“Farewell, loser!” he spat, turning on his heel to walk away into the arms of the wealthy widow. A year later, he returned for an interview, unaware of who now sat in the directors chair.
“You didnt really think it was forever, did you?”
Edward Blackwood adjusted his silk tiea gift from Clara on his thirtieth birthday. He barely glanced at her, too absorbed in his reflection in the dark glass of the wardrobe.
“I thought we were building a future together,” Clara Whitmore whispered, wrapping her arms around herself as if holding together the shattered fragments of her world.
He smirked, a sharp, cruel laugh that struck her like a blade to the gut.
“A future? Clara, look around. This isnt a future. Its” He gestured dismissively at their cramped rented flat, for which she had paid most of the rent, “a pit stop. Cosy, but temporary. A stepping stone.”
Every word was calculated to wound.
“I have prospects, you see? Real prospects. And you? A dead-end job for pennies and dreams of stability. Stability is quicksand.”
He moved to the door, a perfectly packed leather suitcase in handnot a single unnecessary item. He had prepared for this. Long ago.
“She sees potential in me. Shes willing to invest in a winner.”
He didnt name her, but Clara knew. Margaret Harrington, widow of a local tycoon, a woman with money, connections, and a predators smile.
Clara said nothing. What was there to say? Every investment she had made in himtime, money, faithhad crumbled to dust.
“One word, and Im gone,” he said, casting her a cold, assessing glance. “Enough of dragging dead weight.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
“Good luck, Clara. Try not to drown in your little swamp.”
Alone in the silent flat, Clara sank onto the sofa, staring at the empty space where he had stood. There were no tears. Only a hollow, echoing void from which fear slowly unfurledand something else took root.
For the first week, Clara merely existed. Mechanically attending her dead-end job, returning to the empty flat, staring at the walls. His words”dead weight,” “swamp”seeped into her skin like poison.
He called once. A month later.
“Clara, listen, I left a couple of books behindthe blue box. Could you”
“I threw them out,” she cut in, her voice flat, unfamiliar.
“You what? Those were first editions!” Genuine outrage coloured his tone. He hadnt expected this.
“Theyre pulp now. Like everything else you left behind. Dont call again.”
She hung up. And in that moment, something shifted. The hollowness inside her fillednot with pain, but with cold resolve.
That night, she dug out an old, dust-covered laptop and a university project folder.
“A logistics optimisation system for small businesses.” Edward had called it “pointless scribbles.” Said the real world didnt work that way.
He was right. The real world was simpler. It didnt need pretty wordsit needed solutions.
The months blurred into one relentless stretch of work. Clara quit her job. Every penny she had saved for their “future together” went into registering a company and renting a tiny office in an industrial park. She named it simply: “Breakthrough.”
She worked eighteen hours a day. Coffee became her only meal. There were moments she wanted to quitwhen the first prototype crashed, when the bank balance dwindled. But she remembered his sneer about “swamps,” and she carried on. The only one who believed in her was her old professor, Dr. Thornton, who helped her secure her first clients and a small but crucial grant.
Her first contract was modest. The second, larger. Within half a year, her system was saving small businesses thousands. She wasnt dreaming of stabilityshe was building it from the ground up.
Meanwhile, Edward lived the life he had craved. Lavish parties, luxury resorts, a seat on the board of one of Margarets companies. He bragged about “escaping middle-class mundanity.” Clara he mentioned with vague disdain. A nobody.
But his potential fizzled within ten months. Margaret Harrington was a woman of business, devoid of sentiment. She saw through himno ideas, only arrogance and a talent for spending other peoples money.
The conversation was brief.
“Edward, darling,” she said one morning, examining her manicure, “you were an interesting experiment. But loss-making assets must be cut loose.”
She handed him an envelopea generous severance, and a ban from all her companies.
Two months of job hunting followed. His inflated CV and tarnished reputation made prospects scarce. Most offers were humiliating.
Then, finallya break. A head of development role at a rising IT firm, “Breakthrough.” Ambitious work, high salary. Hed heard of their product but never looked into it.
Prepared, he read up on the companythough its founder, “C.W. Whitmore,” remained an enigma. He assumed some aging academic turned entrepreneur.
On the day of the final interview, Edward straightened his tie in the lift mirror as it ascended the gleaming corporate tower. He was ready to impress. Ready to win again.
The assistant led him to a boardroom with floor-to-ceiling windows.
“The director will be with you shortly.”
Edward sat, placing his expensive leather briefcase on the table. His gaze flickered to the nameplate on the door: “C. W. Whitmore. CEO.” An odd coincidence.
The door opened without a knock.
A woman in a tailored slate-grey suit entered, her fair hair pulled into a severe knot. She moved with the quiet assurance of someone used to space parting before her.
She sat opposite him, setting a slim tablet on the table. Then she looked up.
Edwards world tilted, collapsing like a house of cards.
It was Clara.
But not his Clara. Not the quiet girl from the rented flat. This woman looked at him as if he were a strangerher steel-grey eyes cool, assessing.
“Edward James Blackwood?” Her tone was detached, professional. Not a flicker of recognition.
“Clara?” His attempted smile twisted into something pathetic. “What a surprise. I had no idea you”
“Were not acquainted,” she interrupted evenly. “Lets proceed with the interview. My name is Clara Whitmore. I am the CEO of Breakthrough.”
She opened his CV on her tablet.
“Youve applied for head of development. Discuss your achievements at Harrington Capital.”
Edward froze. This was a mockery. A meticulously crafted humiliation. She was treating him like any other candidate.
“Clara, enough of this charade,” he tried, forcing authority into his voice. “Were adults. Im happy for you, truly. Well done on escaping.”
“I asked you a question, Mr. Blackwood,” she said, her gaze colder still. “If you cannot answer, Ill assume you have nothing to say about your professional competence.”
Blood rushed to his face. She was toying with him. The man who had always been the winner was now cornered.
“My competence?” He laughed, a brittle sound. “My competence gave me a life you couldnt dream of. While you were scribbling in your little glass box.”
“‘A life I couldnt dream of’is that your job description?” she clarified, tilting her head slightly. “An interesting pitch. But not what were looking for.”
The blow landed perfectly. She had dismissed his entire career in one sentence.
Then, he made his fatal mistake. He thought he could break her armour by invoking the past.
“You know, Im glad it ended this way,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I gave you the push you needed. Without me, youd still be stuck in your swamp. You should be thanking me.”
He waitedfor anger, tears, any sign of the Clara he once knew.
She simply studied him. Silent. Three seconds. Five.
Then, with deliberate precision, she set the tablet aside.
“Thanking you?” She tasted the word as if it were bitter. “Youre right. I should thank you. You taught me the most important lesson of my life.”
She stood, walking to the window.
“You showed me that some people arent dead weight. Theyre toxic assets. And the sooner you divest, the better your chances of success.”
She turned back. The coldness in her eyes had burned away, replaced by something fiercer. A quiet, all-consuming fire.
“The interview is over, Mr. Blackwood. Youre not what were looking for. My company doesnt invest in loss-making ventures.”
She pressed a button on the intercom.
“Emily, please see Mr. Blackwood out. And cancel the remaining candidates. Ive found our new head. The best one. Me.”
Edward didnt remember leaving. His body moved mechanically as the polite assistant escorted him to the lift. He felt stripped bare, his expensive suit replaced with rags.
The bright, sprawling office that had seemed his next workplace now felt hostile
