Page 71 of Saved By the CEO

Although we thought you were a strong candidate, we unfortunately

I stop reading.

For a second, I just stand there with the phone in my hand, dripping water onto the bath mat. Then I place it back on the counter very carefully, as if moving too fast might somehow make the rest of the sentence worse.

The mirror is fogged up. I stare at the blurry outline of my face in the mirror.

I didn’t get the job.

The words sit there, quiet and factual, while my body takes a few seconds to catch up. Then disappointment moves through me, sinking into my stomach, my ribs, my knees. I hadn’t realized until this exact moment how much I needed that job.

Not wanted.

Needed.

It was my escape route. My emergency hatch. My tiny glowing exit sign at the end of a very long hallway.

And now it’s gone.

I grip the edge of the sink and try to breathe.

I’m stuck at BenCo. Stuck with the gossip and the second-guessing and the way people look at me now. Stuck sitting outside Andrew’s office every day.

I press a hand to my chest.

I can’t quit. I have rent. Bills. A mom who needs help.

Fuck.

My eyes start to sting, and suddenly I feel very small. Like a child who wants someone to take her hand and say there is nothing to worry about, that everything is handled, that someone else knows what to do.

I need my mom.

With shaky hands, I pick up my phone and find her contact.

She answers on the first ring. “Hi, honey. What’s up?”

The sound of her voice breaks something in me, and a sob slips out.

There is the smallest pause on the other end. Then her tone changes completely.

“Carly?”

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m sorry, I just?—”

“What happened?”

I slide down onto the closed toilet lid, one hand clutching the towel against my chest, the other pressed hard against the phone.

And then I tell her.

Not everything. Some things get caught in my throat and stay there. But I tell her enough.

I tell her I hate my job. That I’ve hated it for a long time but kept pretending because the money was good and I wanted to help her. I tell her about the virus. About fainting at work. About waking up in a hospital and finding out my boss was my partner. I tell her about Josh and the gossip.

“Oh, honey,” she says, and her voice sounds small in a way I hate. “I’m so sorry.”

“And I applied for this job,” I say, the words rushing out now. “At Atlas Development. It was a PR Manager position, and I knew it was probably a long shot, but I thought maybe if I got it, I could leave BenCo. I could get away from the gossip and stop being Andrew’s assistant and make more money and help you more, and now I can’t.”