Maci | A New Job

"I want a fucking divorce, Maci."

The words sliced through the air and I felt them like a slap. I’m frozen, rooted to the floor and I can’t force anything out of my mouth, that hangs open. Mike’s face is twisted, wearing an expression I barely recognize, smug, almost satisfied, like he’s been waiting for this moment just to watch me fall apart.

“You… you want a divorce?” My voice wavers, barely audible. “After everything? After all I’ve put up with?”

“Yeah.” He crosses his arms and shrugs like he’s discussing the weather, not imploding my shitty world. “Look at you, Maci. Look at what you’ve become. I don’t even know who I am when I'm with you anymore.” He lets out a dismissive laugh. “Honestly, I met someone else months ago. Some things just fit better than others.”

My stomach churns. Months ago? While I was working extra shifts, taking on every pathetic freelance job I could get to save for our future? While I was shrinking myself, giving up on things that mattered to me just to keep this, us, stable?

“A… someone else?” I feel my throat tighten. “Where? Who?”

“At the gym,” he says, the words laced with a kind of careless arrogance that makes me sick. “You wouldn’t know her.” He gives me a once-over, eyes lingering on me with thinly veiled disdain. “She’s… driven, passionate, takes care of herself.”

The implication lands like a punch to the gut. Takes care of herself. The dig is blatant, cruel. My fists clench, nails biting into my palms and I fight to keep my voice steady. He’s calling me lazy? After everything I’ve endured, sacrificed, what I’ve done to keep us afloat, and this is what he’s doing? Before I could escape, before I had the guts to do it.

“Why are you doing this?” It feels like I’m choking on the words, humiliation bubbling up to steal my breath. It’s not just the betrayal, it’s the way he’s looking at me. I would say with pity if I didn't know him better, like I’m a nuisance. Like every shared moment, every promise, even the tiny slivers of happiness we managed, were all lies.

“I’ve tried…” my voice is barely holding together. “I’ve tried so hard to make us work, be what you wanted, to hold this…us together.”

“Maybe that’s the problem Maci” his voice dripping with disdain. “You trying so hard just makes everything worse. It’s… exhausting.”

Exhausting. That’s what I am to him. The weight of his words crashes over me, breaking apart whatever fragile dignity I had left. The shock fades, replaced by something cold, something that hardens inside me. I straighten, the numbness settling into place. There’s no need to beg for anymore of an explanation. This is who he’s always been, it’s just another thing to put me through.

“Fine” I’m surprised at how strong the words sound, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “You want a divorce, let’s do it. I’m done trying for someone who doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve me.”

For a split second, his smirk falters, like he didn’t expect me to agree. But he recovers, shrugging. “Good luck, Maci.” Sounding like a threat more than anything.

He turns on his heel and stalks out, not even sparing me a glance back. Then I’m alone, surrounded by the silence he’s left behind. I can feel the weight of it pressing down on all sides of me, crushing me until I can feel myself crumple inwards. My knees give out not able to hold up under the pressure, I sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself as the tears streak down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting.

I don’t know how long I embrace the floor like an old friend, feeling hollowed out. Slowly the tears slow and I can finally pull myself up. The world feels colder like the seasons have changed in my small space, but as I wipe away the last of my wetness on my cheeks, there’s a tiny spark right in my core. Fragile, barely there, but it’s mine. I’ve got one thing left, the determination to build something for myself. To prove that I’m more than the limits he tried to cage me within, physically and mentally.

This moment is still raw in my mind as I step off the bus, rain pouring down in sheets, soaking me within seconds. I barely feel it. All I can think of is what today represents, my one chance to break free, to prove I’m more than what Mike ever made me feel. Today, I’ll show them what I’m made of. I’m done making myself small. Today, I’ll take the first step toward something real, something that’s mine, and mine alone.

The rain is unrelenting, pounding down in a way that makes the world feel alive and desolate at the same time. My umbrella gave up before me and flipped in the wind two blocks back, perfect. Now I’m drenched, because of course I didn’t bring a coat, shivering, and desperately hoping my mascara hasn’t smearing down my face. I cling to my portfolio, knuckles white against the worn leather, trying to keep the binder dry, so at least that is presentable even if I look like a drowned rat. This is really not how I’d manifested the day going.

Today is supposed to be my break, my moment. I have a chance to prove myself in front of Wintermere & Co., this isn’t just any agency, this is THE agency. Landing a job here means an end to scraping by. No more 3am finishes, freelancing for barely enough to cover rent, no more wishing I’d just stayed in my hometown where everything felt easy and predictable. But I’d left all of that for a reason, dreams of making it, finally on my terms.

I haven’t told anyone about the interview. No one at the coffee shop, not my mom, definitely not Mike who I have only spoken to through lawyers since that day. After leaving my hometown so desperate to start over, all I’ve wanted is to build a life that was all mine. Moving to the city with no connections, no savings, and only a half-baked plan isn’t something most people recommend. But I’m here, hustling to make it work, even if it means taking on sad freelance jobs that barely pay enough to cover groceries, while working in the coffee shop to keep me afloat each month. 

