Summer in a Glass Jar

When I returned to the office the next day to resign, the atmosphere felt palpably strange.

My once-deferential subordinates now avoided my eyes, their glances mingling pity with a trace of schadenfreude.

The HR manager—someone I’d personally promoted—wore an awkward expression. "Director Betty… I mean, Betty, about your resignation… Mr. Ronald said he can’t approve it."

I raised an eyebrow. "On what grounds?"

"He says the Klaus Group project from Germany has always been your responsibility. With the delegation arriving next week, abandoning it now would be… unprofessional."

I almost laughed.

The Klaus Group deal was the biggest our company had ever landed, over a year in the making. From the initial translations to the technical liaisons, I’d carried it almost single-handedly.

Now Ronald was using it to trap me, counting on my sense of responsibility—betting I couldn’t watch a year of work go to waste.

He still thought he could manipulate me.

"Tell Ronald," I said, my voice measured and cold, "that under labor law, my resignation takes effect thirty days after I submit it in writing. His approval is irrelevant. As for the Klaus project, all the handover documents are on the shared drive. Whoever takes over can figure it out. If no one can handle it, that’s a leadership failure."

With that, I turned and left, ignoring the collective gasp behind me.

I had just reached the elevators when Ronald and Christina stepped out of the executive car.

Ronald stood there in a tailored suit, looking arrogant. Christina clung to his arm, the picture of delicate dependence. When she saw me, a flicker of triumph flashed in her eyes before she adopted a timid tone. "D-Director Betty…"

Ronald’s gaze swept over me, a condescending appraisal. "Betty. Finished with your little tantrum? Come back to work, and I’ll pretend none of this happened."

His tone dripped with superiority.

"Mr. Ronald," I smiled, a smile utterly devoid of warmth. "You’re mistaken. There’s nothing left to discuss. I’m here to resign."

His face darkened. "You’d throw away six years—our relationship, our business—over a social media post? When did you become so unreasonable?"

"Six years?" I let out a humorless laugh. "Search your conscience, Ronald. How did you treat me all that time? When we were starting the company, I gave you my parents’ wedding gift money as seed capital. To land your clients, I drank until I was hospitalized with a bleeding ulcer."

"You pulled all-nighters, and I was right beside you—making your coffee, organizing your files. Now the company’s stable and you’re successful. Suddenly your faithful old wife is an eyesore. Is that it?"