She looked lighter than I remembered.
“How is everyone?” I asked.
“Busy,” she said.
Then she smiled.
“Gregory finally sits in on the rollout meetings now.”
I laughed.
“What changed?”
“You leaving.”
She stirred her coffee.
“He had to learn what you were actually doing.”
That landed more deeply than any revenge could have.
For years, I had wanted recognition from a man who benefited from not seeing me clearly.
Leaving forced him to see the shape of the absence.
But by then, I no longer needed the recognition.
I had something better.
A seat at the table where decisions were made before promises went out the door.
A financial stake in the work I helped create.
Colleagues who could disagree with me without treating me as disposable.
And, eventually, a corner office of my own—not because I cared about the glass or the view, but because the name beside the door represented something different.
One evening, long after everyone else had left, Chicago glowed outside the windows much the way it had the night Victoria first called me.
My inbox was full.
A client presentation needed revisions.
A staffing problem was waiting for morning.
The work had not become easier.
It had become mine.
I thought once more about Gregory pushing that salary sheet across his desk and saying, “Take it or leave it.”
He had meant the sentence as a threat.
In the end, I simply took him at his word.
I left it.
