04October2025
Today my friend called me a grey mouse with no cash. I could feel the sting of those words even as she stood at the door of the restaurant on my birthday, balancing a tray like she owned the place.
Maybe you just dont know how to sell yourself, Charlotte lazily stirred her cocktail with a straw, a glittering bracelet catching the light on her wrist.
She spoke with that casual, almost dismissive superiority that has long become her calling card.
It isnt about the presentation, I replied softly, staring at the crack in my cheap teacup. I simply lack the experience required for that role.
Experience, experience what a bore, Charlotte sighed theatrically. What matters is a sparkle in the eye and expensive shoes. You have neither.
Charlotte Belgrave gave me an appraising look that made me want to curl into a ball, as if I were being scanned and sentenced: redundant dispose of.
Listen, I really want to help, she leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. Youre my best friend. Who else will tell you the truth?
Silence settled over me. The phrase best friend lodged in my throat, sharp and foreign.
You must understand, in our world people are judged by their attire, but theyre let go by their connections. Youre a grey mouse with no cash. Until you accept that, youll wander from one deadend interview to the next.
Every word hit its mark, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
Im launching a small project, Charlotte continued, clearly enjoying my reaction. Well need people for the simplest taskssorting paperwork, greeting couriers.
She paused, letting the offer sink in.
I can take you on, temporarily, of course. Until you find something that truly suits you, she added, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
I looked up. In my eyes there was a calm steel, as if something inside had frozen into a cold stone. I stared at Charlotteher flawless hair, her disdainfully curved lips, the bracelet worth more than my annual salary. She was no longer a friend; she was a predator savoring my humiliation.
Thank you for the offer, I said slowly. But Ill decline.
Charlottes eyebrows shot up in surprise. She hadnt expected that.
Youre turning me down? From my chance? Her voice turned metallic. Fine. Just dont come crying later when you cant afford the rent.
She dramatically fished a few thick banknotes from her handbag and flung them onto the table, more than enough to cover the bill.
Your treat, she tossed over her shoulder and strode out, clicking her heels on the marble floor.
I sat alone, untouched by the money or the cooling tea. I watched the expensive cars glide past the window and, for the first time, felt not despair but a curious thrill.
The next morning that thrill hardened into a cold, pulsing energy. I had always been invisible, yet I could see and hear the things others rushed pastdetails, patterns, hidden motives. That was my only true capital.
Sitting at my battered laptop, I drafted a plan. I posted a service on a freelance platform: search and analysis of unstructured information. It sounded vague, but I knew what lay behind it.
The first months were hell: tiny jobs, capricious clients, payments barely covering rent and food. Several times I almost gave up, tempted to ring Charlotte. Yet the memory of her smug smile knocked any urge back down.
A breakthrough arrived after six months. A modest law firm hired me to gather competitor data for an upcoming case. I threw myself into the work 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.
Soon a modest stream of work flowed in. Within two years I rented an office and hired an assistant.
Charlotte still called now and then. Her life seemed a perpetual celebration.
Olivia, love! Im on a yacht in Monaco with the partners. How are you? Still stuck in your little office? she chirped.
Hello. No, not bored. Im working, I replied, scanning the latest clients financial statements.
Working? Charlotte elongated the word. Dont be shy, my girls on the go spot is still vacant. Youll bring coffee to my new assistant.
Earlier I would have recoiled. Now I simply shrugged.
Thanks, no need. I run my own agency, I said.
Agency? she laughed. An agency for floor polishing?
Her words no longer held any power.
Four more years passed. Yarrow & Partners occupied a sleek central London office with five analysts on staff. I was recognised in corporate intelligence. Then Charlotte struck.
Her firm, Belgrave Group, stole one of my key reports. She recruited a young, indebted employee, exploiting his weakness.
I gathered every piece of evidence, uncovered Charlottes financial holes, wasteful habits and fraud, and sent an impeccable analytical report to a potential investor.
The next day Charlotte called, screaming, Youve ruined everything!
I was just doing my job, I replied calmly.
Two more years slipped by. At a rooftop restaurant atop a glassclad tower we celebrated my anniversary. The room glittered, friends laughed, and among the waitstaff I saw Charlotte, tray in hand. Recognition flashed in our eyes: horror and hatred in hers, a cold calm in mine.
I looked at her without a trace of schadenfreude, merely acknowledging her presence as something ordinary. Then I turned back to my guests and continued the conversation.
That gesture was louder than any slap. It meant one thing: to me, Charlotte no longer existed as a person. She had become a faceless function with no place in matters that mattered.
She turned pale, bit her lip, and, trying to preserve what little dignity remained, hurried toward the staff exit.
I watched her go and understood: the world runs on a sensible, just balance. Sometimes the one who brands you a grey mouse ends up trapped in his own snare. It isnt revenge; its natural equilibrium.
Six months later my business had gone international, opening new horizons. One evening, while sifting through email, I found a message from an old university acquaintance:
Guess who I ran into? Kristina Belgrave, now a receptionist at a suburban gym. They say she was thrown out of the restaurant that night after the scandal She tried to borrow money, complained that everyone had betrayed her, that the world was unfair
I finished reading and closed my laptop calmly. I felt neither triumph nor pity. Kristinas story was no longer mine.
The following day, passing a shop window, I saw my own reflectiona confident woman accustomed to moving forward, aware of her worth.
I recalled Kristinas words about a sparkle in the eye and expensive shoes. My shoes were indeed pricey, but the real sparkle wasnt in them. It came from recognising my own power, from knowing that true value lies not in what you wear but in what you create with mind and hands.
I walked into my office, where a new, complex project waited on the desk. Settling into my chair, a faint smile curved my lips.
The grey mouse never became a predatory cat. She turned into what she always was deep downa clever, unnoticed hunter who values information and patiently awaits the right moment.
And that moment had finally arrived.
