the penthouse pressing in on me, a physical weight. Then, with a heavy sigh that felt like it carried the burden of eight years, I

hadn't even had time to log in before my boss, Mr. Davies, a kind but perpetually stressed man

n, masked as a "restructuring." My bonus was a fraction of what it should have been, my pay frozen, my upward trajectory flatlined. Again. "I'm so sorry, Kinsley.

ng hair. "I had hoped to recommend you for my position, you know.

he mud. I reached into my bag and pulled out a crisp, white

k. "Kinsley? What is this? You can't be serious.

Eight years of giving this company everything, only to be sy

He knew. He didn't know who, but he knew something was

sense of the word, and then... then we can talk about forever." I believed him. I believed every word. I poured my soul into my work, striving for every promotion, every bonus, every reco

lways far below what I was promised, far below what my colleagues, even those with

vanced as you believe. Or maybe you're simply not aggressive enough. This is a competitive environment, darling. You need to fight for it." He'd even h

rack in my devotion to him. I craved validation, recognition for my hard work, and more than anything, his unwavering belief in me. I wanted

ressed frustration, of biting my tongue, of swallowing my dreams. My vision blurred, hot tears blurring the edges of Mr. Davies'

this raw, embarrassing flood of emotion. I turned and fled his office, barely registering his start