Making the CEO Kneel and Beg: I won’t Let Him Control Me!

“Why do you always have to be so dramatic? Fine—stay mad if you want. I’m done with it.”

With that, he left, slamming the door behind him. Moments later, I heard his car engine rev up and fade as he sped away, leaving the house in silence.

I exhaled slowly, only then realizing I’d been holding my breath. But this time, my sigh wasn’t one of fear or sadness—it was a release, a quiet vent for the anger I’d been holding back.

In the past, whenever Raymond stormed out like this, I’d break down, calling him again and again, apologizing for things I’d never done wrong, desperate to bring him back. I’d twist myself in knots, taking on all the blame, just to calm him down.

But where had that gotten me?

Nowhere.

Now that I could finally see things clearly, I recognized the pattern: he’d blame me, or ice me out whenever I didn’t fall in line.

It was a constant, endless game where I was always the one at fault.

I felt a wry smile tug at my lips—a bitter laugh, mostly at myself. How desperate had I been?

I took a long shower and crawled into bed. That night, for the first time in our entire relationship, he didn’t receive a single missed call from me.

Wherever he was going, I’d let him go.

*

The next morning, as I stepped out of the bedroom, I noticed the door to Raymond’s study slightly ajar. Passing by, I glimpsed him asleep on the sofa inside, a book draped over his face. He’d already changed into his nightclothes.

Was this his way of showing he expected an apology from me?

I shook my head.

Ah, whatever.

I ignored him and headed to the kitchen.

When I began preparing breakfast—though not for two, since my injured arm slowed me down—I heard footsteps descending from the second floor.

“Make me an apple pie before 4 p.m.,” Raymond ordered abruptly, barely glancing my way. “I've told the HR. No need for you to go to work today.”

I nearly dropped the spatula when I heard him.

Making an apple pie had been a tradition I’d started when we first began dating. I’d baked one from my late grandma’s recipe for his birthday, just as she had always done for mine.

I had to hold back a scowl at his order, maybe because of the dismissive tone I was finally noticing. Or, MAYBE, it was because my arm was still in a sling, making the task he’d just demanded next to impossible—something anyone could see, especially him.

A faint buzz came from his phone. I didn’t need to ask who was actually ordering that pie.

Since I was kind of thrown by his request, I stood silent for a while, letting the tension in the room build. Per usual, Raymond didn’t seem to notice or care. Instead, he was waiting expectantly for me to agree.

“Sure,” I said, swallowing my irritation and reminding myself I hadn’t yet received approval for my resignation from his company. “I’ll need to buy the ingredients first.”

With that, I turned off the stove and headed upstairs to grab my purse, intending to leave for the market.

“What about breakfast?” Raymond called from below.

I glanced back at him.

Was he serious?

I fought the urge to roll my eyes and hummed, pretending to be oblivious.

“Hm… but you need the pie ready by 4, right? I don't think I will make it if I don’t get the ingredients now.” Then I added, “You could finish my cooking though... or get something else. Totally up to you.”

With that, I went to grab my things and headed to the market, calling a cab along the way.