I blink. “Really?”
“Only because I fancy a pint,” he says dryly.
A corner of my mouth twitches. “Right. Of course.”
He walks past me toward the exit, not even stopping when he glances over his shoulder. “Come on, then.”
He’s still mad at me, and rightfully so, but there’s something in his voice that makes me feel a little lighter.
The pub is packed—not suffocating, but lively. Luckily, there’s two seats open at the bar, and Oliver and I take them.
“I’ll take a lager, please,” I tell the bartender.
“Same for me,” Oliver mutters. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Beer, huh?”
“Does that surprise you?”
He snorts, and I swear he’s trying not to smile. “A bit, yeah.”
I take my pint and lift it in a toast. “To barely tolerated peace talks?”
He clinks his glass against mine. “Go on,” he says, his voice low. “Explain yourself.”
“Oh, right to it then,” I say, laughing. I take a sip of beer first to buy myself some time to collect my thoughts. “So, um… before I came out here for this job, I used to work for this big production company in the States.”
“Yeah.” Oliver nods, prodding me to continue.
“I worked there with Matt Whitlock. My ex. He’s a sports journalist. I came up with this idea for him—a human-interest piece about athletes and grief. I really believed in it. I even drafted a pitch for it. I was so proud of it. I really thought it could go somewhere, that it could really help someone to see their favorite athletes working through real-life feelings. I showed it to Matt because, I don’t know… I trusted him. I thought he’d love it and want to pursue it. But he told me it was stupid. He mocked it, actually. He said no one wants to hear sad, depressing things about their favorite athletes.”
I take a sip of beer, swallow, and look down at my glass.
“Cut to a month or so later, and we go to a company party. I’m on his arm and he’s working the room, and then they announce his promotion. Not just any promotion. A massive promotion. Lead sports journalist. He’s their new TV darling now. And guess which story he submitted to get the job?”
Oliver’s jaw tightens. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.” I laugh bitterly. “I was literally on his arm as they read outmypitch, withhisname on it. I had to stand there next to him, smiling like a fucking idiot while everyone congratulated him on my idea. And he just soaked it all in, looking like a pig in shit.”
“He sounds like a right bellend.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say, laughing. I’m not quite sure what bellend means, but from Oliver’s tone, I gather it’s not a compliment. “I said nothing the rest of the night. I didn’t cause a scene. But when we got home, I demanded to know why he stole the idea and never gave me credit. He just looked at me and said I was an idiot for thinking I even deserved any.”
“What the fuck?”
“That was kind of the theme of our entire relationship,” I say, my voice light but brittle. “He gaslit me. Everything was always my fault. He made me feel small and worthless, but somehow still so lucky to be with him. And he cheated. A lot. But he always expected perfection from me in return. Everyone always asks why I stayed so long, but honestly? When someone tells you day in and day out that you’re nothing, you start to believe it. Not only that, you start to believe you deserve it.”
Oliver exhales, low and sharp. “What an absolute prick.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “So when I created my own company, I made rules. Six rules. My own little armor, so that would never happen to me again.”
Oliver watches me carefully. “So that's where calling us assets comes in?”
I nod. “It is. But Oliver, I’m sorry. Everything I just told you… it’s still no excuse to treat you all like that.”
“I appreciate that.” Oliver nods and almost lets out a smile. “What are the rules, then?”
I take a deep breath and tick them off with my fingers.
“One:Never bring your emotions to work.Two:Never stay in one job longer than a year.Three:Never get emotionally involved with the assets.Four:Never let a man overpower you.Five:Never sleep with the assets.And Six—”
