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1094 Words
~*JUNE*~
The PA’s words send my heart thumping so hard against my ribs I can feel it in my throat.
Everyone in the office turns to look at me, and my heart thumps harder in my chest.
I hear distant murmurs and whispers, but I pay them no mind.
"Hurry up. Let’s go," the PA says.
I swallow.
"Oh-kay," I hear myself say.
The word feels foreign in my mouth, detached from my body.
Dropping the files onto my desk, I stand and make my way toward him at the office entrance.
Each step feels heavier than the last as I navigate through the maze of cubicles.
My legs move on autopilot while my mind screams at me to turn back, to run, to find any excuse to disappear.
I fall in step behind him as we head toward the CEO’s office.
My palms turn clammy at my sides, and with every step closer, the tremor in my body worsens.
The voices in my head keep repeating, He’s going to fire you. You’re going to get fired. There’s no escaping it.
Letting out a shaky breath, I try to pull myself together, to keep the voices from consuming me whole.
Get yourself together, June. f*****g get yourself together.
I chant it in my head with every step, a desperate mantra against the rising tide of panic.
I knew it was too good to be true.
Somewhere deep down, I had always felt I was eventually going to get fired—but I didn’t expect it to come so soon.
I had believed my plan had worked.
One week of silence made me think he’d forgotten about me, decided I wasn’t worth the effort, or moved on to whatever other important CEO s**t he had to do.
But of course, it hadn’t.
So stupid of me to think it would.
I’m f*****g terrified of losing my first job in the second month.
Who wouldn’t be?
The PA stops in front of a set of double doors that I recognize with a sick lurch of my stomach.
He doesn't knock. He just pushes one side open and gestures for me to enter.
I pause in front of the doorway, taking a slow breath in and out.
I try to control the shaking in my hands, the trembling in my legs, the way my chest feels like it's being squeezed in a vice.
But none of it works.
My heart pounds violently in my chest, beating so hard it feels like it might break free any second now, and I can hear my own pulse in my ears like a countdown.
“Not going in?” the PA asks, pulling me out of my spiral.
"Uh… yes. I am." I nod, even though I desperately don't want to step foot into that office
He gives me a weird look and steps aside, and I walk through the door.
The sound of it closing behind me echoes in my ears—louder than it should be—a clear sign my anxiety has gone off the f*****g charts.
Turning, I come face to face with the last person I want to see right now.
He sits behind his desk, and sure doesn’t look up as I enter.
He doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
His attention is locked on something in front of him, his long fingers gliding slowly across a sheet of paper.
Slowly, I make my way toward his desk.
My legs shake with every step, and it takes everything in me not to crumble right there on the spot.
The marble tiles feel unstable beneath my feet, like I'm walking on water, like the ground could give way at any second and swallow me whole.
I halt at the edge of his desk.
"Good morning, sir." My voice comes out trembling, barely a whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
I clear my throat and try again. "Good morning, sir."
Still no response.
He doesn't even spare me a glance.
Like I'm not standing here.
Like I'm some stray cat that wandered in off the street, not worth the effort of acknowledging.
Asshole.
He could at least look at me.
My gaze drops to the desk, desperate for somewhere—anywhere—to look that isn't his face.
That’s when I see it: a gold nameplate, polished to a mirror-like shine, with elegant letters carved into the metal.
*Tristian Macaulay.*
So that’s his name. Hmm… fitting. It suits his charisma.
Shifting my gaze, something else on the desk catches my attention, and when I see what he’s looking at, my breath quickens so fast my head begins to spin.
My resume.
It's spread out on his desk, right in front of him, my name at the top in bold letters: JUNE FONTAINE.
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck and trickles down my spine, while dread pools in the hollow of my stomach.
Yeah, it’s a hundred percent certain he called me to his office just to fire me.
But he didn’t need to do that.
He could’ve just sent HR to hand me the letter.
I guess he just wants to see my reaction.
He's been waiting for this moment, letting me sit in my fear for a whole week just so he could enjoy watching me squirm.
He clears his throat, and the sound makes my chest hitch so hard I almost gasp.
My head begins to spin, the edges of my vision going dark, like I'm about to faint.
Someone call an ambulance.
I’m about to pass out right here on these ridiculously expensive marble tiles.
He shifts his gaze to me.
It's the first time he's looked at me since I walked in, and the weight of it is unbearable.
His eyes are cold, that same look from a week ago, the one that made me feel like he wanted to crush me.
He opens his mouth, and I close my eyes.
I don’t even know why I do it—maybe I just can’t bear to watch the words leave his lips.
I just need to hear it, and then I can leave, find somewhere quiet to fall apart.
“June Fontaine… you are to step down from your position as junior marketing assistant, as of today.”
His words hit me like a punch to my gut.
I was right.
I’m getting fired. I’ll have to pack up my things, start looking for a new job—
“You are to take up your new position as my secretary. Starting today.”
- Writer
