Chapter Thirteen

It was still dark outside when Alison sat up in bed, knees pulled to her chest, blanket kicked to the floor like it had betrayed her too. Her eyes burned from crying—though the tears had long stopped. There was nothing left. Just that hollow weight in her chest that refused to lift.

Michelle was fast asleep, curled up in her own bed across the room, breathing softly, unaware of the storm unraveling just feet away. Alison turned her face toward the wall, hiding from even the silence.

She hadn't closed her eyes all night. How could she? The image kept replaying. Ralph. Jane. The kiss. His surprise when he saw her standing there. And then everything that followed—his voice sharp with betrayal, his accusations, her own fury flaring so fast it scared even her. The things he said. The way he looked at her. Like she was disgusting. Like she was nothing.

She bit her lip until it almost bled, trying to swallow the memory. But it clung. Her body felt sore from holding everything in. Her pride was somewhere crushed under the weight of it all. Her dignity? She wasn't sure it still existed.

She stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. And then—slowly—she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood. No words. No dramatic tears. Just a decision blooming inside her like a bruise.

She couldn't go back. Not after that. Not after he looked at her that way. Not after the whispers that would eventually start, the looks, the questions, the shame.

She was done.

She moved slowly across the room, pulling out her work bag, rummaging through her drawer for a clean envelope. She found one. It didn't matter that she hadn't typed anything yet. She'd write it later. For now, she just needed the act of holding something that proved she still had control over her own life.

When the letter was done—neat, simple, no explanations—she slipped it into the envelope, pressed it shut, and laid it gently by her keys.

Michelle stirred but didn't wake.

Alison walked to the small mirror by their wardrobe. Her eyes were swollen. Her hair unbrushed. She didn't care.

She breathed in deeply. Then again.

Then she whispered to her reflection, not to convince it, but to remind herself: "You're not staying where you're not respected."

It was nearly 6 a.m. when she stepped outside, the early morning air slapping her cheeks like truth. She didn't take a cab. She walked to the nearest bus stop, letter tucked deep into her bag, like a secret she was still trying to believe.

Each step hurt, not because of the weight of her feet, but because of the weight of her choice. She hadn't just lost a job. She'd lost something else. Something she didn't even have a name for.

But she kept walking.

The office floor was bathed in silver-blue light. Fluorescent strips hummed overhead, but the silence was louder. It was too early for anyone to be here—just the way Alison wanted it.

She stepped in, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble, echoing down the empty hallway. Her bag weighed heavier than usual—not because it was full, but because of the envelope it carried. The resignation letter. Her way out.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached the elevator. She pressed the button, felt the air shift behind her, as if the walls themselves were watching.

Why does it still hurt?

Because she'd started to care. And that was her mistake. She forgot who he was. She let herself believe he saw her as more than a distraction.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped in alone. No awkward greetings. No polite small talk. Just her and her decision. The moment it reached the top floor, she breathed in deeply.

One more step.

She moved to Ralph's office. The door was, as always, slightly ajar. She pushed it gently, walked in like a ghost. His chair was empty. His desk still smelled faintly of his cologne—clean, sharp, masculine. It caught her off guard for a second, and she had to steel herself before reaching into her bag.

She brought out the envelope and placed it carefully on the center of his desk, adjusting it like she was laying a piece of herself there. Which in a way, she was.

Her eyes lingered on it.

Then she turned around and walked out, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

Her desk was just a few strides away. She sat, the silence hugging her like a goodbye. Slowly, she began to gather her belongings. Nothing dramatic. A few books. A mug. A framed photo of her, Jayden, and their aunt—back when things were still okay.

Her colleague from across the floor—a woman from HR named Miriam—walked past, then paused. "Alison? You're packing?"

Alison didn't look up. "Just… clearing clutter," she muttered, eyes fixed on the desk drawer.

Miriam tilted her head, sensing the lie but knowing better than to push. "Well... okay. See you in the break room later?"

Alison nodded with a tight smile. "Sure."

Miriam walked off.

As Alison reached for her pen holder, someone turned the corner—tall, slim, familiar.

