For six years, I watched Ronald transform from a struggling technician into the owner of his own translation firm.

I believed we were partners in every sense—through hardship and success alike.

That was, until I saw his assistant, Christina, appear on his social media feed.

There she was, in my pajamas, lying in my bed. The caption read: *Mr. Ronald’s bed is so comfy, I never want to leave.*

Ronald had liked it. He’d even commented: *Then don’t.*

Calmly, I typed a reply below: *Comfortable, is it?*

A minute later, my phone rang. It was Ronald—not calling to explain, but to accuse, his voice sharp with fury right from the start.

“Betty, did you have to make a scene?”

…

His tone was cold, impatient.

“A scene?” My knuckles whitened around the phone, but my voice stayed eerily steady. “Ronald, you take your assistant back to your hometown, let her wear my pajamas, and post a picture of herself in my bed for everyone to see. Tell me—who’s making the scene here?”

Silence hung between us before his anger flared again. “Christina had a big family event. I came to show support. What’s wrong with colleagues helping each other? You’re the one with the dirty mind! She bought those pajamas herself. Don’t you dare accuse her.”

I almost laughed out loud.

Those custom-made silk pajamas were mine—bought last month in Europe, with my initials, “SY,” embroidered on the collar.

She bought them herself? On her salary?

“Ronald,” I said, my voice level, without a tremor, “we’ve been married six years. I know you as well as I know myself. You can stop pretending now. The cooling-off period is over. Remember to pick up the divorce papers.”

I hung up before he could reply.

The phone screen went dark, reflecting my pale, numb face.

I’d filed for divorce a month ago.

Back then, it was just the tension slowly building between him and Christina.

The office whispers had started: Christina was the real Mrs. Ronald, while I—the legal wife—felt like an outsider.

Ronald called me paranoid. Unreasonable. He said I lacked the grace a boss’s wife should have.

I grew tired. I stopped arguing.

Then he didn’t come home for a whole week.

Now I knew. That week, he was probably with her.

And I had been the fool, still waiting for him to calm down and explain.

Opening the company group chat, I found it had already exploded. Messages tagging me had blown past ninety-nine notifications.

"Betty, maybe you're misunderstanding? Ronald and Christina are just colleagues."

"Exactly—Christina's just a young girl, fresh out of college. Don't scare her like that."

"Betty, Ronald has always been so good to you. How could you publicly humiliate him?"

A wave of nausea hit me as I scrolled through the twisted, sycophantic comments. Half of these people were ones I’d personally hired and mentored from the ground up; now, to curry favor with the boss and his new flame, they were turning their knives on me without a second thought.

I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened Ronald’s social media feed.

Beneath that glaring post, the comments section had become a stage for loyalty pledges.

"Ronald and Christina are such a perfect match! A true power couple!"

"Christina is so lucky to have a boss like Ronald looking out for her."

Underneath, Christina had left a uniform reply, complete with a bashful emoji: "Thank you, everyone! But Ronald and I really are just colleagues. He’s always treated me like a big brother, that’s all."

The cloying sweetness of her performance practically seeped through the screen.

I let out a cold laugh, then compiled everything for my lawyer: the post, my receipt for the pajamas, the original design drafts, and close-ups of the embroidered initials. Every detail.

Then, calmly, I typed my final message into the company chat:

"To everyone: effective today, I am resigning from all my positions at Oceanview Translations. Thank you for the six years. Our paths diverge here. Wishing you all the best on yours."

I sent it, then exited every work group, silenced my phone, and tossed it aside.

Finally. Peace.

When I returned to the office the next day to resign, the atmosphere felt palpably strange.

My once-deferential subordinates now avoided my eyes, their glances mingling pity with a trace of schadenfreude.

The HR manager—someone I’d personally promoted—wore an awkward expression. "Director Betty… I mean, Betty, about your resignation… Mr. Ronald said he can’t approve it."

I raised an eyebrow. "On what grounds?"

"He says the Klaus Group project from Germany has always been your responsibility. With the delegation arriving next week, abandoning it now would be… unprofessional."

I almost laughed.

The Klaus Group deal was the biggest our company had ever landed, over a year in the making. From the initial translations to the technical liaisons, I’d carried it almost single-handedly.

Now Ronald was using it to trap me, counting on my sense of responsibility—betting I couldn’t watch a year of work go to waste.

He still thought he could manipulate me.

"Tell Ronald," I said, my voice measured and cold, "that under labor law, my resignation takes effect thirty days after I submit it in writing. His approval is irrelevant. As for the Klaus project, all the handover documents are on the shared drive. Whoever takes over can figure it out. If no one can handle it, that’s a leadership failure."

With that, I turned and left, ignoring the collective gasp behind me.

I had just reached the elevators when Ronald and Christina stepped out of the executive car.

Ronald stood there in a tailored suit, looking arrogant. Christina clung to his arm, the picture of delicate dependence. When she saw me, a flicker of triumph flashed in her eyes before she adopted a timid tone. "D-Director Betty…"

Ronald’s gaze swept over me, a condescending appraisal. "Betty. Finished with your little tantrum? Come back to work, and I’ll pretend none of this happened."

His tone dripped with superiority.

"Mr. Ronald," I smiled, a smile utterly devoid of warmth. "You’re mistaken. There’s nothing left to discuss. I’m here to resign."

His face darkened. "You’d throw away six years—our relationship, our business—over a social media post? When did you become so unreasonable?"

"Six years?" I let out a humorless laugh. "Search your conscience, Ronald. How did you treat me all that time? When we were starting the company, I gave you my parents’ wedding gift money as seed capital. To land your clients, I drank until I was hospitalized with a bleeding ulcer."

"You pulled all-nighters, and I was right beside you—making your coffee, organizing your files. Now the company’s stable and you’re successful. Suddenly your faithful old wife is an eyesore. Is that it?"