Four

​"S&Lu Corp is here to discuss the vegetable supply chain, Ms. Smith. I’ve squeezed them into the lunch slot; it’s the only window your schedule allows."

​I didn’t look up from the tablet in my hand. I simply let the name hang in the air—S&Lu. It was a bitter, ironic brand, a testament to my own stupidity. Sara and Lucas. I had been the one to brainstorm the name over a cheap bottle of wine in our first year of marriage. I was the one who had stayed up until 3:00 AM drafting their first business plan. And I was the one who had used my father's shadow—without his permission—to convince vendors that S&Lu was a safe bet.

​I had been the engine, the fuel, and the navigator. Lucas had simply been the man behind the wheel, taking all the credit for a journey he hadn’t mapped.

​"Let them come," I said, my voice as cool and polished as the marble desk I sat behind. "Let them wait in the reception area. And Rachel? Do not offer them coffee. I want them to feel every minute of their own insignificance."

​Rachel, my new secretary, nodded with a sharp, professional efficiency. She didn't ask questions. In the three days since I had stepped into the role of Executive Director of Smith Inc.'s Retail Division, I had cultivated an aura of untouchable frost. The "shop assistant" who used to apologize for breathing was dead. In her place was a woman who wore a four-thousand-dollar Chanel suit like a suit of armor.

​Once Rachel left, I turned my chair toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Smith Tower. Chicago sprawled out beneath me, a kingdom of gray and glass. I opened the cooperation file between S&Lu Corp and Smith Inc.

​The numbers were staggering in their mediocrity. S&Lu was barely breaking even, kept afloat solely by the massive contract they held with our shopping centers.

​I chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. I had spent three years worrying about rent, while my father was subsidizing my husband’s ego just to keep me within reach.

​"Time to pull the plug," I whispered to the glass.

​I spent the next hour meticulously stripping the contract apart. I looked for the clauses I had written myself—the ones intended to protect Lucas. Now, I looked for the loopholes. I found them in the "Quality Assurance" and "Price Volatility" sections. I was going to turn his own safety net into a noose.

​At 1:30 PM, Rachel buzzed the intercom. "They’re becoming quite restless, Ms. Smith. Mr. Anderson is insisting on seeing the Director."

​"Send them in," I said. I stood up and walked to the large mirror in the corner of my office. I checked my reflection. My hair was pulled back into a sleek, unforgiving bun. My lipstick was a shade of red that looked like dried blood. I didn't look like a wife. I didn't even look like a human. I looked like a reckoning.

​I sat back down, turning my chair so that my back was to the door.

​The heavy oak doors creaked open. I heard the familiar, confident stride of Lucas’s loafers on the hardwood, followed by the clicking of stiletto heels. I could almost smell the arrogance radiating off them.

​"Good afternoon," Lucas said, his voice booming with that artificial, 'big-shot' charisma he loved to project. "I must say, we’ve been waiting quite a while. I hope you realizes that S&Lu Corp doesn't usually—"

​

​"Thank you for waiting, Mr. Anderson. Ms," I said. My voice was a low, dangerous purr.

​I felt the air in the room turn to ice. I could hear Lucas’s breath hitch. Slowly, with a deliberate, agonizing lack of haste, I rotated my chair.

​The silence that followed was visceral. Lucas’s face didn't just go pale; it turned a sickly shade of gray. His eyes widened, darting across my face, my suit, and the nameplate on my desk: Sara Smith, Executive Director. Beside him, Jennifer—the blonde woman from my bed—looked like she’d been struck by lightning. Her mouth hung open, her hand instinctively flying to cover it. She was wearing a dress that cost more than my old monthly salary, but in this room, she looked like a child playing dress-up.

​"Please," I said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of my desk. "Have a seat. We have a lot to discuss."

​"Sara?" Lucas gasped. His voice was a thin, pathetic reed compared to the man who had yelled at me three days ago. "What... what is this? Some kind of joke?"

​"It’s Ms. Smith in this building, Mr. Anderson," I replied, leaning forward and interlacing my fingers.

​"I’ve reviewed your performance reports, Mr. Anderson," I continued, flipping open the file with a casual flick of my wrist. "And frankly, I’m disappointed. Your vegetable supplies have seen a 12% increase in rejection rates due to quality issues. Your pricing is no longer competitive. And your management..." I paused, giving him a slow, pitying look. "...is lacking in basic foresight."

​"Sara, listen," Lucas said, leaning forward, trying to regain some semblance of his old charm. He reached out as if to touch the desk, then hesitated. "I didn't know. About your family. If I had known, things would have been different. We can fix this. We’re a team, remember? S&Lu."

​"S&Lu is a dead brand. It died the moment you changed the security code on a house I paid for," I said. The coldness in my voice seemed to vibrate the glass on my desk.

​"We were just having a rough patch!" he stammered, casting a nervous glance at Jennifer, who was now shrinking into her seat. "Every marriage has them. I was stressed. I didn't mean those things."

​"You meant every word," I countered. "You called me a 'waitress.' You told me I had nothing to offer but a paycheck. Well, here I am. Offering you exactly what you asked for. I’m no longer your wife. I’m your landlord. I’m your primary contractor. And as of five minutes ago, I am the person who is terminating your agreement with Smith Inc."

​Lucas surged to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor. "You can't do that! That contract is the only thing keeping us alive! We have loans, Sara! We have overhead!"

​"Then I suggest you find a way to pay them," I said, standing up to meet his height. Even in heels, I was shorter than him, but in this room, I towered over him. "Because as of the end of this month, Smith Inc. will no longer be accepting shipments from S&Lu Corp. We are moving our business to a more ... reputable ... provider."

​Jennifer finally spoke up, her voice shrill with desperation. "But Ms. Smith, you can't just destroy a business over a personal grudge! That’s illegal! It’s—"

​"It’s business," I snapped, turning my gaze to her. "And if you want to talk about illegal, Ms. Jennifer, perhaps we should discuss the 'consultation fees' Lucas has been funneling into your personal account from company funds. My auditors are very thorough."

​The color drained from her face. She looked at Lucas, who was now shaking—not with rage, but with pure, unadulterated fear.

​"I want everything back, Lucas," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that was far more terrifying than a shout. "The house, the car, the three years of my life you treated as a down payment for your ego. You have forty-eight hours to vacate the apartment. If I find so much as a stray hair of yours left behind, I will sue you for every penny you’ve ever touched."

​I sat back down and picked up a pen, a clear signal that the meeting was over.

​"Rachel?" I called out. The door opened instantly. "Please show these ... people ... out. They were just leaving."

​Lucas opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the ground crumble beneath his feet. He turned and walked out, his shoulders slumped, his 'big-shot' persona shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Jennifer followed, her crimson heels clicking frantically and hollowly against the floor.

​I watched them go through the reflection of my monitor. I expected to feel a surge of joy. I expected to feel a weight lift. Instead, I felt a cold, hollow satisfaction.