Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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CRISS-CROSSING MY LEGS, I ROLL my ergonomic chair closer to my desk, flex my fingers, and begin typing the resignation letter I've talked myself out of writing for the last eight months—ever since I started this god-awful job.
Sometimes, when I really should be busy crunching numbers for him, I stare at a blank document instead, itching to list every professional grievance—you wouldn't believe the shit I've had to deal with—and the ten creative ways he can shove my "notice" up his ass.
But I never do.
The unhelpful voice that lives in the back of my head coerces me down off that proverbial ledge every single time. You didn't accumulate forty-thousand dollars of university debt just to quit, it whispers, sure of itself.
Today, however, the voice is silent, and my brain clicks off, every pent-up ounce of blind rage bubbling up and spilling over within me. For the first time, I offer no resistance.
Dear Mr. Griffin,
It is with (absolutely no fucking) regret that I write to inform you that I'm resigning as your personal assistant at Elevated, effective immediately.
The thought of returning tomorrow, of having to interact with him again, makes me feel physically sick. I already know exactly how it will go—our routine has become, well, routine.
Every morning, I fetch him an oat milk latte from his favourite cafe—a ten-minute fast-paced walk in the opposite direction—and I always arrive a perspiring, bedraggled mess. The beachy waves I spent so long trying to perfect have fallen out before I've even reached the air-conditioned lobby downstairs. After a few weeks of this, I gave up on curling my blonde hair altogether.
Still, every morning, without fail, I enter his office, smile at him, and place his reusable KeepCup on his desk, hoping today's the day he has the decency to appear somewhat grateful I exist. To acknowledge what a pretty damn amazing employee I am.
He never does.
His gaze rarely wavers from his sleek desktop monitor. I can literally count on one hand the number of times he's looked at me. And I don't think I've ever heard the words thank and you muttered in the same sentence, at least not when directed at me.
Worse, I shouldn't even be here tomorrow. I should be in Perth, seeing my family for the first time in two years. With all the border closures, I haven't been back to visit them. I cleared it with him—and HR—six months ago, not long after I joined Elevated.
When I reminded him of that this morning, of my forthcoming personal leave, as I carefully set his coffee beside his keyboard, he grunted—not even sparing me a cursory glance—the words, "Yeah, that's not going to work."
