I Won't Accept Your Remorse
I spend eight years being Ashton Clark's secret girlfriend, bending over backward for him like a maid. It takes the company's cleaning lady to finally make me see the truth.
Late that night, while working overtime, I place some stomach medicine and a bowl of warmed seafood chowder on his desk.
"Eat while it's warm, Mr. Clark. Don't let your stomach flare up again."
His eyes stay glued to the financial reports on his screen. He doesn't even bother to grunt an acknowledgment.
I reach out to push the bowl a little closer to his hand.
Nearby, the cleaning lady emptying the trash suddenly stops.
"Save it, sweetie. Mr. Clark already ate something someone else brought him. The fancy lunchbox is sitting right here in my bin."
My hand freezes mid-air.
Ashton's fingers pause over his keyboard, his brows knitting slightly.
Even a woman in her 50s who just quietly cleans the office every day can tell that he doesn't love me.
Looking down at that bowl of chowder, I suddenly feel like the last eight years of my life has been nothing but a joke.
I pick up the bowl and dump it straight into the trash. "Right. Mr. Clark's tastes have changed."
That's the last time I ever put him at the top of my list.