The 4-hour Workweek Book Review Mga Nobela at Kwento

With a deep sigh, I cautioned myself to focus on work as the hum of the office chatter brought me back to reality. Days turned into weeks, and I got a night job at an all-day library and workspace," 24/7 WORK & READ," as a receptionist. I barely had time for myself anymore; working around the clock every day of the week was exhausting. Deep down, I knew it would be better to just get another job at a well-paying firm. So, that way, I would at least not need to work extra to have a decent paycheck.

"Then what is realistic?" "Forty hours. Maybe forty-five. To do three cases well." "That's still better than sixty." "But worse than thirty." "Sometimes worse than ideal is the best you can get." I hated that he was right. --- I spent the week thinking about it. Three cases. Forty hours. Still home most nights by 6:30 or 7. Not perfect. But sustainable-ish. Better than sixty-hour chaos. Worse than thirty-hour peace. The middle ground. Again. Friday, I met with Walter.

Her finances would suffer greatly too. It had been only 3 months at this job. And yet, during these 3 months, she had grown so much as an individual, and learnt how to be optimal during work hours. Indeed, as opposed to freelancing, which enabled her to be free to choose her hours, this was a full-time job with great responsibilities… And last and not least, she had the chance to see William at work, to be witness to his ruthless side which he had never shown her. The resolute way he handled pretty much everything, with a precision that came from years of expertise, added to his appeal…

Zero I passed the shelves, my fingers trailing on the pines as I walked, searching for the perfect book to read at work. I used to be a chronic addict of books when I was in college but now, being the CEO, sorry, acting CEO, I don’t even have the time to pick a book, but that changes now. Finally, my eyes stopped on one book, just as I was about to grab it, a masculine hand reached out for it and grabbed it. My gaze rests on him, disappointment simmering in my blood. But then his sharp jaw line distracts me.

You should know when your work matters. Seven words. Sent on a Sunday evening by a man who didn't send Sunday evening messages, who communicated in instructions and single words and the specific economy of someone for whom every syllable was a considered expenditure. Seven words that weren't really about the work at all. She sat on her floor with her phone in both hands and her book forgotten beside her and the Sunday city outside doing its quiet thing and felt something move through her chest that was warm and large and completely impossible to file under anything manageable.