.

He then leaned close to my ear, his voice soft and almost coaxing. “I promised her father I wouldn’t let her suffer. Just bear with it a little and put on a show.”

His hand pressed down harder, pushing directly on my injured lower back. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through me, stealing my breath.

Yes, Yvette’s father had helped him once, and he wanted to repay that favor. But what about me?

Years ago, during an inspection of a construction site, a machine malfunctioned. Without thinking, I rushed forward to shield him from the swinging control lever, and it smashed into the side of my lower back, leaving me with a serious injury.

Back then, he had red eyes as he asked if I had a death wish. He massaged my back every day during my recovery.

And now, he was pressing down on the very injury I got for him all to help the person who had humiliated me.

What a ridiculous way to repay kindness.

Those few seconds felt like an eternity. By the time I raised my head again, it felt like my waist had snapped in half.

Yvette let out a dramatic gasp, pretending to be concerned. “Oh my, I almost forgot. Eliza hurt her back saving you, didn’t she? Mr. Thompson, you really don’t know how to cherish a woman. How cold-hearted.”

His hand loosened instantly. A shadow crossed his face. “If… if there’s nothing else, you can go.”

I bit down on my lip, trembling, and forced myself upright despite the tearing pain. Then I walked out.

But it was Yvette’s words that cut the deepest.

There were so many ways he could’ve staged an apology. Yet he chose the one that caused me the most physical pain.

Back at my desk, it took a long time before I could even gather the strength to hand my resignation letter to my supervisor.

He had tried to fight for my promotion too, but once Sean said no, there was nothing he could change.

“You’ve contributed seven years to this company,” he said softly. “Mr. Thompson knows that. You’re still young. You’ll have more chances in the future. Are you sure you don’t want to wait a little longer?”

These past years, I’d heard "in the future," "next time," and "wait a little longer" so many times they felt tattooed onto my ears.

I heard him say, "In the future," after every night with Sean, when I asked when we could go public.

I heard him say, "Wait a little longer," after every failed promotion.

I heard him say, "Next time," every time my parents pressured me to get married.

I never doubted my determination. But I couldn’t change an ending he had already written for me.

I shook my head with a tired smile.

“I’m twenty-eight. I’m not that young anymore. People my age are getting married, having kids. I can’t afford to lose my health, my career, and my future family all at once, can I?”

Eliza's POV

My supervisor didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at my pale face, sighed with a hint of regret, and signed his name.

“You can leave after you finish your handover this week,” he said. “I won’t tell Mr. Thompson. No need for him to make things harder for you. Besides, your position isn’t high enough to report to him directly anyway.”

Relief washed over me. “Thank you, Supervisor.”

Right after submitting the form, my phone lit up with a message from Sean.

[How’s your waist? I bought some medicine. I’ll put it on for you tonight.]

This was how he always apologized—indirectly. Whenever he knew he’d gone too far but couldn’t bring himself to say sorry, he’d offer this kind of half-hearted gesture.

I used to think that was affection. I would even take the chance to tease him a little.

Now I realized, it was nothing but a way to keep me within reach—his little reward to keep me obedient.

So, I replied, [Don’t bother. I've already booked a masseuse.]

As usual, the team was hosting a celebratory dinner for the promotion, yet I used my massage appointment as a polite excuse.

But before I could leave, Yvette grabbed my arm, eyes full of wounded innocence.

“Eliza, do you look down on me for beating you out of the promotion? Is that why you’re refusing to come?” she asked softly. “Anyone else can skip it, but not you. I want your genuine blessing.”

I frowned and drew in a breath to respond.

But the same Sean, who had just agreed to let me go, suddenly spoke up on her behalf.

“Everyone else is going. It wouldn’t look good if you’re the only one skipping,” he said. “Don’t be so petty. As a senior, you should show some grace. Don’t let others laugh at you.” Then he also added, “You can get a massage any day.”

I froze, and bitterness rose in my throat.

I should have known long ago how cold he truly was, because whenever something, or someone, more convenient or more beneficial appeared, my feelings never mattered.

When I was twenty-three, in my second year living away from home, he promised to spend my birthday with me. I cooked and waited for him all night.

But when I finally called, I heard a girl crying beside him.

Yet, he didn’t apologize or explain. He only blamed me for caring too much about “just a birthday.”

Yvette’s mother had died giving birth to her. So, birthdays reminded her of that, making her sad.

So for the next five years, he never celebrated my birthday. He wouldn’t even let me celebrate it myself, either, not even on social media, because it might upset Yvette.

He always said it was all for appearances.

Yet when no one was watching, he still wasn’t willing to give me even the smallest bit of affection.

Now, seeing my supervisor subtly urging me with his eyes to let it go and not make trouble, I relented.

Fine. I would treat it like a farewell dinner.

At the restaurant, the two of them sat side by side. In her sleek business attire and his tailored suit, they looked perfect together.

Some people were simply out of reach, no matter how much you chased after them.

So when my colleagues joked about how good they looked together—“a perfect match, a natural pair”—I just smiled and nodded along.

“They do look good together,” I said. “Their age, looks, family backgrounds—everything fits.”

The moment the words left my mouth, both Sean and our VP, Henry Clarke, who’d been chatting with him earlier, froze.

In the past, whenever people joked about pairing him with Yvette, I couldn’t hide my discomfort. Sometimes I’d pretend I didn’t hear. Sometimes I’d just sit there stone-faced.

But today, I felt nothing, just like a bystander watching someone else’s story.

Basking in the compliment, Yvette lit up, casting me a triumphant glance.

Eventually, someone brought up the topic of marriage and settling down. Yvette quickly grabbed the chance and turned the spotlight on me.

“My dad’s been pushing me to get married. I’m going crazy,” she said dramatically. “I heard you have a boyfriend you’ve been with for years, but still haven’t married. You’re twenty-eight already. Doesn’t your family pressure you? Teach me your secrets. How do you deal with all that nagging?”