After Years, We Forget Each Other

I hadn’t even made my first move yet, but Zara had already struck. Two hours after I finished packing, my phone rang sharply. It was Tristan, his voice thick with anger.

“Linda,” he barked, “all I did was reward my employees with bonuses and you just had to send a message scolding them?”

He paused, seething before continuing, “I’m the owner of this company—do I not even have the right to manage my own employees? You’re always saying you understand me. Is this what you call understanding?”

In the background, I could hear Zara’s exaggerated sobbing and the hushed voices of employees offering comfort.

I rubbed my tired eyes, feeling a wave of bitter exhaustion wash over me.

“You’re overthinking it,” I said calmly. “It’s only ten million dollars. That’s pocket change—I couldn’t care less about it.”

“What Zara chooses to say is her business. If you believe her, that’s on you. Don’t bother calling me.”

Before he could respond, I hung up and immediately deleted his follow-up messages demanding that I apologize to Zara.

***

Later that evening, I heard the hum of his car outside. When I stepped out in casual, comfortable clothes, Tristan’s face darkened immediately.

“Tonight is the company's celebration banquet,” he scolded, eyeing my outfit critically. “And you're wearing this?”

Before I could respond, the passenger-side window rolled down, revealing Zara’s youthful, delicate face. She stuck out her tongue playfully.

“Oops! Sorry, Mr. Muller,” she said with a sweet giggle. “I totally forgot to remind Mrs. Linda about the dress code.”

I gave her a polite, indifferent smile.

“When you get older,” I said lightly, “it’s hard to compete with a little girl when it comes to dressing up.”

I turned to Tristan, my tone sharp yet calm.

“With a secretary as beautiful as yours, there’s no need for me to bother keeping up appearances, right?”

His intended scolding caught in his throat and he stayed silent. Since Zara made no move to switch seats, I opened the back door and settled in without hesitation.

***

On the drive to the hotel, Zara prattled on endlessly, bragging about the lavish gifts she had received over the years—river-view villas, extravagant jewelry and more. Every word was a dagger wrapped in honey.

I could see the discomfort etched on Tristan’s face as he attempted to interject, probably hoping to smooth things over. But I effortlessly steered the conversation in different directions, making it impossible for him to say anything meaningful.

When we arrived, a hotel valet greeted Zara with a respectful bow.

“Mrs. Muller,” he said smoothly, clearly mistaking her for the boss’s wife.

Before I could react, Tristan grabbed my arm and hurried me toward the corridor, his tone frantic.

“Don’t overthink it,” he pleaded. “Zara is just a subordinate—nothing more.”

His voice softened. “Today is our five-year wedding anniversary. I didn’t forget. I brought you here to celebrate and cheer you up.”

I studied the desperation flickering in his eyes and suddenly found myself laughing. “I’m not upset,” I assured him, keeping my tone light. “Don’t overthink it either.”

“You go ahead. I need to make a quick phone call.”

Relieved, he nodded and disappeared into the banquet hall. The moment he was gone, I dialed my lawyer.

“Please expedite the divorce agreement,” I said firmly. The lawyer requested several details about the division of assets.

I provided every answer without hesitation.

***

When I finally entered the private room half an hour later, the scene before me was both predictable and nauseating.

Young female employees surrounded Tristan, giggling as they raised their glasses in toast after toast. He accepted each one with a forced smile, clearly struggling to maintain composure.

At the sound of my footsteps, the women froze, their faces flushed with embarrassment. One of them hurriedly spoke up.

“We’re just thanking Mr. Muller with a toast, Mrs. Linda,” she explained nervously. “Nothing else—please, have a seat...”

Before I could respond, Zara waved dismissively, her tone syrupy sweet.

“Oh, come on,” she chimed. “Mrs. Linda isn’t some insecure twenty-year-old, right? She’s far too gracious for that.”

She turned to Tristan, her smile bright and fake.

“Mr. Muller always says Mrs. Linda is generous and kind!”

With a playful laugh, she added, “But honestly, Mr. Muller is just as generous! Look at all the bonuses he’s given me over the years. My girlfriends are so jealous—they want to quit their jobs and join our company!”

I didn’t flinch. Not anymore. Because soon, neither Zara nor Tristan would be my concern.