He Mocked Me for Not Having a Job
He mocked me in front of his friends for not having a job. They didn’t know I owned the company they all worked for—right up until I fired them.
I stayed silent through another evening of their cruel jokes. “Can’t even land an entry-level position,” one of them laughed, like it was a punchline they’d been practicing.
My husband, James, laughed the loudest, clinking glasses with his colleagues. The irony was almost delicious. I’d hired the firm that hunted each of them. Tomorrow, that same firm would help me clean house.
The crystal glass felt cool against my palm as I watched them from across our marble-floored living room. Five men in tailored suits, all senior executives at Reynolds Technologies, all handpicked by me through layers of shell companies and discreet hiring firms. And James—my husband of eight years, their VP of Operations—leading the chorus of mockery like it was his birthright.
“Remember when she tried interviewing at Reynolds?” James continued, loosening his tie. “God, I wish I could’ve seen that train wreck.”
If only he knew that “interview” had been my quarterly inspection of middle management, carefully orchestrated through my labyrinth of holding companies. I’d built Reynolds Technologies from the ground up twelve years ago, before I even met James. The company had been my first love—my redemption after watching my father’s small business crumble under corporate raiders.
“At least she’s persistent,” chuckled Michael from Marketing. “How many rejections this month?”
“Lost count,” James smirked, reaching for the thirty-year-old Scotch I’d bought. My Scotch. Everything in this house—the art on the walls, the imported furniture, even the fancy watch on his wrist—was paid for by the company he thought had rejected me.
I took another sip of water, maintaining my practiced mask of quiet humiliation. The same mask I’d worn when I first met James at a charity gala. Back then, I’d already learned the hard way that success attracted parasites. Three failed relationships with men who saw me as their ticket to luxury had taught me caution.
So when I met James, I decided to experiment. I presented myself as a struggling freelance consultant, driving a modest car and living in a small apartment. James had seemed different at first—supportive, even warm. But as soon as we married and he moved into what he thought was our house, the mask began to slip.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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