What the hell? Does she genuinely think I’d lay a hand on her? The thought is so disturbing I immediately take a step back, putting distance between us.
This whole situation is making me deeply uncomfortable.
“You’re not being replaced,” I say, forcing my voice to stay deliberately gentle. “We’re getting you support. That’s it.”
“Right.” Her voice comes out steady, but I can see her jaw working, muscles tight like she’s clenching her teeth to keep from falling apart. Those soft lips are pressed into a hard line.
I exhale harshly. The last thing I wanted was to make her cry.
“Georgie,” I start, not even sure what I’m trying to say or how to fix this.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
I’ve had to discipline plenty of staff over the years. Fired people. Dealt with spectacular fuck-ups that cost thousands. It’s part of running a business, and I don’t lose sleep over it.
When I was starting out, working construction sites and learning the hotel trade from the ground up, I had foremen tear strips off me. Screaming in my face about mistakes, calling me every name under the sun. That’s how you learned—you fucked up, you got bollocked for it, you didn’t make the same mistake twice.
I’m being gentle with her compared to that.
But watching her sit there, fighting back tears... it sits wrong in my gut. Like something’s fundamentally off about this whole interaction.
I leave because there’s nothing productive left to say.
But that feeling—like I’ve just kicked something that was already injured—follows me all the way back to my office.
Like I’m the kind of man who makes young women cry in back rooms and calls it business.
TWELVE
A small victory
Georgie
I waste a goodhour after Patrick leaves, staring at my laptop through increasingly blurry eyes, replaying every mortifying second of this morning.
Meanwhile, Craig is blowing up in Slack. According to him, I’ve “undermined the entire project” and “created unnecessary confusion.”
Yes, the kitchen demo was a mess. But that was supposed to beCraig’spart—change management, staff buy-in, all the corporate cheerleading. I was handling the tech.
Of course, Craig’s rewriting history, painting himself as the steady, experienced hand at the helm while I’m the clueless junior who went rogue.
It’s Steve all over again.
Different man, same game.
My ex had this gift for setting me up to fail, then actingsobewildered when I did.
He’d sulk and give me the silent treatment during any social event he didn’t want to attend, making everything so uncomfortable that I’d eventually just stop going. Called me immature when I brought it up.
He’d agree to plans, then claim we never discussed them. “I never said I’d come to your friend’s dinner. You can’t just assume I’m free.” Made me feel like I was going mad, constantly second-guessing my own memory.
Or that night at the pub when some bloke at the bar made perfectly innocent conversation with me about my course, and Steve completely lost his shit, loud enough that the bar staff called the police. But somehow it was my fault for “not understanding how it looked.”
But the worst part? Ibelievedhim.
Because it never starts big. It starts small—an offhand comment here, a “joke” at your expense there. Little doubts that get planted in your head.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. That maybe youaretoo sensitive.
