3: 3
That afternoon I found a place I liked, and I was just about to sign the lease when my boss called out of nowhere.
“Rita Swanson, you’re fired. Come clear out your desk on Monday.”
I froze. “Why?”
His voice came through cold. “Blame yourself for having no connections. Blame yourself for crossing the Swanson family’s young miss.”
The place I worked was a branch office of Simon’s company. Back when I’d just graduated and was job-hunting, he suddenly suggested I come work under the Hensons—said it was close to him, that it would be easier for him to look after me.
But in all the years I worked there, I never got a single privilege. I had it worse than an ordinary employee.
My boss deliberately piled the heavy work on me. My coworkers deliberately froze me out.
I wanted to quit, but Simon used my feelings for him as leverage.
Quit, and we were over.
So now that he’d suddenly fired me, it meant he was accepting the breakup by default. Right?
The moment I understood that, the tight string inside me finally snapped, and I felt nothing but relief.
The landlord asked, “Miss, are you still signing?”
I nodded. “I’ll sign.”
I could always find another job. First I’d make a home of my own.
Once I had everything arranged, I crouched on the couch and cracked open a soda. I’d barely taken a sip when Zara called.
She was crying.
“I’m so sorry, sis. This is all my fault. Simon just loves me too much, that’s why he made a decision like this. I’ll have him find you a new job right away.”
My tone was flat. “Zara, drop it. You’ve been putting on this act for ten years. Aren’t you tired?”
Zara paused, and her voice went cold. “Sis, the Swanson daughter is me. Mom and Dad are mine. Simon is mine too. I told you a long time ago—don’t fight me for any of it.”
Hearing that, I suddenly remembered the first time I met Zara, when she took a small knife and slashed the dress Mom had given me.
That dress hadn’t fit me anyway. It was too big.
After she’d cut it, Zara said coldly, “Sis, that dress is mine. I wore it. I threw it away.”
“But even the things I throw away, you have no right to take.”
That was the first time Zara showed me open hostility. Plenty of times after that, she came off as generous, so considerate of me.
Thinking of it, I said quietly, “Zara, the things I don’t want—take them. Mom and Dad, Simon, the name. I don’t want any of it anymore.”
Zara went still. Something in my tone left her feeling like she’d thrown a punch into cotton.
“Rita Swanson! Do you even know you got to work at the Hensons because I wanted you there? And the way you were bullied at the office—that was all on my say-so!”
Zara spat out each word. “Simon knew about all of it. He let it happen.”
My breathing turned uneven, my eyes filling with tears.
I hung up in a hurry.
I suddenly remembered high school, when I was bullied, and how he promised he would always protect me, and how righteously he condemned that kind of bullying.
So his disgust had all been an act.
All these years, I was the only one who’d lost my head, believing he really loved me.
I closed my eyes, and my tears struck the blanket on the couch and vanished.
Just like my feelings for him.
Ten years of foolish hope. It was time I woke up.
