This Week Said “New You”? No. Try Again.

Monday morning hit me like a frying pan to the face.

I groaned as my alarm blared, the obnoxious sound drilling into my skull like a jackhammer. My body was sore, my head pounding, and my soul… traumatized.

Why?

Because my weekend wasn’t just a mess.

It was a damn dumpster fire.

First, my boyfriend of five years—Ethan, the man I thought I’d marry—cheated on me with my best friend. And not just any best friend.

Mia.

My ride-or-die.

My other half.

My “hubby,” as I always called her.

The girl who had been with me for eight years of my life.

The one who cried with me when my dog died.

Gone.

Just like that.

No apology. No explanation. Just two traitors in heat, leaving me single, betrayed, and emotionally unemployed.

And just when I thought I had hit rock bottom, I decided to get drunk and drown my sorrows in whiskey shots and bad decisions.

Which led to the highlight of my Sunday:

Sex. With. A. Stranger.

I buried my face into my pillow and groaned.

“No. Nope. We’re not thinking about that today,” I muttered, dragging my hungover body out of bed like a zombie with anxiety.

It was Monday.

A new day. A new week.

A new chance to pretend I didn’t climb a heartbroken man like a tree and let him call me Mama while we did things that would make a nun faint.

I shuffled to the bathroom, stared at myself in the mirror, and said out loud,

“What happens in that hotel room… stays in that hotel room. Just like that proverb says—what happens in Rome stays in Rome. That night was just the handiwork of tequila, not my own personal act. So that’s gone.”

Deep breath.

“New week. New me. No Ethan. No Mia. No sexy strangers. Just Emery. Fresh, focused, and emotionally available for absolutely no one.”

I clapped once and pointed at my reflection.

“Let’s go, bitch. Let’s drown my past—this time in work, not alcohol. Because I’m definitely quitting alcohol. For real.”

⸻

I got to work exactly three minutes late but managed to slide in without catching attention. Valentine Beauty Group—my workplace—was buzzing as usual. Cubicles filled with people pretending to be productive. Coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Smiles faker than I*******m filters.

Yes, I was one of them too.

I worked at Valentine Beauty Group—a massive cosmetics company responsible for half the lipsticks in every influencer’s purse and 90% of my self-esteem issues.

My job? I was on the marketing team. Not the glamorous part that gets flown to Paris or goes viral on TikTok. No.

I mostly handled product descriptions and helped draft social media captions. You know, stuff like:

“Kiss Me Coral – a lipstick so flirty it might text your ex back.”

I also sat through painfully long meetings where grown adults fought over whether to name a new eyeshadow “Nude Temptation” or “Whisper Me Wild.”

It usually ended in a passive-aggressive group email.

I dropped into my chair, logged into my system, and took a long, meditative sip of iced coffee.

Okay.

Everything was back to normal.

I sat in front of my computer, already drafting another caption, lost in my work—

Until…

“General meeting in the main hall. Ten minutes,” said a sharp voice.

My team leader, Ruth, walked by with her usual clipboard of doom.

“Everyone. Mandatory. Adjust nicely—this one’s being broadcast live. The media will be there.”

The groan that rose from the room was universal.

“Is something wrong? Are we being sold?” my cubicle neighbor Grace whispered.

“What could they want to announce urgently that even the media had to be invited?”

“No idea,” I said, already grabbing my notebook. “But they better not be closing or selling this company. Where do we even start again?”

⸻

We all filed into the main conference hall—a big, intimidating space usually reserved for company-wide news, corporate scoldings, or stuff that ends in awkward silence.

The room was already filled with media companies setting up their cameras like we were about to launch a spaceship.

I took a seat at the back, because I’m allergic to attention and front-row trauma.

Mr. Hale, the chairman, walked in a few minutes later.

A very strict man in his early seventies, always dressed in soft suits and speaking like everything was business and only business. I respected him professionally… but we all feared him.

We were already panicking.

“Good morning, everyone,” he began, voice steady but with a hint of emotion.

“As many of you know, I’ve been at the helm of this company for over forty years. It’s been my life’s work—my second home.”

He paused.

Here we go.

“Today,” he continued, “I stand before you not just as your boss or the chairman of Valentine Beauty Group, but as a man who must accept that time is catching up. I’ve made the decision to retire.”

Soft gasps. A few murmurs.

He smiled faintly.

“But the company will remain in capable hands. I’d like to introduce my successor—my only son. The only person capable of taking over this mighty load. He’ll be stepping in immediately as the new Chairman and head of VBG.”

Polite claps.

Some people stood up to clap like their paycheck depended on it.

I clapped too… though my hands were moving on autopilot.

The media cameras zoomed in as the chairman raised his hand for calm.

“I present to you,” he said with a heavy pause,

“the new leader of Valentine Beauty Group—my son, Jason Hale.”

The double doors at the side of the stage opened.

And that was when it happened.

He walked in like he owned the room—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a navy three-piece suit so sharp it could cut glass. A silver wristwatch gleamed on his wrist, dark Cartier Panther glasses rested on his eyes, and he wore sleek black leather gloves.

Yes. Leather gloves.

They matched the outfit perfectly, giving him the air of a man who didn’t just touch power—he wore it.

Tall. Sharp-suited. Calm.

The air shifted the second he stepped into the room.

He removed his glasses, revealing a stare so cold and confident it could ice over a volcano.

The cameras clicked. The staff buzzed with excitement.

Some gasped. One girl behind me whispered,

“Oh. My. God. He’s cute. If this is my boss, I’m never missing work again.”

The room erupted into claps again.

Someone let out a low whistle.

Another fanned themselves with a notebook.

I blinked.

My fingers froze mid-clap.

There was something… familiar.

The jawline. The walk. The sheer, arrogant command in his presence.

But I couldn’t quite place it.

Not yet.

I just sat there, staring as the media zoomed in and the man of the hour adjusted the mic, his expression unreadable.

Then I stood up, pushing through the crowd to get a closer look—

And that’s when I knew and it dawned upon me that.

The fresh start I promised myself this morning was just my wishful thinking.

Today is just a continuation of yesterday.

So much for a fresh start.

Because this week—maybe even my remaining life in this company—wasn’t going to be normal either.

Not even close.