Page 18 of Objection
“I have an issue with your work! That’s what I already said. If your personal issues are going to affect your ability to do your job in a professional manner, please request the day off to collect yourself until you can return in a way that is required of this position.” I easily replied, making my feelings on the matter known.
“Mr. Wellington, I —” She abruptly ended her words, and stood from her chair at my words, her hands fisted on the table.
“What, Ms. Adams? If you have something to say, say it,” I retorted, standing to mirror her stance.
“I… I…” she sputtered for a moment. I watched several emotions wash over her face in rapid succession. Guilt, fear, worry, annoyance, and finally frustration. “I am doing my best. I am still professional —”
“Oh, I think that’s a debatable point, Ms. Adams.” I scoffed, tossing my hands in the air in frustration.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Her tone had changed from soft defensiveness to something rude and almost bratty.
“Seriously? Think about it. You’ve made more mistakes today than you have in months if not years. You’re better than that. And don’t even get me started on your clothes!” I hadn’t meant it to sound rude, I truly hadn’t. But I wasn’t wrong either.
“My clothes!? What’s wrong with my clothes?” The way her eyes narrowed at me as she placed her hands flat on the cool surface of the dining table had my own urge to fight rising within me.
“Your clothes, Ms. Adams,” I spoke firmly and resolutely as I mirrored her stance, my own hands fisted on the tabletop. “Your clothes are the same clothes you wore yesterday. Now, I am not one to judge lightly or often. I do my best not to involve myself in the ongoings and affairs of my employees, but if you must do the walk of shame, please have the decency to bring a change of clothing first.”
The room was quiet for all of three seconds before she seemed to explode.
“Walk of shame? Walk of shame?! You’ve got to be kidding me! I’ll have you know—” she screeched.
“I don’t want to know, Ms. Adams. Not by a long shot. All I want is for you to arrive at work on time and properly dressed in work appropriate attire,” I interjected into her tirade.
My eyes widened as she growled. The minx literally growled in response. I squeezed my fists tighter, fighting the urge to let my more primal nature respond to such a sound.
“You don’t understand —” she started again.
“This is no longer up for discussion. Either abide by generally expected professionalism or you’ll be looking for a new job.” I held my hand up, stopping her from continuing.
“I will have you know, Mr. Wellington, that I was not doing the so-called walk of shame. These happen to be the only clothes I have!” She practically spat the words at me.
“That’s simply untrue,” I laughed humorlessly. “You’ve worn a wide variety of clothing both here and while working for Jack.” I tried to ignore the way her eyes were welling up with tears. I had a feeling earlier today that she would end up in tears by the end of this talk. Looks like I was right. She wiped the tears from her upper cheeks almost with a vengeance. She was pissed off at the fact that they were there, rolling down her cheeks.
“Well, maybe if all of my things weren’t destroyed last night, I would have worn something more suitable.” Her words weren’t yelled; they weren’t sarcastic. They were pained, honest, and borderline hopeless.
“What?” I barely got the words out. I had obviously misheard.
“I had every intention of wearing something quite different today. I stayed at Sandra’s house last night and —”
“Sandra from the firm?” I asked, trying to wrap my head around what exactly was happening.
“Yes. Of course, she offered to let me borrow an outfit of hers, but we are completely different sizes. So, I woke up early to head home and get a change of clothes there. But when I arrived…” her voice trailed off as her breath hitched. I watched as she struggled to maintain composure. Her hands were shaking.
“When you arrived…” I prompted. My hands were clenched tightly to my sides, unsure of who exactly I was enraged at, but knowing full well that there was someone in this story that deserved every ounce of the rage that I felt.
“When I arrived, my home was completely trashed. My belongings ruined,” she barely whispered.
“A burglar?” I offered up, but she shook her head, confirming my fears. “What happened?”
“We argued. Things were said. Things happened. And I left. I didn’t think he’d be there when I got back.” Her voice had turned timid, almost ashamed.
“Does he live there too?”
“No, it's my home. Not his.” She turned away from me, facing anything but me as her hands brushed over her upper arms, a small act of soothing herself.
“So why did you leave? Why not throw him out?”
“Why do you think?” When she turned back to me, the pain in her eyes was enough to set that rage to a boiling point. “He was so angry. So angry that I took this fucking job and I —”
