Late at night, drowning in paperwork dumped by my overbearing boss, I got a call that shattered everything—my mother was getting married, and I wasn’t invited.
I didn’t know what hurt more: the secret… or the fear of what—or who—she was hiding.
I was at my desk in the office, eyes tired, neck stiff, fingers aching from a full day of typing numbers and rewriting the same report three times.
The glow of my monitor flickered across the pile of unfinished paperwork, casting long shadows on the desk like crooked fingers pointing out all I hadn’t done.
Outside the window, the sky had turned a deep indigo. Streetlights blinked on, one by one, like they weren’t quite sure if it was time yet.
The hum of the fluorescent lights above buzzed low, adding to the weight pressing down on my shoulders.
I reached for my coat, finally ready to call it a night, when the door creaked open. In walked
Michael—my boss.
Mid-50s, always in a crisp shirt like he ironed it with a ruler, and eyes that looked right through you like you weren’t even there.
He had that kind of calm that made you nervous.
Without a word, he dropped a fresh stack of reports onto my desk. Papers fanned out like an avalanche.
“Need this done tonight,” he said, cool as ever.
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