Post-apocalyptique

Right after I am done with a meeting, I scroll through social media and come across a warning post with my company's location tagged. The title reads, "Avoid this place! Anyone who comes here is a sucker. The company is so stingy that it can't even provide decent snacks." The photos show the Starbucks drinks and five-star desserts I just asked my assistant to distribute to everyone. I frown and tag everyone in the group chat, asking for suggestions about the teatime snacks. A Gen Z intern, Alice Grimes, immediately sends a voice message, "No offense, Ms. Knox, but these mass-produced desserts are full of trans fats. Even dogs wouldn't eat them. A good company would hire Kitchelin chefs to cook on-site. Now that's called having true respect for employees." I laugh in disbelief. My company spends 50 dollars per person on daily tea time, which is considered top-tier in the industry. So, I reply, "Since it's hard to please everyone, we'll cancel teatime from now on and convert it into a cash allowance for everyone." Less than five minutes later, there is a new update in the social media post. "Guys, you won't believe this. I made a reasonable suggestion, and the petty boss just cut our teatime perk! This is how a typical capitalist behaves. They can't handle any honest feedback."

On our third wedding anniversary, I waited for Xander Christian for five hours at his favorite restaurant. Once again, he has disappeared. In the end, I found out where he went on the social media of his childhood sweetheart, Josie Law. He took her to Antartrica. [I just said I was in a bad mood, so he ditched the whole world just to cheer me up. Turns out, he cheers me up much more than the penguins.] In the photos, it was all icy and frosty, but he held her gently in his arms. I had never seen such blazing warmth in his eyes. Not once was it ever directed at me. At that moment, I was just tired. I was too tired to question. I was too tired to fight. I was too tired to cry. I simply liked the post and sent him a short message, [Let's get a divorce.] A long time later, he finally replied with a voice message, his tone was full of careless amusement, "Sure. I'll sign the papers when I'm back. We'll see who ends up begging me not to leave." Those who were loved and favored were often fearless. He didn't believe my words at all. Yet, Xander— No one was truly indispensable. People would only stay because they were in love. From this moment on, I no longer loved you.

Late that night, I came across a post online. [I've been with my boyfriend for seven months. Out of nowhere, he dumped me, saying I got eliminated from the girlfriend selection. That's when I found out that in their rich social circle, it's normal to date a dozen girls at the same time, score them regularly, kick out the lowest, and pick the best one to marry.] It sounded so ridiculous. I couldn't help but jump into the comments and tear into the guy. Then I saw a reply from my boyfriend's secretary, Ayla Butler. [Well, considering his status, it's only fair. For high-value men like him, a selection process makes sense.] I rolled my eyes so hard that it almost hurt. I was just about to fire back when I heard the front door open. Fred Thompson and I had been together for five years. He had always been attentive, gentle, and endlessly patient. I had already made up my mind that the moment he proposed, I would tell him the truth about who I really was, the daughter of the richest man in the country. I never expected to catch a glimpse of his phone lighting up with a message. [You hooked up with Ayla again today? Gave her such a high score, too. Keep this up, and Hannah's gonna lose!]

My father suffered a heart attack and collapsed. Emergency treatment required the installation of a cardiac stent. I asked my husband to approve an expense of 10 thousand dollars for the surgery. Cameron Lister, the CEO, refused coldly, "The company and family accounts have been frozen recently because of a major project. Your father has medical insurance, so just use a cost-effective domestic stent for now." He was the sole administrator of all the bank cards in my family. His reply made me sorrowfully realize something. Even though I was a genius architectural designer with an annual income of 600 thousand dollars, I was still not worthy of choosing a better life-saving device for my own father. It was a Twitter post forwarded by a colleague, freshly and gleefully posted by the company intern Wendy. [Cameron is so nice. I just said I liked painting, and he gave me a million dollars to organize an art exhibition. I love him so much!] I looked at my father lying on an extra bed in the hospital corridor, groaning in pain, and then looked at the photo of them sweetly embracing each other. I finally understood that Cameron had perhaps never truly loved me. He had only treated me as a stepping stone for his soaring career, and as a tool for him to exploit without limits. 'If this is what you want, Cameron, then don't blame me for being ruthless,' I said inwardly.

My parents have invited all of their relatives and friends to our villa for a nice gathering to celebrate their golden anniversary. Isabel Atkinson, my wife who works as a model, suddenly calls me on the phone and claims that she needs to attend an urgent meeting hosted by her client. Before it's my turn to give a speech on the stage, my assistant suddenly hands my phone over to me. "Mr. Marsh, you might want to take a look at this…" The screen shows a social media post made by Miles Horton, an intern designer at our company. "At this moment, she belongs to me and me only." In the photo, Isabel can be seen sitting in a dimly-lit room. A few plain-looking dishes decorate the table. Her hair is slightly messy, but she continues to smile at the elder next to her. A cold, mocking smile appears on my face. It turns out that her so-called emergency meeting is a family gathering with Miles. I leave a comment in the comments section. "The food looks pretty tasty. I'd like to visit you next time." Chaos erupts on the social media feed instantly. Isabel calls me immediately. "Why are you being such a phony? You'd better delete the comment right now!" I just chuckle coldly as I end the call. Then, I send her a copy of the divorce papers I've drafted. Since Miles' matters are clearly more important to her, then she can forget about coming home forever.