Jason.

His eyes lit up slightly in surprise. "Ali? You're here early."

She forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… wanted to beat traffic."

But Jason's eyes drifted to the half-packed box beside her desk. He wasn't stupid. "You're leaving, aren't you?"

Alison didn't answer. She just lowered her eyes.

Jason stepped closer, his voice softer. "Is it him?"

That made her look up.

"I mean," he added quickly, "I've seen how cold he can be. I used to wonder how you kept your smile working with someone like him."

Alison chuckled dryly. "I guess I ran out of smiles."

Jason hesitated, then smiled faintly. "How about dinner? Just as friends. I know I'm not your type, but I can be your comfort food for a night."

She shook her head. "Thanks, but no. I'm not really in the mood to go anywhere."

He nodded. "Then I'll bring dinner to you. Home address?"

She raised a brow, but after a moment, gave it to him. He smiled, wrote it down carefully.

"I'll come by at seven. No pressure. Just food."

Then he left—like he always did, quietly, respectfully.

Alison sat back, looking at the desk that had once felt like purpose, now just another place she didn't belong.

She had no idea what Ralph would say when he walked in and saw her letter.

But part of her didn't care.

And the other part?

The part still aching? That part was already saying goodbye.

Ralph stepped out of the elevator, blazer sharp, jaw tighter than usual. He hadn't slept much—just hours of silence and shadows, tossing in bed with Jane's lipstick still staining his shirt cuff and Alison's broken expression etched behind his eyelids.

He hadn't meant for her to see that kiss.

Hell, he hadn't even wanted it.

He was going to tell her. He was going to finally admit what he felt.

But now…

He adjusted his watch and walked down the hall, ignoring the low hum of chatter ahead. He didn't care for office gossip. Usually.

But today, the name "Alison" floated from the break room like a static buzz—and he paused.

"She was packing her stuff this morning," Miriam's voice carried, low and gleeful. "Tried to lie, but I saw the box. Heard she dropped something on his desk."

"Resignation?" someone whispered.

"Can you blame her? That man is a tyrant."

"Still... she was kinda his favorite. She got the promotion, didn't she? Weird timing."

Ralph's fingers curled into his palm. Favorite? Promotion?

He stepped in, his shoes announcing him like thunder.

Miriam turned, startled. "Oh—good morning, Mr. Lauren."

The others froze like kids caught stealing sweets.

He didn't break stride. "Morning," he said coolly, walking past them without so much as a glance.

He could feel their eyes on his back. Their assumptions. Their small, bitter truths mixed with wild, wrong guesses.

But none of them mattered.

He walked straight to his office, heart low in his chest.

Please let her be here. Please let it all be just gossip.

He opened the door. Empty. The room felt cold. Still.

Then he saw it. The envelope. White. Neatly placed at the center of his desk like a wound dressed in silence.

He didn't move at first. Just stared. The smell of her perfume still lingered in the air. Light. Feminine. Faint.

He stepped closer, picked up the envelope, and turned it in his fingers. Her handwriting. Clean. Careful.

He opened it. And there it was.

Her name. Her resignation. Formal. Polite. And final.

He sat down slowly, the letter trembling just slightly in his hands. This wasn't just a resignation. This was goodbye. This was her choosing to run. Because of him.

Because she saw Jane's lips on his and thought—what? That he never meant any of it? But he did.

He was going to tell her. He was going to choose her. He already had.

Last week, when the design team told him she had an eye for graphics, he had signed off on her joining the confidential Dubai pitch—his biggest account of the year. She was already on the list. The promotion email was scheduled to go out today.

And now? Gone.

He dropped the letter on the desk, leaned back, and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Did she really think he was using her? Did she think so little of what they shared? Or was it something else entirely… something worse?

Was he just another man she let in her bed while someone else held her heart?

Anger. Shame. Regret. It boiled together in his chest, tight and ugly. He wanted to scream. To call her. To demand answers.

But all he did was sit there—alone in that cold, quiet office—wishing he had stopped Jane. Wishing he had kissed Alison instead.

Wishing he hadn't let her walk away.