Chapter 38 #2
I force myself to meet his gaze even though my whole body wants to do what I always do: apologize, deflect, make myself smaller. “This is it, all over again. You only ever believe the loudest person in the room. You created an environment where men like Craig thrive, and women like me disappear.”
Patrick’s jaw tightens, his eyes hard as ice. “Careful. This isn’t a tribunal for your grievances. You’re making things worse for yourself. Rein in your emotions and stop trying to create a diversion.”
“No, I’m sick of being careful,” I say, voice trembling. “You know what? You’re worse than Craig. At least he’s obviously awful. But you—” Tears burn hot. “You enable him. You tell me to take responsibility when you’ve built a company where he never has to.”
“Georgie,” his voice drops into a growl.
“Don’t ‘Georgie’ me.” I lift my chin even though I’m shaking. “You created a place where I couldn’t possibly report someone like Craig. He stood there and said I had ‘women’s problems’ in front of twenty colleagues, and what? He got a quiet word in the stairwell.”
He frowns.
“I heard you. You gave him the benefit of the doubt and marched me in here like a criminal. That’s why people like me stay silent.”
“Enough. You don’t get to make this about Craig or whatever narrative makes you feel better. This is about the damage you caused.”
The damage I caused. Right. Not the damage Craig caused. Not the damage this company causes by protecting men like him.
“It’s all connected!” I take a step back, needing distance, but my hip catches the corner of his desk and I wince.
“Craig has twenty years of experience and a penis, so obviously everything he says is fact. But me? I could work a hundred hours a week, fix every bug, build every feature, and you’d still believe him over me.
Because that’s what you do. You believe the man who bulldozes his way through meetings over the woman who quietly does the work. ”
I press my palms flat against my thighs to stop them trembling, then immediately regret it because now I look like a child.
Tears blur the edges of his face, but I do not look away. I will not let him watch me cave. “Don’t worry about suspending me. I quit. I’m done trying to matter to people who’ve already decided I don’t.”
The silence that follows feels like falling.
My legs feel like jelly, but somehow, I move, one shuffling foot after the other, and make it to the door without falling over. Small victories.
I walk straight into two security guards.
They’re waiting, statues flanking the doorway as if I’m a threat to the McLaren empire.
Patrick’s office opens onto the C-suite floor. The entire floor has stopped pretending to work. They’re all staring.
I imagine Riri beside me, fierce and fabulous. “Hold your chin up, Georgie. Pretend it’s a bloody catwalk.”
But I can’t. The weight of all those eyes crushes me. Every stare feels like a hand on me, pressing down.
Roy appears at the end of the corridor, face white. “Georgie, what the hell?”
“I’m being suspended.” My voice sounds dead. “For the code change that Craig told me to push. But apparently that part doesn’t matter.”
His face twists. “You’re fucking joking.”
“Back to your desk,” Dylan the guard says to Roy, though his eyes flick to me apologetically. “Sorry, Georgie. We have to escort you out.”
“Want to handcuff me?” I say, half-joking, half choking on it. “It’s fine. I’ll go quietly. I always do.”
The corridor feels longer than it ever has. Someone’s heating fish in the microwave. The smell makes me gag. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to be sick.
That would really complete the story, wouldn’t it? “And then she vomited during her walk of shame.”
The lift stops at every floor, each ding a tiny executioner’s bell, opening doors on new audiences who step past with their coffee and earbuds. Some mutter “hi” as if offering condolences.
By the time we reach the ground floor, my face feels raw from burning. Every eye seems to have polished a stare just for me: curiosity, pity, judgment. Take your pick.
I can practically see the story being written behind their eyes: Did you hear about Georgie from IT? The one who was sleeping with Patrick? Sabotaged the whole system when he dumped her. Always the quiet ones, isn’t it?
Humiliation is a heat that burns right through you straight to the soft parts you spend your whole life trying to protect.
For years I measured my worth in problems solved, features built, the occasional “good work” buried in emails. I tried so hard to be useful, reliable, the one who never complained. The girl who made everyone’s life easier even when it cost pieces of herself.
I thought if I was helpful enough, I’d finally earn my place. That one day someone would look at all those solved problems and late nights and say: “You belong here.”
Now McLaren Hotels won’t remember any of that. They’ll remember this: the girl who got marched out by security.
For an anxious person like me, there’s no nightmare quite like this: every eye tracking my shame, the proof that I was never good enough marching me right out the door.
It was Patrick who made this humiliation happen.
I might love him, but I will never, ever forgive him.
This is what will remain when the love finally rots. Not the boat trip or the fishing or the ice bath or helicopter or lying in bed with him watching seagulls outside his window.
This. The guards treating me like a criminal. The receptionist pretending she can’t see me. The revolving door spitting me out onto the pavement like even the building wants me gone.
I don’t have my picture of Riri. It’s still at my desk, along with the coffee mug Roy had made that says keep calm and let Georgie do it and the spare flats I stash for emergencies.
My stress ball that’s been squeezed into oblivion.
My spare cardigan I keep on my chair for when the AC gets aggressive.
The little succulent in a hand-painted pot that Roy gave me for my birthday.
Two years of small belongings that made that desk feel like mine.
The succulent will die without me watering it.
I guess they’re the company’s now.
They’ll probably bin them. Why would anyone keep the remnants of someone who never really mattered?