**Diary Entry**
“Goodbye, loser,” he spat before walking out to meet the wealthy widow. A year later, he turned up for an interview at her company, clueless about who the director was now.
“You didnt think itd be forever, did you?”
Edward Blackwood adjusted his silk tiea gift from Claire on his thirtieth. He barely glanced at her, too absorbed in his own reflection in the dark wardrobe glass.
“I thought we were building a future together,” Claire Whitmore murmured, arms wrapped around herself as if holding together a crumbling world.
He smirked, a sharp, cruel laugh that knocked the air from her lungs.
“Future? Claire, look around. This isnt a future. Its just”he gestured at their tiny rented flat, mostly paid for by her”a stopgap. Cosy, but temporary. A stepping stone.”
Every word was calculated to wound.
“Ive got prospects, understand? Real ones. And you? A dead-end job for pennies and dreams of stability. Stability is just another word for stagnation.”
He grabbed his perfectly packed leather suitcaseno wasted space. Hed prepared for this. For a long time.
“She sees potential in me. Shes willing to invest in a winner.”
He didnt name her, but Claire knew. Eleanor Harrington, widow of a local tycoona woman with money, connections, and a razor-sharp smile.
Claire said nothing. What was there to say? All her investments in himtime, money, faithhad turned to dust.
“One word, and Im gone,” he said, giving her a cold, assessing look. “Im done carrying dead weight.”
The door slammed.
Claire stood alone in the middle of the room before sinking onto the sofa, staring at the empty space where hed just stood. There were no tears. Only a hollow silence, slowly giving way to fearand something else entirely.
The first week, Claire just existed. Mechanically dragging herself to her “dead-end job,” returning to the empty flat, staring at the wall. His words*dead weight, stagnation*burned under her skin like poison.
He called once. A month later.
“Claire, listen, I left a few books behindin a blue box. Could you”
“I threw them out,” she cut in, her voice flat, foreign.
“What? Those were first editions!” Genuine outrage coloured his tone. He hadnt expected that.
“Now theyre just trash. Like everything else you left behind. Dont call again.”
She hung up. And in that moment, something shifted. The hollowness inside didnt fill with painjust cold, clear resolve.
That night, she pulled a dusty old laptop from the cupboard and dug out her university project.
“LogiFlowSmall Business Logistics Optimisation.” Edward had called it “pointless scribbles.” Said the real world didnt work that way.
He was right. The real world was simpler. It didnt need pretty wordsjust solutions that worked.
The next months blurred into one exhausting stretch. Claire quit her job. Every penny shed saved for their “future together” went into registering her company and renting a tiny office in an industrial park. She named it simply: *Breakthrough*.
She worked eighteen-hour days. Coffee became her only meal. There were moments she wanted to quitwhen the first prototype crashed, when funds ran dangerously low. But she remembered his sneer about *stagnation*and kept going.
Her old university advisor, Professor Harris, was her only believer. He introduced her to her first clients and helped her secure a small but crucial grant.
The first contract was symbolic. The second, slightly larger. Within six months, her system was saving small businesses millions. She wasnt dreaming of stability anymoreshe was building it.
Meanwhile, Edward lived the life hed always wanted. Lavish parties, luxury holidays, a seat on the board of one of Eleanors companies. He bragged about “escaping middle-class mediocrity.” Claire? Just a footnotea *loser*.
But his “potential” fizzled out in ten months. Eleanor Harrington was ruthless. She saw past the charm to the emptiness beneathno ideas, just ego and a talent for spending other peoples money.
The conversation was brief.
“Edward, darling,” she said one morning, examining her manicure, “you were an interesting experiment. But unprofitable assets must be cut.”
She handed him an envelopea generous severance package and a ban from all her businesses.
Two months of job hunting followed. His inflated résumé and tarnished reputation made it nearly impossible. Most offers were humiliating.
Then, finallya break. A department head position at *Breakthrough*, a rising IT star. Hed heard of their product but never looked into the founder. “C.A. Whitmore”the initials on their website meant nothing to him.
He prepped, read a few articles, assumed she was some ageing academic turned entrepreneur.
Edward straightened his tie in the lift mirror, riding up to the top floor of a gleaming business centre. He was ready to impress. Ready to win again.
The assistant led him to a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows.
“The director will be right with you.”
Edward sat, placing his expensive leather briefcase on the table. His eyes flicked to the nameplate: *C.A. Whitmore, CEO*.
The door opened without a knock.
A woman in a sharp navy suit walked in. Blonde hair pulled into a tight knot, not a strand out of place. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone used to space parting for her.
She sat, set down a slim tablet, and met his gaze.
Edwards world tilted.
It was Claire. But not *his* Claire. Not the quiet girl from the rented flat. This woman looked at him like he was a strangercool, assessing, utterly detached.
“Edward James Blackwood?” Her voice was even, emotionless. No hint of recognition.
“Claire?” His attempt at a smile twisted into something pathetic. “What a coincidence. I had no idea you”
“Weve never met,” she cut in. “Lets stick to the interview. Im Claire Alexandra Whitmore, CEO of *Breakthrough*.”
She opened his résumé on the tablet.
“Youre applying for Head of Development. Tell me about your achievements at *Harrington Capital*.”
Edward froze. This was a farce. A meticulously planned humiliation.
“Claire, drop the act,” he tried, forcing a smirk. “Were adults. Im happy for you, really. Youyou climbed out.”
“I asked you a question, Mr. Blackwood,” her gaze turned icy. “If you cant answer, Ill assume you have nothing to say about your professional competence.”
Blood rushed to his face. She was toying with him. The man whod always seen himself as the winnernow trapped.
“My competence?” He laughed, a brittle sound. “My competence got me a life you couldnt dream of. While you were playing games in this glass box.”
“‘A life I couldnt dream of’is that how you describe your job responsibilities?” Claire tilted her head. “Interesting phrasing. But not what were looking for.”
The blow landed perfectly. Shed reduced his entire “glorious” career to nothing in one sentence.
Then he made his fatal mistake. He thought he could crack her armour by digging into the past.
“You know, Im glad it happened this way,” he lowered his voice. “I gave you the push you needed. Without me, youd still be stuck. You should be thanking me.”
He waitedfor anger, tears, anything to reveal the Claire hed known.
She just watched him. Three long seconds.
Then slowly, deliberately, she set the tablet aside.
“Thanking you?” She tasted the word like something bitter. “Youre right. I *should* thank you. For the most important lesson of my life.”
She stood, walking to the window.
“You taught me that some people arent just dead weight. Theyre toxic assets. And the faster you cut them loose, the higher your chances of success.”
She turned back. The ice in her eyes had melted into firecalm, certain, all-consuming.
“The interview is over, Mr. Blackwood. Youre not what were looking for. My company doesnt invest in zero-return projects.”
She pressed the intercom.
“Alice, please see Mr. Blackwood out. And cancel the remaining candidates. Ive found our Head of Development. The best one. Me.”
Edward didnt remember leaving. His body moved mechanically as the polite assistant escorted him to the lift. He felt stripped bare.
The bright, sprawling office that had seemed like his future moments ago was now enemy territory. Every keystroke, every phone ring felt like mockery.
He didnt look back. Too afraid to meet her eyes.
When the lift doors closed, he caught his reflection in the mirrored wallsand for the first time in years, saw himself clearly. Not a winner. Not a “project” with potential. Just a man who
