Page 6 of Marked By my Boss
My heart kicks into gear. I straighten in my chair, my voice steady as I say, “Is someone in the room with you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need the police?”
“Yes.”
I glance toward Beau’s office. His door is cracked open, and he’s already standing, eyes locked on me like he knows something’s wrong.
I scribble down the address as she gives it in fragments, her voice trembling. It’s not far, just a few blocks off Main. My stomach drops, and I send a red alert to the police.
“We’ve got a unit on its way, ma’am. Do you want to tell me more about what you’d like on that pizza while we wait?”
Her voice trembles, and though I’m focused on my job, there’s a part of me that hears my own voice in hers. A part of me that cries with her. A part of me that fears this exact call could be me someday.
“I… I like mushrooms,” she says, barely above a whisper.
I type fast, flagging the call for priority response. “Mushrooms. Got it. Anything else?”
“Extra cheese,” she says, and then there’s a sound in the background. It’s sharp, like a door slamming or a shout muffled by distance.
I flinch, and my hand tightens around the mouse. “What about wings? Breadsticks?”
“Yes,” she sniffles. “Breadsticks and wings. Extra hot.”
“The police should be there in less than sixty seconds, ma’am.” I watch my screen as the dispatch pulls up in front of her home. “They’re arriving now. You’ll be safe in a moment.”
“They’re here.” She swallows hard, and I hear the knock on her door. It’s customary for us to hang up at this point, but I want to stay on the line, make sure she’s safe, follow her to wherever she’s going, give her a hug, tell her how strong and brave she is.
Instead, the line disconnects, and I’m sat staring at the screen that’s now blank.
My heart pounds, and tears threaten to fall. For her, for me, for every woman feeling stuck like I do, for every woman being held hostage by hope.
Beau lowers into the chair next to me, his shoulders relaxed and angled toward mine. One hand rests lightly on the table, the other draped over the back of my chair. His eyes hold steady, soft with admiration. He leans in slightly, and when he speaks, his voice is deliberate, like he wants every word to land exactly where it should. “You handled that so well, Delilah. Your tone was so genuine and concerned. I wish I could make copies and fill a whole team with your level of heart and skill.”
His words hit harder than I expect. Maybe it’s because they aren’t just words. I can feel that he means them, and they’re exactly what I didn’t know I needed. The dam breaks before I can brace for it, tears spilling down in quick succession, uninvited but unstoppable, as the weight of everything I’ve been holding finally meets the softness of his voice.
Beau’s expression shifts instantly, curling across his features. He reaches for the tissue box without hesitation and hands one to me, his fingers brushing mine.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” I shake my head and brush the tears away with the tissue he’s handed me. “It’s hormones. Sorry. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t remember standing from the chair or disconnecting my headset. I don’t remember the walk down the hall or opening the bathroom door. I don’t remember anythingbefore staring at myself in the mirror of this tiny Victorian-style bathroom. And now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to breathe. I don’t know how to make myself believe that love exists in places it doesn’t anymore.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I glance into the mirror. It’s been a while since I’ve really looked at myself. A while since I’ve seen the shadows under my eyes or the split ends fraying my blonde hair. I look more than exhausted. I look half dead. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. The kind that settles in your bones and makes everything feel heavier than it should.
I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white, grounding myself against the cool porcelain. The hum of the flickering light above buzzes like static in my head, matching the chaos I’ve been trying to keep quiet.
I take a trembling breath, feeling like it’s borrowed from someone steadier than me, and stare into the mirror, searching for a glimmer of the girl I used to be, but she’s gone or hiding so well I can’t reach her.
I’m no longer the girl who dreamed of sirens and saving lives. No longer the one who vowed never to bend for a man like Dave, a man who could smile while I cry. No longer the girl who laughed easily, who made time for baking and cozy little crafts on Sunday afternoon.
All I see now is a stranger wearing my skin, eyes dulled by compromise and exhaustion. And in that moment, something inside me shifts. Not with fury, but with quiet finality.
I’ve had enough. Enough shrinking, enough forgetting, enough loving without being loved back.
