It was the quarterly investor meeting. The grand boardroom was packed with the most powerful shareholders in the city.
Brandon sat at the head of the long mahogany table, radiating power.
Paula, despite having no actual position in the company, was perched in a chair right behind him, her hand resting possessively on his shoulder.
I stood at the front of the room, holding the presentation remote.
“If you direct your attention to the screen,” I said clearly, “you will see the projected revenue for the upcoming quarter.”
I clicked the remote.
The massive screen flickered. But it wasn't my financial slides.
It was a security video from Brandon’s private office. The timestamp in the corner was from months ago—the night of our fourth divorce attempt.
My own voice, thick with tears and desperation, echoed loudly through the silent boardroom.
“Please, Brandon. Just look at me. Don't do this.”
On the massive screen, my past self was sobbing, clinging to his suit jacket. I watched in absolute horror as the video showed me desperately trying to kiss him, begging him to love me back, while Brandon stood there, cold and unmoving, looking at me like I was garbage.