14October2025 Thursday
You’re a dullgray mouse with no cash, Poppy sneered as she lingered by the door with a serving tray, even on the night of my birthday.
You simply dont know how to sell yourself, she murmured, lazily stirring her cocktail with a straw while a glittering bracelet of tiny gems caught the light on her wrist.
Her tone carried that light, almost careless superiority that had long become her calling card.
It isnt about presentation, I replied quietly, examining the chip in my chipped mug of cheap tea. I just lack the experience needed for that vacancy.
Experience, experience how boring, Poppy sighed dramatically. All you need is a sparkle in the eye and a pair of pricey shoes. You have neither.
Poppy Bell gave me a cold, appraising glance that made me want to curl into a ball, as if she were scanning me for flaws and delivering a verdict: deficient, dispose.
Listen, I want to help, she leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. Youre my best friend. Who else will tell you the truth?
I stayed silent. The phrase best friend lodged in my throat, sharp and foreign.
Understand this: in our world people are judged by their clothes, but theyre remembered by their connections. Youre a dullgray mouse with no cash. Until you accept that, youll drift from one lowpay interview to the next. Each word hit its mark, squeezing the breath from my chest.
Im launching a small project, Poppy continued, clearly enjoying my reaction. Well need people for the simplest tasks sorting paperwork, greeting couriers.
She paused, letting me digest the offer.
I can take you on, temporarily of course, until you find something that truly fits you, she added, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
Blythe Yates lifted her eyes. In them I saw a calm steel, as if something inside had frozen into cold stone. She looked at Poppy the immaculate hair, the contemptuous curve of her lips, the bracelet worth more than Blythes annual salary. She no longer saw a friend, but a predator savoring her humiliation.
Thank you for the offer, Blythe said slowly. But Ill decline.
Poppys eyebrows shot up in surprise; she clearly hadnt expected this.
Youre turning it down? From my chance? Her voice rang metallic. Fine. Just dont come crying later when you cant afford the rent.
She theatrically fished a stack of large banknotes from her handbag and flung them onto the table, more than covering the bill.
Your treat, she tossed over her shoulder, then strode away, clicking her heels on the marble floor.
I sat alone, untouched by the money or the lukewarm tea, watching expensive cars speed past the window. For the first time I felt not despair but a thrilling surge of excitement.
The next morning that excitement hardened into a cold, pulsing energy. I had always been unnoticed, but I could see and hear what others missed tiny details, hidden patterns, concealed motives. That was my only true capital.
Sitting at my aging laptop, I drafted a plan. I listed my services on a freelance marketplace: search and analysis of unstructured information. It sounded vague, but I knew exactly what lay behind those words.
The first months were hell: tiny gigs, fickle clients, pay that barely covered a modest flat in Shoreditch and a few meals. A couple of times I nearly gave up, tempted to ring Poppy for a lifeline. Yet the memory of her smile pushed me back harder than any wall could.
Breakthrough came after six months. A boutique law firm hired me to gather data on competitors for an upcoming case. I tackled the task with desperate determination. A sleepless week later I delivered a report that helped the solicitors win. They paid me three times my usual rate and became regular clients, referring me to their contacts.
Orders began to trickle in. Within two years I could afford my own office and even hire an assistant.
Poppy still called now and then, her life sounding like an endless fête.
Hey Blythe, Im out on the Solent with some partners on a yacht. How are you? Still stuck in your little nook?
Hello. No, not bored. Im working, I replied, leafing through the financials of a new client.
Working? Poppy elongated the word. Dont be shy, my girlontherun spot is still vacant. Youll fetch coffee for my new assistant.
I could have shrunk away, but I merely shrugged.
No thanks. I run my own agency now.
Agency? she barked, laughing. An agency for floormopping?
Her words no longer carried weight.
Four more years passed. Yates & Partners occupied a centrestage office with a team of five analysts. Id become a recognised name in corporate intelligence. Then Poppy struck again.
Her firm, Bell Group, pilfered one of my key reports. She recruited a debtladen junior, exploiting his weakness.
I gathered every scrap of evidence, uncovered her financial holes, wasteful spending and fraud, and sent an immaculate analytical report to an investor.
The following day Poppy called, shouting, Youve ruined everything!
I was only doing my job, I answered calmly.
Two more years slipped by. At a rooftop restaurant atop a skyscraper, we celebrated my anniversary. Among the waitstaff, I spotted Poppy, tray in hand, her eyes flashing recognition horror and hatred on her side, icy composure on mine.
I regarded her without a hint of schadenfreude, merely nodded, acknowledging her presence as any other guest. Then I turned back to my friends.
That simple gesture was louder than any slap. It signalled that, to me, Poppy no longer existed as a rival; she had become a faceless function irrelevant to my affairs.
She paled, clenched her jaw, and fled toward the staff exit.
Watching her go, I realised the world is remarkably fair and logical. Often the one who brands you a dullgray mouse fails to see how quickly they fall into their own trap. It isnt revenge; its natural balance.
Six months later my business went international, opening doors I never imagined. While checking my inbox one evening, I read a message from an old university mate:
Can you believe it? I saw Poppy Bell yesterday. Shes working as a receptionist at a gym on the outskirts. Apparently she was kicked out of the restaurant after the scandal. She tried to borrow money from me, whining that everyone betrayed her and the worlds unfair
I closed the laptop, feeling neither triumph nor pity. Poppys story was no longer mine.
The next day, passing a shop window, I caught my reflection a confident woman who knew her worth and kept moving forward.
I recalled Poppys mantra about a sparkle in the eye and pricey shoes. My shoes were indeed costly, but the true sparkle now lived in my eyes, born not of glittering accessories but of selfrealisation.
It came from recognising my own power, from understanding that real value lies not in what you wear but in what you create with your mind and hands.
I walked into my office, where a challenging new project awaited on my desk. Sitting down, a faint smile tugged at my lips.
The dullgray mouse never turned into a fierce cat; she became exactly what she always was at heart a quiet, keen hunter who values information and waits patiently for the right moment.
That moment has arrived.
Lesson:Your worth isnt measured by the labels others slap on you, but by the quiet competence you build and the integrity you keep when the spotlight fades.
