I didn’t know what to say. My brain felt like it had dropped its connection. All I could do was stare.
Her name was Paloma. Mid-thirties, quiet but assertive, with the kind of presence that made people stop mid-sentence when she entered a room. She’d nailed her interview—degrees in finance, strong references, even worked at a competitor firm two years back. She’d looked like a perfect fit on paper.
And I hired her.
Now, sitting across from me, she was telling me that not only was she married to my emotionally manipulative ex, but she knew all about our past and still wanted this job.
“I’m not here to make drama,” she said finally. “But I figured we should talk face to face, so there’s no confusion.”
She stood up, smoothed her blouse, and walked out.
And for the next two weeks, I didn’t know what the hell to think.
I watched her in meetings—sharp, articulate, a little intense but never inappropriate. She didn’t gossip, didn’t hover, didn’t make waves. If anything, she was better than expected. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of walking barefoot through a room full of broken glass. Every time she said “good morning,” I flinched just a little.
Then one Thursday, near closing time, I walked past the staff kitchen and heard her on the phone. I wasn’t eavesdropping, not really—she was practically shouting.
“I told you,” she said. “No. I’m done talking about it, Abed. You don’t get to rewrite things.”
I froze.
She caught me standing there. For half a second, her eyes flickered with something—maybe embarrassment, maybe regret. Then she hung up and walked past me without a word.
The next morning, she called in sick.
A week passed. Then another.
When she finally came back, she’d lost weight. Not drastically, but her cheekbones looked sharper. She wore flats instead of heels. And she no longer said good morning.
One afternoon, she emailed me asking if we could talk. I said yes.
This time, she didn’t sit down. She stood in my office doorway, arms crossed.
“You were right,” she said simply.
I didn’t ask what she meant. I think part of me already knew.
She told me Abed had been cheating. That he’d been tracking her phone, reading her messages, even threatening her about “what kind of stories she’d bring into his workplace”—meaning, apparently, me. It had escalated fast, and she’d moved into her sister’s place two nights ago. She didn’t cry. She didn’t tremble. She just told it straight, like reading a weather report.
Then she said something that stayed with me: “I thought I was smarter than you. I thought you were the dumb one for falling for him. But now I know I was just later.”
I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.
From that point on, things between us shifted. Quietly, respectfully. We weren’t friends, not exactly. But a kind of truce formed. A recognition.
She stayed at the firm. Worked hard. Even got promoted within the year.
But here’s where it gets strange.
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