Page 19 of Letting Go

I slam the door shut harder than I need to. Punch the elevator button like it owes me money.

My reflection in the elevator’s mirrored doors stares back at me. Slacks. White blouse tucked in neatly. Hair pulled back. If Michael had even half a functioning brain cell, he might’ve asked why I was wearing business attire to a yoga retreat. But he didn’t. Probably too busy wondering how fast he could text her once I was gone.

The elevator dings. A man in a tailored navy suit steps in, late 20s, tall, effortlessly handsome in a quiet, self-assured way that doesn’t need announcing. He’s got light stubble that looks deliberate, not lazy, and an expensive watch that gleams just enough to say I’m important without screaming it. Broad shoulders, clean cologne, the kind of presence that makes you straighten your spine without realizing it.

He swipes a sleek black keycard and the panel lights up, Executive Floor. Of course.

I’m still fuming silently, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He glances at me. “You, okay?”

I grit out, “I’m fine.”

He looks away for a beat, then back at me. “You don’t look fine.”

And there it is. The thing. The goddamn thing that always gets said. Smile more. You, okay? You don’t look fine. Like women owe the world a palatable face while it crushes them.

I snap. “Why does that matter? Would it make you more comfortable if I smiled through the shit I’m dealing with? You want me to pretend I’m not furious, not exhausted, not two inches from a full mental detonation, just so you can have a peaceful elevator ride?”

He raises his hands, startled, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Okay. Sorry.”

The doors ding again. We’ve arrived. I step out first.

“Whatever it is,” he calls out as I walk away, “I hope you destroy it.”

I don’t look back.

But I do smile, just a little.

I head straight for the corner office, adrenaline buzzing like I just chugged a triple espresso. I barely make it ten feet before a woman in a perfectly tailored pencil skirt and an air of ‘I run this floor’ intercepts me with a tight-lipped smile.

“Can I help you?” she asks, all cool professionalism.

“Yes,” I say, lying so smoothly I almost believe myself. “I have a meeting with the CEO.”

She glances up, doesn’t even pretend to check the screen. “No, you don’t.”

I exhale hard through my nose. “Fine. Look, I’m here to quit. From a job I’ve held for five years under a pompous, sexist jackass who shouldn’t be allowed near a stapler, let alone staff. So… can you just squeeze me in?”

She looks me up and down like she’s assessing if I’m a threat or just a nuisance. Then her eyes flick over my shoulder. “Sure,” she says with a sugary smile. “Take a seat. I’ll call you.”

Right. I doubt she will. But I still walk over to the disturbingly expensive-looking waiting area. Even thelight bulbs look designer. I sit on a leather armchair that probably costs more than my car and sip the cucumber-mint water she “graciously” hands me.

A few minutes later, the same woman walks in. “You can go in now.”

I blink. Huh.

I push open the mahogany door and step inside. An older gentleman in a classic grey suit sits behind a desk that screams old money. He stands when he sees me, extending a hand.

“Hello, Miss Scott,” he says warmly. “I’m Leonard Marx.”

I pause. “Leonard?”

“Yes,” he says, calm, composed, every inch the CEO. “That’s my name.”

I force a smile, suddenly all too aware that I’m way out of my pay grade. “And what a… wonderful name it is.”

Then another voice cuts through the air, smooth and vaguely amused.

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