Chapter 4

The elevator doors, now so cold and impersonal, sealed shut behind Callen and Daniella. I stood there for a moment, the silence of the penthouse pressing in on me, a physical weight. Then, with a heavy sigh that felt like it carried the burden of eight years, I grabbed my own bag. The office. My one escape, my battlefield. I needed to wrap things up, to make my exit, to burn this bridge too.

I arrived at my desk, the familiar hum of the marketing department a dull drone in my ears. I hadn't even had time to log in before my boss, Mr. Davies, a kind but perpetually stressed man, beckoned me into his office. His face was etched with an apology I almost didn't want to hear.

"Kinsley," he began, his voice low, as he pushed a document across his desk. It was my annual performance review, but not just any review. It was a formal demotion, masked as a "restructuring." My bonus was a fraction of what it should have been, my pay frozen, my upward trajectory flatlined. Again. "I'm so sorry, Kinsley. I fought for you. You deserve so much more. Your numbers are stellar, your campaigns have consistently delivered above expectations. But... it's out of my hands."

He looked genuinely heartbroken, running a hand through his thinning hair. "I had hoped to recommend you for my position, you know. When I eventually retire. You're the brightest talent we have here."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Brightest talent, stuck in the mud. I reached into my bag and pulled out a crisp, white envelope. My resignation letter. I slid it across the table.

Mr. Davies stared at it, his eyes wide with shock. "Kinsley? What is this? You can't be serious. After all your years here, all your hard work..."

"Eight years, Mr. Davies," I corrected him, my voice flat. "Eight years of giving this company everything, only to be systematically undervalued, overlooked, and outright sabotaged."

He looked at me, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knew. He didn't know who, but he knew something was wrong. Everyone knew. They just didn't dare to speak it.

My mind drifted back. Callen, early in our relationship, had dangled the carrot of marriage. "Prove your worth, Kinsley. Dedicate yourself to the company, show me you're a partner in every sense of the word, and then... then we can talk about forever." I believed him. I believed every word. I poured my soul into my work, striving for every promotion, every bonus, every recognition, believing that each achievement was a step closer to "forever" with Callen. I worked late, took on extra projects, delivered groundbreaking campaigns. I was good. I knew I was good.

But the promotions never came. The raises were paltry. The bonuses, inexplicably, always far below what I was promised, far below what my colleagues, even those with lesser performance, received. I had questioned it, of course, many times. To Callen.

"Kinsley," he'd said, his voice laced with patronizing patience, "maybe you're not seeing the full picture. Perhaps your skill set isn't quite as... advanced as you believe. Or maybe you're simply not aggressive enough. This is a competitive environment, darling. You need to fight for it." He'd even hinted that I was too emotional, too sensitive for the cutthroat world of corporate advancement. "Don't let your feelings cloud your judgment, Kinsley."

My heart had turned to ice the first time he said that, dismissing my genuine efforts as mere emotional outbursts. That was the first true crack in my devotion to him. I craved validation, recognition for my hard work, and more than anything, his unwavering belief in me. I wanted to be his partner, in life and in business, to feel valued, protected. But his words had painted me as incompetent, overemotional, a failure.

The pain returned, not a dull ache, but a sharp, stabbing sensation in my chest. It was a physical manifestation of years of suppressed frustration, of biting my tongue, of swallowing my dreams. My vision blurred, hot tears blurring the edges of Mr. Davies' worried face. I felt a sob building in my throat, threatening to erupt. I couldn't break down here. Not now. Not in front of him.

"I... I need a moment," I choked out, pushing myself away from the desk. I needed to escape, to hide this raw, embarrassing flood of emotion. I turned and fled his office, barely registering his startled call behind me, my destination clear: the women's restroom. A place to drown in my shame, unseen.