1: 1
The night I lost the promotion, I crouched at the curb with a paper cup of fried calamari.
I fed them into my mouth one by one, and the tears came down with them.
I texted my boyfriend, Justin Gilbert:
【A little tired today, but the calamari's good.】
He didn't reply.
Half an hour later, I couldn't help sending another:
【Are you busy? I just want to talk to you.】
At last he wrote back:
【What's this supposed to mean? You want me to reimburse you?】
I stared at that line for a long time.
Justin's startup had barely gotten off the ground when his mother made off with all the funds, leaving him a hundred million in debt overnight.
Ever since, there was nothing he hated more than gold-diggers.
And I killed myself proving I wasn't one.
In six years I never spent a cent of his money.
We split every bill, I returned every gift, and I laid every project result I ever produced out on the table for anyone to scrutinize.
My feed refreshed. The intern who'd won the promotion was wearing a diamond necklace, with a caption:
【Thank you, Mr. Gilbert, for celebrating my promotion. I'll keep working hard.】
I'd seen that necklace in a magazine. Only three of them in the world.
In six years, I never once received a gift from Justin worth more than a thousand dollars.
And the necklace around Ada Whitney's neck was worth ten million.
Tears blurred the phone screen, and it suddenly hit me that all those years of proving my innocence,
in his eyes, probably weren't worth so much as one piece of fried calamari.
......
After the last bite, I flagged down a car back to the office.
The results had already been posted.
But I still wanted to ask where I'd fallen short.
Six years of project experience, top performance three years running, the most stable teams in the whole company.
And I'd lost to an intern who'd just come off probation.
The moment I stepped out of the car, I saw Justin ten feet away, bending down to open the car door for Ada.
"There's no rush on this project. Get familiar with the process first."
"In a couple of days I'll take you to London to meet a client. It'll broaden your horizons."
"But I only just came off probation..." Ada's voice held a note of hesitation.
"It's fine."
Justin cut her off, his voice gentle:
"As long as you've got the ability, your position doesn't matter."
"Besides, I'm right here. Anything comes up, I've got you covered."
The hot summer wind blew over me, and yet the soles of my feet went cold.
In six years, Justin had been to thirty-five countries, and not once had he taken me.
He always said, "We don't mix personal matters into work."
I'd asked him once, "Then what if I go as the project lead? Is that not allowed either?"
He'd given me a look. "Jean Fox, are you trading your project results for a business trip? You need to learn to be mindful of your place."
Be mindful of my place.
I'd been mindful. I never dared arrive or leave with him, never dared post about him, never even dared ride the same elevator at work.
And then he turned to someone else and said: your position doesn't matter.
Ada spotted me and raised her hand. "Jean!"
Justin followed her gaze and turned his head.
His eyes didn't linger on me a second longer before dropping back to Ada.
"Come on, I'll drive you home. Get some rest early."
Ada nodded, then smiled at me again. "Jean, are you heading back to the office, or coming with us?"
Only then did Justin look at me.
"Just take a cab home. Ada's place is the opposite direction. It's out of the way."
But in the end he'd still come home to our place, so what exactly was out of the way?
Before I could get a word out, he was in the car, starting the engine.
I stood there in the wind, watching the car disappear.
That figure. Six years.
He used to drive halfway across the city to pick me up when I went to sign a contract.
Now it was out of the way.
At the HR department computer, I saw the judges' scoresheet.
In the row under my name, the score Justin had given me was: 58.
Six judges, and his was the lowest.
I flipped down a page. His score for Ada: 98.
I stared at that 58 and couldn't seem to catch my breath, no matter what.
How could it have been Justin?
He, of all people, knew exactly what these six years had cost me.
Every late night working overtime, every all-nighter before a pitch, every scorecard his gaze had swept past. He'd watched it all with his own eyes.
And the score he gave me was the lowest.
"Why?" I murmured to myself.
The only answer was the sound of a tear striking the keyboard.
And, outside, the sudden patter of rain.
