He turned away, his voice cold and hard. "Hurry up. Take the trash and get out. And don't ever take another job from our household."
My stomach lurched violently. I bit down on my lower lip until the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth.
Without a word, I bent down and picked up the broken pieces from the floor. Then I grabbed the garbage bag stuffed with seven years of my life, turned, and walked out the front door.
I had barely stepped past the gate of the complex when my phone screen lit up.
A text from Otto: Meet me at the coffee shop across the street. I'm coming now.
I stood on the corner in the biting wind for ten minutes before Otto appeared, wearing a surgical mask and a baseball cap pulled low, jogging toward me.
He grabbed my wrist and tried to examine the cut on the back of my hand.
"Joan, does it still hurt? Davina was right there. I couldn't just—"
I wrenched my hand free and took a full step back, putting distance between us.
"Don't touch me. I'm too dirty for you, remember?"
Otto blinked, then irritation crept across his face. He lowered his voice, an edge of accusation in every word.
"Joan, can you stop being so dramatic? What was I supposed to do back there?"