My Assistant’s Girlfriend Called Me a Poor Old Hag

Every time my assistant booked a private room for me, he brought his girlfriend along.

I let it slide. The room was on his way home anyway.

Then today I pushed the door open and found a sticky note slapped on the head chair:

"Freeloaders not allowed."

I peeled it off and turned to him. "What's this about?"

His girlfriend was already sitting in the head seat, glaring at me.

"Can't you read?" she snapped. "Mooching off my boyfriend every damn day. Have you no shame?"

"If you can't afford Michelin, don't show up. I can't stand cheap old hags like you. Honestly, if I lived your life, I'd kill myself."

I just stared at her, baffled. Justin rushed over and lowered his voice.

"Boss, I'm so sorry. She thinks I'm paying for this dinner."

"She's a bit of a princess. Doesn't like sitting with people who can't keep up. Tell you what. Let us eat first, and you can order after we leave."

Then he took my black card and handed it to the server.

I stood there for a second. Then I picked up my phone and called the restaurant manager.

"Send security to the private room. Someone stole my card. Call the police."

I am the CEO of the illustrious Sinclair Group, a publicly traded company ranked among the top 50 globally.

I never thought I'd see the day when I got jabbed in the face by some twenty-something and called a freeloading old hag.

Especially since the black card was mine. The room was booked under my name.

Five minutes after I hung up, the manager Mr. Davis showed up at the door with two security guards.

Justin saw them and dropped his fork. It clattered against the plate.

Davis stepped over to me and kept his voice low. "Ms. Sinclair. Which one took your card?"

"Him." I tipped my chin at Justin.

Davis turned. His tone went cold. "Sir. Return the card. We've already called the police."

Vivienne still hadn't caught up. She slammed her palm on the table and shot up.

"Return? That's my boyfriend's card! Who do you think you are, some middle manager waltzing in here?"

Davis didn't even look at her. His eyes stayed on Justin.

Justin was sweating. "Boss, I mean, Ms. Sinclair, let me explain."

The word Sinclair landed. Vivienne paused. Then she laughed.

"Sinclair? Her? Justin, don't fall for it. She can barely afford lunch and she's pretending to be a CEO?"

She didn't get to finish. Two uniformed officers were already in the doorway.

"Who called this in? Credit card theft?"

I raised my hand. "I did."

The cop looked at me, then at the matte-black card in Justin's hand. "This yours?"

Justin's lips moved. Nothing came out.

Vivienne jumped in. "Of course it's my boyfriend's—"

"I'm asking him." The cop cut her off. "Sir. Is this your card?"

Justin finally cracked. He bowed his head. "No. It's... it's Ms. Sinclair's."

Vivienne's face went blank. From smug to nothing in two seconds.

"What?" She turned to him. "What did you just say?"

He didn't answer. He walked straight over to me, bent at the waist, voice shaking.

"Ms. Sinclair, I'm sorry. It's my fault. I shouldn't have taken your card. I shouldn't have let Vivienne talk to you like that."

The cop looked at me. "Ma'am. We've confirmed the facts. Do you want to press charges?"

I stared at Justin. Didn't say anything.

His eyes went red. "Ms. Sinclair, my mom's in the hospital. She was your secretary for eight years. You know her. She's a good woman, never caused anyone a problem in her life."

"If something happens to me, there's no one to take care of her."

"Please."

When he said his mom, something in me eased up.

Mrs. Brennan worked for me for eight years. Never took a sick day. Never picked a fight with anyone.

Three months ago she had a stroke and had to retire.

The day she left, she sat on the sofa in my office and rubbed her hands together for a long time before she got the words out.

"Ms. Sinclair, my son Justin just left his last job. I was wondering. Could you give him a shot? Just as an assistant."

In eight years, Mrs. Brennan had never asked me for anything. That was the first time.

I said yes, for her sake.

The cop was still waiting on me.

I sighed.

"Forget it. No charges."

Vivienne was still standing there, half confused, half furious that she didn't get to win.

Justin grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward the door, muttering, "Come on, come on, let's go, I'll explain at home."

I sat down in the head seat. I almost laughed.

The CEO of Sinclair Group, in her own private room, just got called a freeloading old hag.

If the story had ended there, fine. No harm done.

But that was just the beginning.