I hired a girl. One day her husband, who turned out to be my ex, came to pick her up after work. I said hello, nothing else.
The next day, this new girl comes into my office and calmly says, “Thank you for hiring me.”
And then she shut the door behind her, sat down in the chair across from my desk, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “I know who you are.”
At first, I just blinked. I thought she meant professionally—I’ve worked in HR for a mid-sized architecture firm, and in our city, that can mean you cross paths with a lot of people. But she smiled, that kind of polite smile that hides something hotter underneath, and added, “You used to date Abed.”
Now my stomach dropped.
I hadn’t heard that name in eight years. Abed and I were together in my mid-twenties, a messy two-year stretch where love and control kept trading places. It ended ugly.
I moved on. Or so I thought. I nodded slowly.
“Yes,” I said. “A long time ago.”
She leaned back, still calm. “I know everything,” she said.
“And I still wanted this job. That should tell you something.”
I didn’t know what to say. My brain felt like it had dropped its connection.
All I could do was stare. Her name was Paloma. Mid-thirties, quiet but assertive, with the kind of presence that made people stop mid-sentence when she entered a room.
She’d nailed her interview—degrees in finance, strong references, even worked at a competitor firm two years back. She’d looked like a perfect fit on paper. And I hired her.
Now, sitting across from me, she was telling me that not only was she married to my emotionally manipulative ex, but she knew all about our past and still wanted this job. “I’m not here to make drama,” she said finally. “But I figured we should talk face to face, so there’s no confusion.”
She stood up, smoothed her blouse, and walked out.
And for the next two weeks, I didn’t know what the hell to think. I watched her in meetings—sharp, articulate, a little intense but never inappropriate. She didn’t gossip, didn’t hover, didn’t make waves.
If anything, she was better than expected. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of walking barefoot through a room full of broken glass. Every time she said “good morning,” I flinched just a little.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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