“Don’t play his game.” She taps on my phone screen to open up the Notes app. “Here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to go back to that office, and you’re going to write the best damn resignation letter anyone’s ever seen. You’re going to fold it until it’s all corners and shove it up his clenched asshole. Then you’re going to walk out of there with your head high and your dignity intact, and you and me are gonna make the next eighty-nine days the most fun anyone’s ever had.”
I want so badly to bottle up her fire and take a dose of it myself. As long as I’m looking at Yas and holding her hand, that feels possible. But the second I close my eyes, the blackness inside my head gets taken over by images of all the different versions of Bastian who have rocked my world in the last twenty-four hours, and I end up feeling more confused than ever.
“I don’t even know how to write a resignation letter,” I admit.
“Good thing your best friend is a copywriter.” Yasmin’s fingers are already flying across my phone. “Two weeks’ notice?”
I think about this morning.Just another employee. One of many.
“Effective immediately,” I say.
Yasmin’s grin is positively vicious. “That’s my girl.”
We finish our meal and head back to the office together. Yasmin has to peel off at the tenth floor, where the marketing department lives, but she pumps my hand before the elevator doors close. “I love you, Elly Belly,” she tells me. “Always and forever.”
Then the doors close, and I’m alone again.
4
ELIANA
mince: /m?ns/: verb
1: to cut food into very small, fine pieces, typically by chopping or grinding.
2: don’t just cut him—fuckingend him.
The twentieth floor is afternoon-quiet when I return. A few people glance up as I pass, probably wondering if I’m okay after this morning’s scene in the test kitchen. I’m sure the stories have already grown legs. I give them bland smiles, professional and plain, saving my energy for what comes next.
My cubicle feels smaller than usual. The gray walls hem in on me like a cage I’ve been living in for so long that I forgot it was locked. I sit down, pull out my phone again, and look at what Yas and I put together.
Dear Mr. Hale,
Please accept this letter as formal notification of my resignation from my position as SeniorProject Manager at Hale Hospitality Group, effective immediately.
While I have valued my time with the company and the opportunities for professional growth it has provided, I have decided to pursue other opportunities that better align with my goals.
I will ensure all current projects are documented and accessible to whomever assumes my responsibilities.
Thank you for the experience of working at Hale Hospitality. I wish the company continued success.
Sincerely,
Eliana Hunter
I read it twice. It’s professional, courteous, and completely bloodless. Everything a resignation letter should be. Nothing that would give Bastian the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.
But something about it feels wrong.
I delete it and start over.
Mr. Hale,
I resign, effective immediately.
This morning, you made it clear that I am ‘just another employee’ and that my attempts at kindness are unwelcome disruptions to your corporate machine. You’re right—I don’t belong here. I never have.
I don’t belong in a place that values efficiency over humanity, where six years of exemplary work can be dismissed in a moment of cruel, pointless theater.
