**Diary Entry 30th April**
“You’re just a washed-up failure,” sneered my boss as he dismissed me. Little did he know, I had a dinner reservation that evening with the man who owned his entire company.
“We have to let you go, Irene Spencer.”
The voice of my manager, Geoffrey Pritchard, oozed false sympathy. He lounged in his leather chair, twirling an expensive fountain pen between his fingers like a conductors baton.
“Reason?” I asked calmly, though inside, everything had turned to ice.
Fifteen years with this firm. Fifteen years of reports, projects, sleepless nightsall erased in a single sentence.
“Restructuring,” he said, grinning as if hed just handed me a lottery win. “New challenges, fresh blood. You understand.”
Oh, I understood. Id seen his “fresh blood”his wifes airheaded niece, who couldnt string two words together without a typo.
“I understand my department has the highest performance in the branch,” I replied, meeting his gaze.
His smile flickered, turning predatory. He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Performance? Lets be honest, Irene. Youre yesterdays news. Time to retire, tend to the grandkids.”
He paused, savouring the blow.
“Youve become a tired, old has-been clinging to your desk. This company needs energy.”
There it was. Not “valued employee,” not “company veteran.” Just a blunt, brutal verdict: *washed-up failure.*
I stood without a word. Arguing was pointless. His mind was made up.
“HR will handle your severance,” he called after me.
Under the pitying stares of colleagues, I packed my things. Not one of them dared approachfear of Pritchard outweighed any office friendship. Into the box went my sons photo, my favourite mug, a stack of trade journals. Each one felt like an anchor torn from my life.
Stepping out into the London evening, I inhaled the crisp air. No tears, no despairjust hollow clarity and a slow-burning rage.
Then my phone lit up. A message:
“Still on for tonight? Seven at our usual spot. Daniel Whitmore.”
Pritchard had no idea. Tonight, I was dining with the owner of his entire company. And by the end of it, everything would change.
The restaurant greeted me with soft piano music and muted lighting. I felt out of place, clutching that cardboard boxmy scarlet letter.
Daniel was already waiting by the window. Tall, impeccably dressed, his usual warm smile faltered when he saw the box.
“Irene? Whats this?”
“My trophies. Fifteen years of loyalty,” I said lightly, though bitterness seeped through.
He took the box, set it aside, and pulled out my chair. “Explain. Now.”
So I did. Coldly, precisely, as if reciting a board report. Every word Pritchard had said.
“He called me a washed-up failure,” I finished, staring at my hands on the linen tablecloth.
Daniels face was unreadable, but his eyes darkened.
“And you just *left*?”
“What should I have done? Begged? Thrown a tantrum?”
“You should have called me.”
“So you could fix it? So Id come running like some helpless girl? Daniel, thats not why Im with you.”
He took my hand. “I know. Thats exactly why I *am* with you.” His voice hardened. “There have been whispers about Pritchardnepotism, bullying. But rumours arent proof. Now they are.”
My phone buzzed. A message from my former assistant, Emily:
“Cant believe this. Pritchard just paraded his niece as our new boss. Said theyd cut dead weight holding them back. IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.”
I handed the phone to Daniel. His expression turned to steel.
“He didnt just fire you. He publicly humiliated you. Thats not just an insultits a breach of corporate integrity.” He leaned in. “Tomorrows board meeting. Pritchards presenting his restructuring success. Youll attend as my special advisor. Youll dismantle himwith data.”
I worked through the night in Daniels study, fueled not by despair but cold determination. By dawn, I had a twenty-page dossier proving Pritchard wasnt just incompetenthed been sabotaging the company. Inflated figures, buried projects, a trail of resignations.
When we entered the boardroom, Pritchard was mid-speech. He froze at the sight of me.
“Mr. Whitmore? Why iswhy is Irene Spencer here? She no longer works here.”
Daniels voice was ice. “Youre mistaken. Ms. Spencer is here as my advisor to evaluate your departments *efficiency*. Do continue. You were discussing dead weight.”
Pritchard paled. The board watched, silent.
I stood. “Last quarter, my team delivered twenty-two percent profitseven above target. Yet Geoffreys reports listed us as *costly*. Wheres the missing thirty million?”
Slide after slide exposed his lies. Forged reports. Lost contracts. Testimonials from bullied staff.
“Now, his fresh blood.” I locked eyes with Pritchard. “His niece botched a client pitch yesterdayconfused EBITDA with EBIT. That deal took me three months. Losses: half a million.”
Pritchard shot up, face purple. “Who the hell do you think you are?! Just because youre shagging the CEO”
The board chairman cut in, disgusted. “Sit down, Geoffrey. Youre embarrassing yourself.”
I smiled. Cold. Quiet.
“You wont fire me. Because the board will vote on two motions. First: your termination for gross misconduct.”
I let that sink in.
“Second: my appointment as VP of Development. Proposed by the majority shareholder. Pack your things, Geoffrey. Security will escort you out.”
He stood gaping until two men in suits led him away.
The vote was unanimous.
A year later, I reviewed the annual report from my new office. Profits were up forty percentbut the real pride was the seven specialists Pritchard had axed for being “too old,” now reinstated.
Emily popped in. “Saw Pritchard. Hes a delivery driver now. Dodged me when he recognised me.”
I nodded. No gloating. Hed made his choices.
My wedding to Daniel had been quiet. We didnt flaunt our relationship, but the company knew we were a team. Strategy was his; operations, mine.
I no longer needed to prove anything. I just did my joband was happy. Age wasnt a stain anymore; it was an advantage.
My phone buzzed. A text from Daniel:
“Dont work late, Madam VP. Surprise waiting at home.”
Smiling, I turned off the light. On my desk, framed, was our wedding phototwo people whod found each other not in spite of their past, but because of it.
A failure? Hardly. Id just decided no one else would write my story.
**Lesson learned:** The best revenge isnt rageits rising so high they need binoculars to see you.