My mom thought I was insane for leaving a perfectly stable job at the local newspaper, but she doesn't understand. Small-town life, with its predictable routines and whispered judgments from rumours Mike spread, I had to escape. I want more from my life, something thrilling and unpredictable. I want to be creative, to let my ideas and imagination finally be put to good use. I’m not destined to add text to adverts for the local gardener.

Things haven’t exactly gone according to plan. Rent in the city is a beast, and with the deadlines and rejections, freelancing is just another form of chaos. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Mike was always saying “Not everyone is meant to do great things Maci, it’s time to settle”, screw him. Today feels like a glimmer of hope, like proof that maybe I’d been right to take the leap. This interview is the chance, I am clinging to it to convince myself it’s been worth it. If I can get this job, I won’t just be scraping by, I’ll finally be thriving. I might finally feel like I belong here. Everything I've sacrificed will be worth it.

I check my watch, half-jogging towards the towering glass doors. Three minutes to spare. I’ll just make it. It’s a small relief considering my luck this morning, my first bus hadn’t turned up, I didn’t have any spare money for a taxi and the second bus had broken down a 15-minute walk away. It’s like fate is trying to test me before I even get to the interview.

Pausing by the window, I catch my reflection, a drowned version of myself that has a laugh bubbling up. My chestnut hair is a mess of damp waves hanging to the middle of my back, wispy strands sticking to my cheeks and neck, and my pale skin looks so washed out in the dim light. The shirt I’ve chosen, a classic white blouse, is plastered against my skin, emphasising every crease and fold and now almost see through, great. It’s clinging to every lump, bump and curve, the black pencil skirt that I snagged from a thrift store last minute is running what looks like dye down my skin-coloured tights. Ok so it’s not the polished image I’d envisioned, but there was no way I’m giving up now.

My heart picks up, as I smooth my blouse, close my eyes and repeat a mantra.

They will love you for your talent Maci.

They will love you.

They will love you.

Beneath the nerves, a familiar pull of tension curls like a spring in my chest. This isn’t just about impressing the HR manager I have been emailing. This is about proving to me that I am more than just another small-town girl with big dreams and no follow through. I am more than my trauma; I can survive anything and thrive. Forcing in a breath, I push my shoulders back in a show of totally fake confidence and step through the revolving doors. The reception desk is right there. Game face on, while I’m trying to calm my racing heart as I baby step towards the receptionist.

Walking through the sleek, marbled lobby, I am questioning every choice that had led me to this point.

The receptionist turns my way; her gaze lingering just a beat too long on my soggy blouse and dripping hair. I give her my best I-swear-I’m-not-usually-like-this smile, but she doesn’t reciprocate.

“Maci Carter?” Her voice is as crisp as her suit, and her crimson lips barely move when she speaks.

“That’s me” I manage with a dazzling, teeth showing smile, still clutching my portfolio like a lifeline.

She nods, already looking away as she tapped something on her screen.

“Mr. Wintermere will see you now. Third floor”

My heart stammered to a stop. Mr. Wintermere? I was told I’d be meeting with the hiring manager, not the Founder, CEO and OWNER of the goddamn company. I wasn’t even sure Thorne Wintermere actually existed; I had never even seen a picture of him. I am not prepped to meet someone at his level, my blouse is see-through, my mascara creating rings of grey on my lower lids, and…great now my chins wobbling. I am about to meet a real life billionaire, the man who built this empire from scratch and beg him for a chance.

I start to desperately try and school my nerves into submission, but I’m frozen on the spot. The receptionist looks back to me with a curl of her top lip, letting me know that I absolutely don’t belong here.

“How do I get to the third floor and where do I go?” I can’t keep the wobble out of my voice. She doesn’t even reply, just flicks her head slightly over her left shoulder and then looks back to her screen.

I take small steps now my legs are like jelly and find a bank of elevators. I press the button, and one is already on the ground floor making me jump with a loud ding. In the short elevator ride the anxiety is clawing at my stomach, I can’t take a full breath. I cannot possibly impress this man, his talent is renowned, he’s ruthless and totally no holds barred with his decisions and opinions. Great, my chin is wobbling again.

The elevator doors open, another ding signalling my arrival. I am on the third floor, and quickly realise why she didn’t tell me where to go. There is no reception desk, no assistant outside, just a vast expanse of the city skyline. From what I can see this whole floor is just two spaces, a huge open room with floor to ceiling windows and the comfiest looking sofas inlaid in the floor in the middle of the space and on the one solid wall, a short corridor with a single, solid wood door with a frosted glass window.

I make my way across the space, my kitten heels sounding like gunshots in the empty room. It takes a day, two hours, 10 seconds to reach the corridor, times lost all meaning, just bundled up in the pit of anxiety that is building from my gut and now crawling across my skin. I make it to the door, and I don’t hesitate, because this now feels like a car crash reaching its final, horrifying destination. I reach up my shaking fist and knock, so gently. The sound barely audible over the rain beating against the huge panes of glass. It will be a miracle if he hears it, I am hoping he doesn’t so I can find the nearest bathroom to breakdown in.

“Come in,”

His voice, oh my god it’s so deep I can feel it in my chest, as if it had grown roots and settled into the earth itself. It sends a shiver skittering up my spine and I tell myself that’s the chill from the rain and will file that feeling away for later. Steadying myself, one more deep breath, I open the door.