Staring at the man I’d wasted five years loving, it finally hit me why my parents always said I had terrible taste in men. Turns out they weren’t just being overprotective—I’d been walking around with rose-colored glasses superglued to my face.
All this time, Gwendoline—Nicholas’s ever-devoted secretary—had been playing more than just assistant. The realization made me want to laugh at my own stupidity.
Being a Godfrey meant this colossal misjudgment didn’t make me incompetent—just temporarily blind. And blindness could be cured. I’d built Nicholas up from nothing, and damn if I couldn’t tear him down just as easily.
The resignation letter crumpled in my fist as I turned to leave this toxic hellhole.
“Not so fast, Rose.”
Mr. Webb from HR materialized in front of me like a bad penny, his plastic smile not reaching his eyes. He adjusted his glasses with that slimy corporate demeanor. “Company policy requires you to sign a liability release and non-compete before leaving. Can’t have you running off with our clients now, can we?”
Oh how the mighty had fallen. Just weeks ago, this same weasel would trip over himself calling me “Mrs. Brakefield,” practically groveling for scraps of my attention. Now he stood there with that smug, self-important smirk, getting his pathetic little power trip.
I arched an eyebrow. “And why exactly would I sign either of those?”
Webb’s fake smile evaporated. “Don’t play dumb. Consider yourself lucky we’re not pressing charges for your little schemes—our lawyers would eat you alive.”
I barked a laugh. “Schemes? You mean those conveniently cropped photos? Where’s your actual evidence?”
“Evidence?” Gwendoline’s shrill voice cut through the office as she click-clacked over in her Louboutins. She jabbed a manicured talon at my phone. “It’s all right there! Who knows how many clients you’ve been cozying up to behind our backs?”
Before I could react, Webb lunged like a rabid chihuahua and snatched my phone. Gwendoline snatched it from him with a triumphant smirk.
“Look how jumpy she is! Must be plenty to hide.”
She turned to Nicholas batting her eyelashes, trying every predictable combination—his birthday, mine, our anniversary. When the screen stayed locked, Nicholas’s face darkened like a storm cloud. He ripped the phone from her hands and snapped at security to restrain me.
Facial recognition failed. Password prompt appeared.
“What’s the code?” Nicholas demanded through clenched teeth.
I almost laughed. For five years, my password had been the date he first told me he loved me. The irony wasn’t lost on me that he couldn’t remember it now.
His mounting frustration was almost comical—every failed attempt chipped away at his carefully constructed image in front of his employees.
“You claim those photos are fake,” he spat, “then why change your password?”
“It’s the day you first said you loved me,” I said quietly.
The silence was deafening. Watching him scramble to recall that memory was like watching a bad actor try to remember his lines. His face cycled through emotions—confusion, anger, something almost like guilt—before settling on wounded pride.
I yanked free from the guards and plucked my phone from his limp grasp. With one tap, the screen unlocked. Nicholas’s mouth opened, then closed like a fish out of water. Not another word came out.
