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“I’m sorry, Angelica, but we’ve decided to move forward with another candidate. We appreciate your interest in the position.” The words sting, a sharp reminder of my dwindling prospects.
With a forced thank you, I end the call, my hand trembling with suppressed anger. What am I missing? Why does it feel like the universe conspires against me?
The phone lands on the table with a thud, its screen ablaze with mocking notifications. Emails, reminders – each one a painful reminder of unanswered promises.
Pushing my chair back with a frustrated groan, the sound reverberates in the empty apartment. Home beckons – I want to return, but I can’t. Firstly, that flat belongs to the agency and I no longer work there.
Secondly, and worse, the chance of running into Lycus is far too high. But that doesn’t mean I’m not longing for the comforts of home.
I can’t continue this cycle of rejection and self-doubt. It’s time to seize control. Snatching my bag from the chair, my fingers fumble for my keys. I need to escape these suffocating walls, to clear my mind and devise a new plan. With determination, I slam the door shut, leaving behind the echoes of my frustration.
The city streets bustle with activity, but I navigate them in a daze, my mind consumed by thoughts of my next move. Arriving at the nearest coffee shop, I seek solace in its familiar ambiance.
Ordering a black coffee, its bitterness mirrors my mood as I sink into a corner booth, seeking refuge from the chaos outside.
Job hunting has been my sole focus and I refuse to give up now. Fingers fly across the keyboard as I scour listings, sending applications and inquiries into the abyss of cyberspace.
Doubt niggles at the edges of my resolve. What if this is all in vain? What if I’m deemed unworthy before I’m even given a chance to prove myself?
What if I have to move to a different city to find work? It’s not like there’s anything actually keeping me here, but still…I don’t relish the thought of moving.
I shake my head, banishing the negativity as best I can. I refuse to succumb to circumstance. But the idea of being blacklisted gnaws at my consciousness, a persistent itch that refuses to fade.
With each rejection, each cancelled interview, the notion gains strength, becomes more insidious, festering beneath the surface and fuelling the flames of my anger.
I’ll fight tooth and nail for the future I deserve.
Sitting in the coffee shop, resentment mingling with the acrid taste of my black coffee, I’m consumed by thoughts of betrayal. How dare they conspire against me? How is it that I bear the brunt of the fallout when Lycus was equally responsible for what happened? More so, I’d argue, as he knew who I was all along. I was the only one who got blindsidedandshafted, forced to quit a job I love and left with nothing.
Enough is enough. With renewed determination, I shut my laptop with a resounding clap and sling my bag over my shoulder. I won’t be a passive bystander while they plot and scheme behind my back. It’s time to confront them, to expose their deceit.
The journey back to the office building is a blur, my mind ablaze with thoughts of retribution. With each step, the fire within me burns brighter, fueled by a righteous fury. Bursting through the doors, I ignore the receptionist’s startled glance, making a beeline for the elevator.
Ascending to the top floor feels like an eternity, anticipation building with each passing moment. My heart pounds, a staccato symphony of rage and determination. As the elevator doors slide open, I step into the familiar hallway, my footsteps echoing against the polished floors.
Approaching Mr Mortimer’s office, I hesitate, uncertainty gnawing at my resolve. This is the moment I’ve been building towards, the climax of weeks of frustration and anger.
Yet now that I’m here, doubt threatens to derail me. But I won’t falter. With trembling hands, I push the door open, the dimly lit office welcoming me like a tomb of secrets, shadows dancing along the walls like spectres of my indignation.
And there, behind the desk, sits?—
“Lycus? What are you doing in here?” I demand, my voice tinged with irritation. But I refuse to be intimidated. “Where’s Mr Mortimer?”
Lycus shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes flickering with a mixture of surprise and apprehension.
“Angelica, please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him. “There’s something important I need to discuss with you.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I reluctantly take a seat, keeping a safe distance between us.
“Fine, but make it quick. I have better things to do than play more games with you.”
Lycus lets out a sigh, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. The cuts on his face have healed, the bruises faded. I can’t see his legs under the desk, but I’m guessing he’s still in plaster. No sign of the crutches though. I guess they’d be in his – what was my – office.
Why is he in Mr Mortimer’s office?
“I understand you’re upset, and I don’t blame you. But please hear me out before you jump to conclusions.”
I fold my arms across my chest, a defensive gesture born out of habit.
