Leaving Was the Best Promotion I Got

Eliza's POV

My supervisor didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at my pale face, sighed with a hint of regret, and signed his name.

“You can leave after you finish your handover this week,” he said. “I won’t tell Mr. Thompson. No need for him to make things harder for you. Besides, your position isn’t high enough to report to him directly anyway.”

Relief washed over me. “Thank you, Supervisor.”

Right after submitting the form, my phone lit up with a message from Sean.

[How’s your waist? I bought some medicine. I’ll put it on for you tonight.]

This was how he always apologized—indirectly. Whenever he knew he’d gone too far but couldn’t bring himself to say sorry, he’d offer this kind of half-hearted gesture.

I used to think that was affection. I would even take the chance to tease him a little.

Now I realized, it was nothing but a way to keep me within reach—his little reward to keep me obedient.

So, I replied, [Don’t bother. I've already booked a masseuse.]

As usual, the team was hosting a celebratory dinner for the promotion, yet I used my massage appointment as a polite excuse.

But before I could leave, Yvette grabbed my arm, eyes full of wounded innocence.

“Eliza, do you look down on me for beating you out of the promotion? Is that why you’re refusing to come?” she asked softly. “Anyone else can skip it, but not you. I want your genuine blessing.”

I frowned and drew in a breath to respond.

But the same Sean, who had just agreed to let me go, suddenly spoke up on her behalf.

“Everyone else is going. It wouldn’t look good if you’re the only one skipping,” he said. “Don’t be so petty. As a senior, you should show some grace. Don’t let others laugh at you.” Then he also added, “You can get a massage any day.”

I froze, and bitterness rose in my throat.

I should have known long ago how cold he truly was, because whenever something, or someone, more convenient or more beneficial appeared, my feelings never mattered.

When I was twenty-three, in my second year living away from home, he promised to spend my birthday with me. I cooked and waited for him all night.

But when I finally called, I heard a girl crying beside him.

Yet, he didn’t apologize or explain. He only blamed me for caring too much about “just a birthday.”

Yvette’s mother had died giving birth to her. So, birthdays reminded her of that, making her sad.

So for the next five years, he never celebrated my birthday. He wouldn’t even let me celebrate it myself, either, not even on social media, because it might upset Yvette.

He always said it was all for appearances.

Yet when no one was watching, he still wasn’t willing to give me even the smallest bit of affection.

Now, seeing my supervisor subtly urging me with his eyes to let it go and not make trouble, I relented.

Fine. I would treat it like a farewell dinner.

At the restaurant, the two of them sat side by side. In her sleek business attire and his tailored suit, they looked perfect together.

Some people were simply out of reach, no matter how much you chased after them.

So when my colleagues joked about how good they looked together—“a perfect match, a natural pair”—I just smiled and nodded along.

“They do look good together,” I said. “Their age, looks, family backgrounds—everything fits.”

The moment the words left my mouth, both Sean and our VP, Henry Clarke, who’d been chatting with him earlier, froze.

In the past, whenever people joked about pairing him with Yvette, I couldn’t hide my discomfort. Sometimes I’d pretend I didn’t hear. Sometimes I’d just sit there stone-faced.

But today, I felt nothing, just like a bystander watching someone else’s story.

Basking in the compliment, Yvette lit up, casting me a triumphant glance.

Eventually, someone brought up the topic of marriage and settling down. Yvette quickly grabbed the chance and turned the spotlight on me.

“My dad’s been pushing me to get married. I’m going crazy,” she said dramatically. “I heard you have a boyfriend you’ve been with for years, but still haven’t married. You’re twenty-eight already. Doesn’t your family pressure you? Teach me your secrets. How do you deal with all that nagging?”