My father, a lone werewolf, had come all the way from the Obsidian Pack while battling an illness, to attend my union ceremony with Dean Willows, Alpha of the Moonstone pack and CEO of Willows Industries. It was my father's last wish to see me get married before he died. He was elated that his dreams were finally coming alive. Unknown to him, I had arranged a fake marriage with Alpha Dean. I had knelt outside the Willows mansion for many hours with my father's medical records in hand, begging him profusely before he finally agreed to play along in this wedding charade. But when the full moon rose high in the sky, Dean abandoned me, leaving me to face the pack's judgment alone. My father's heart gave out the moment he saw me standing there, all alone without my so-called mate. While taking his final breath at the hospital, he whispered to me in warning: "Arianna , beware of the Moonstone Pack..." and gave up the ghost. My heart was heavy with grief. I then saw Dean's childhood sweetheart, Vivien Cross, post on social media: "Only the unloved one is the third wheel." That was the last straw. I sent Dean a breakup message, severing our union. He responded by bringing the she-wolf, Vivien to our apartment, flaunting his new alliance.

On the day of my 30th birthday, my CEO wife, Sabrina Langford, leaves hurriedly at 3:00 am. She claims that there's something urgent going on at the company and that she won't be home the whole day. Later on, Timothy Cross, the low-income university student that Sabrina has been sponsoring, updates his social media feed. In the photo, I see Sabrina standing at the side of the road in a bikini. Two big apples are balanced on her 36D bust. The caption of the photo is, "The beautiful and hot CEO has personally come over to my house to help me sell the homegrown apples. You'll regret it if you don't buy these apples from me!" My brows are drawn into a frown immediately. When I call Sabrina, the call goes through rather quickly. "I told you I'm very busy at the company right now. If you disturb me again, I'm not going to forgive you this easily!" After that, Sabrina ends the call. But right before the call gets cut off, I can hear a car honking in her background. I'm not mad at her at all. She likes helping others to sell fruits, right? I might as well lend her a helping hand. So, I share the social media post to the company's group chat. The message I've drafted is, "Does anyone here want a batch of rotten apples? I'll even throw in a second-hand wife for free."

As I head to see my boyfriend, Howard Schultz, who is working late, I get into a car accident. I call him dozens of times for help, but he doesn't answer a single one. Staring at his brightly lit office building not far away, I sink into despair. When I wake up in the hospital, I see a post from his subordinate. It's a picture showing the reflection of the two of them in the glass door, standing far closer than they should, with the caption, "What do I do when my boss is scolding me late at night?" Unwilling to believe it, I call him again. This time, he finally answers. My voice trembles. "Howard, I got into a car accident…" "Celine, I'm still working. I'll send my assistant to take care of it, okay? Be good. I'll see you after I come back from my business trip." I try to say more, but his angry shout suddenly cuts through the line. "Crystal Jennings! You're only allowed to bring one suitcase for this trip. Why do you have three? Do you think we're going on vacation?" Crystal Jennings—the new intern Howard just hired. I stare at the disconnected call, tears drying on my cheeks. I then call my parents instead. "I agree to the engagement you arranged."

Le jour où j’ai appris que Robert avait laissé tomber tout ce qu’il faisait pour apporter des médicaments à sa petite assistante enrhumée, alors même que j’étais coincée dans un ascenseur, en proie à une violente crise de claustrophobie, j’ai pris ma décision : demander le divorce. Robert a signé les papiers sans la moindre hésitation, puis a plaisanté devant ses amis : « Elle fait juste un petit caprice. Ses parents sont morts, elle n’a personne d’autre que moi. Elle ne pourra jamais divorcer. » « Et puis, il y a bien un délai de réflexion de trente jours, non ? Si elle change d’avis, je serai magnanime et je la laisserai revenir. » Le lendemain, il a posté une photo de couple avec sa petite assistante sur les réseaux sociaux, avec une légende pleine de suffisance : « Capturer chacun de tes moments précieux. » De mon côté, je comptais les jours en silence. Calmement, j’ai rangé mes affaires et composé un numéro. « Tonton, peux-tu m’acheter un billet pour ville N ? »

To take care of my paralyzed mother-in-law, I quit my job and spent three years as a full-time househusband. That day, after cleaning up her waste, I hid in the bathroom with a cigarette between my fingers and came across a post on my wife’s boss’ Instagram. [You’re meant to be with me in the end. Since that freeloader can’t give you happiness, let me take you to the paradise of Maldev.] Above the caption were two plane tickets. Someone commented below. [That homemaker husband of hers is definitely clinging onto her. After all, she’s his meal ticket.] The boss replied. [Don’t worry. Tonight she’ll go home and come clean. She’ll say the company was caught falsifying accounts and is facing massive fines, and that she might need to serve jail time. [To keep that guy from getting dragged into it, the only option is divorce. He’s as timid as a mouse and will take any chance to flee.] I stared at the screen, stunned, until the cigarette burned my fingers. Ten minutes later, my wife rushed home, panic written all over her face. She dropped her bag on the floor. “Honey, something’s gone wrong with the company’s finances. They’re accusing us of falsifying accounts. I was solely responsible for the accounts. I might need to serve 10 years in prison, plus fines of more than ten thousand dollars. “We need to sign the papers before they seize our house. I don’t want to drag you and mom into this.”