“You’re just a washed-up has-been,” sneered the manager as he dismissed me. Little did he know, I was due to dine that very evening with the man who owned his entire company.
“We regret to inform you that your services are no longer required, Irene Spencer.”
The voice of my manager, Geoffrey P. Crooks, oozed false sympathy. He lounged in his leather chair, twirling an expensive fountain pen between his fingers like a conductors baton.
“Reason?” I asked flatly, keeping my voice steady, though inside, my blood had turned to ice.
Fifteen years with this firm. Fifteen years of reports, projects, sleepless nights. All erased in a single sentence.
“Streamlining the workforce,” he said, smiling as though he were delivering good news. “New challenges require fresh blood. Im sure you understand.”
I understood perfectly. Id seen his so-called “fresh blood”his wifes dim-witted niece, who could scarcely string two words together without a spelling mistake.
“I only understand that my department has delivered the highest returns in this branch,” I replied, meeting his gaze squarely.
His smile faltered, twisting into something predatory. He set the pen down and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Returns? Be honest with yourself, Irene. Youre yesterdays news. The old guard. Its time to step aside, let the younger generation take over.”
He paused, savoring the blow.
“Youve become a tired, bitter relic clinging to a position youve outlived. This company needs drive, not dead weight.”
There it was. Not “valued employee,” not “company veteran.” Just plain and simplewashed-up has-been.
I stood without a word. Pleading, arguing, justifying myself to this man was pointless. His decision had been made long before this meeting.
“Your final paperwork and severance will be processed by HR,” he called after me as I turned to leave.
I packed my belongings under the pitying stares of my colleagues. No one approached. Fear of Crooks ran deeper than any workplace camaraderie.
Into the box went the photo of my son, my favourite mug, a stack of professional journals. Each item felt like an anchor ripped from my life.
Stepping through the glass doors of the office building, I inhaled the crisp evening air. No tears, no despairjust a hollow ringing in my ears and a slow, simmering fury.
I pulled out my phone. A message glowed on the screen:
*”Still on for tonight? Seven oclock at our usual place. Regards, James A. Thornton.”*
Crooks had no idea. Tonight, I was dining with the man who owned his entire company. And by morning, everything would change.
The restaurant welcomed me with soft music and muted lighting. I felt out of place, clutching a cardboard boxthe symbol of my exile.
James was already waiting at our usual table by the window. Tall, impeccably dressed, he rose with his usual warm smileuntil his eyes landed on the box.
“Irene? Whats this?”
“My trophies. Fifteen years of loyal service,” I said, forcing lightness into my tone, though bitterness seeped through.
Silently, he took the box, set it aside, and pulled out my chair.
“Tell me. Now.”
And so I did. Calmly, precisely, as though delivering a boardroom report. I recounted every word Crooks had said, sparing no detail.
“He called me a washed-up has-been,” I finished, staring at my hands resting on the white tablecloth.
James said nothing. When I looked up, his expression was unreadable, but in his eyes, something dark and dangerous flickered.
“And you just walked away?” he asked quietly.
“What else was I to do? Cause a scene? Beg to keep the very role I built from nothing?”
“You should have called me. Immediately.”
“So you could fix it for me? So I could come running like some helpless girl? James, thats not why Im with you.”
He took my hand.
“I know. Thats exactly why I *am* with you. You never ask for anything.” He exhaled sharply. “Ive had whispers about Crooks before. Complaints about his arrogance, his nepotism. But they were always anonymous, unsubstantiated. Now I have proof.”
At that moment, my phone buzzed. A message from my former assistant, Emily, in the team group chat:
*”You wont believe this. Crooks just introduced his protégéthat airheadas our new department head. And about Irene? He said theyd cut loose the dead weight holding them back. Said it right in front of everyone.”*
I handed the phone to James. His face hardened as he read.
“He didnt just fire you. He publicly humiliated you. Thats not just a personal insultits an attack on this companys leadership. Hes crossed a line.”
James set the phone down.
“I wont sack him with a phone call. Thats too easy. Tomorrow, theres a board meeting. Crooks is presenting his successful restructuring.”
A pause. Steel glinted in his eyes.
“Youll attendas my special advisor. Youll deliver a counter-report. Facts, figures, everything hes been hiding. Well let him hang himself with his own rope.”
I barely slept that night. Bent over James laptop in his study, I worked with a focus I hadnt felt in years. Not shamedetermination.
By dawn, I had twenty pages of damning evidence. Not just incompetencesystematic sabotage. Inflated reports, sidelined projects, a toxic culture that had driven out top talent.
When we entered the boardroom, Geoffrey Crooks was mid-celebration. Seeing us, he froze. I wore a perfectly tailored slate-grey suitarmor for the battle ahead.
“Mr. Thornton?” Crooks stammered. “Why iswhy is *Irene Spencer* here? She no longer works for this company.”
“Youre mistaken,” James said coolly, taking his seat at the head of the table. “Ms. Spencer is here as my advisor, to evaluate your departments efficiency. Do continue. You were just explaining this dead weight theory of yours.”
Crooks paled. His gaze darted around the room, but the board members only watched him with icy interest.
“II was referring to strategic realignment” he fumbled.
“Excellent,” James cut in. “Then lets hear an alternative perspective. Ms. Spencer, the floor is yours.”
I stood. All the bitterness of yesterday had crystallized into razor-sharp clarity.
“My department delivered twenty-two percent net profit last quarterseven above target. Yet according to Mr. Crooks reports, we were a drain on resources. Question: Where did the missing three million pounds go?”
Slide after slide exposed his lies. Doctored figures, sabotaged contracts, testimonies from those hed bullied out.
“Now, about that fresh blood,” I said, locking eyes with Crooks. “His protégé botched a key client pitch yesterday by confusing EBITDA with EBIT. A deal *I* spent three months securing. Losses? Half a million. Minimum.”
Crooks shot to his feet, face purple with rage.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” he spat. “Sleeping with the CEO doesnt make you untouchable! I fired you, you washed-up bitch, and Ill do it again!”
A stunned silence. One board member, a silver-haired man, recoiled in disgust.
“Sit down, Mr. Crooks. Youre making a spectacle of yourself.”
I turned to him slowly and smiledcold, calm.
“You wont fire me. Because the board is about to vote on two motions. Firstyour immediate termination for gross misconduct and fraud.”
I let the words hang, watching panic twist his features.
“Secondmy appointment as Vice President of Operations. Proposed by the majority shareholder. Pack your things, Geoffrey. Security will see you out.”
He stood gaping, slack-jawed, until James murmured, *”Security.”* Two broad-shouldered men in suits entered.
Only then did Crooks snap back to life, thrashing, screaming about injusticebut they escorted him out swiftly, silently.
When the door shut, James turned to the board.
“All in favor of appointing Irene Spencer as VP?”
Not a single objection.
—
The next morning, I walked into my new office. My first order? A full audit of HR policiesespecially dismissals of employees over forty-five.
That evening, James arrived with two glasses and a bottle of wine.
“To the new VP,” he said.
We stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, London glittering below.
“This wasnt just about revenge, was it?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I admitted. “I want a company that values skill over birth certificates.”
He turned me to face him.
“I have a proposal. We make brilliant partners, Irene. In every sense.”
From his pocket, a velvet box.
“Marry me.”
I looked at him,
