Chapter 3

The security guard stood awkwardly beside me as I emptied my desk drawer into the cardboard box. Each personal item—my lucky pen, the small potted succulent I'd kept alive for two years, the framed photo of my foster parents—felt like pieces of a life I was being forced to abandon. The office had fallen into an unnatural silence, the usual chatter and keyboard clicking suspended as everyone pretended not to watch my humiliation.

Three years of my life. Gone in a single day.

I reached for the small cactus Julie from Marketing had given me last Christmas, remembering how we'd once laughed together during lunch breaks. Now she kept her eyes fixed on her screen, shoulders hunched as if afraid my disgrace might be contagious.

"That's everything," I murmured to Jim, the security guard who had greeted me cheerfully every morning for years but now couldn't meet my eyes.

"I need your badge and building access card," he said quietly, extending his hand.

I unclipped my ID from my blouse and placed it in his palm, feeling like I was surrendering a piece of my identity. As we walked toward the exit, I felt the weight of dozens of eyes on my back, but not a single voice called out a goodbye.

At the glass doors that led to the street, Jim hesitated. "Sherry, I—" he started, then stopped, glancing back at the office where Mr. Harrison stood watching from the doorway of his office. "Take care of yourself," he finished lamely.

The doors closed behind me with a soft, final click. Just like that, I was erased.

I stood on the sidewalk, clutching my box of belongings, as people rushed past in the late afternoon bustle. Where was I supposed to go now? What was I supposed to do? The resignation letter I'd signed meant I couldn't even collect unemployment benefits.

My apartment rent was due next week. I had maybe two months of savings if I stretched every penny. And who would hire me without a reference?

I started walking, with no destination in mind. The city pulsed around me—people rushing to meetings, laughing with colleagues, living normal lives while mine had just imploded. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Cindy: "Don't forget to delete your dating apps. No one wants damaged goods."

I nearly threw the phone into traffic. Instead, I turned it off and kept walking as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the sidewalk.

Hours later, my feet aching and my arms numb from carrying the box, I found myself outside Murphy's—a dimly lit bar tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop. I'd passed it a hundred times but never gone in. Tonight, its neon sign promising "Cold Beer" seemed like the only welcoming sight in the city.

Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke despite the city's indoor smoking ban. A few solitary drinkers hunched over the scratched wooden bar, each maintaining the careful distance of people who came to drink alone, not to socialize. Perfect.

I slid onto a barstool in the darkest corner and set my box of office belongings on the floor beside me.

"What'll it be?" the bartender asked, wiping the counter with a rag that had seen better days.

"Vodka. Neat." I'd never ordered that before in my life, but it seemed appropriate for someone whose existence had just been erased.

The first drink burned all the way down, making my eyes water. The second was easier. By the third, a comforting numbness had begun to spread through my limbs, dulling the jagged edges of humiliation and despair.

"Another," I said, pushing my empty glass across the bar.

The bartender raised an eyebrow but poured without comment. "Rough day?"

I laughed, a hollow sound that didn't even sound like me. "You could say that."

"Want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. What was there to say? That I'd been violated twice—first by whoever took those photos, then by an entire company that blamed me for it? That I'd lost my job, my dignity, and any faith I had in human decency all in one day?

"Just keep them coming," I said instead.

As the alcohol took hold, my thoughts became a tangled mess of humiliation and rage. I thought of David's smirking face as I packed my belongings. Of Cindy's satisfied smile. Of Mr. Harrison's cold dismissal. How had I never seen the cruelty lurking beneath their professional veneers?

I'd always believed that if you worked hard and treated people with kindness, good things would follow. What a pathetic delusion.

"You're better off without them," I muttered to myself, raising my glass in a bitter toast to my own naivety.

The bar had grown more crowded as evening deepened into night. The jukebox played something melancholy in the background, the perfect soundtrack to my unraveling life. I'd lost count of my drinks, but the bartender had started giving me concerned looks, silently sliding a glass of water alongside each new vodka.

I was vaguely aware of the room tilting slightly, of voices growing louder then softer as if someone was playing with the volume. My phone remained off in my pocket—I couldn't bear to see if more messages had come in, couldn't face the reality waiting beyond this numbing cocoon of alcohol.

"Is this seat taken?"

I blinked, trying to focus on the source of the voice. Two men in expensive suits stood beside my table, both watching me with an intensity that sent a flicker of alarm through my vodka-hazed mind. My first panicked thought was that they were colleagues I hadn't recognized, here to continue the day's humiliation.

"I'm not interested," I slurred, pulling my box closer protectively.

The older of the two men—silver-haired, with a face that spoke of authority—studied me with an expression I couldn't read. Not mockery or desire, but something else. Recognition?

"Excuse me," I mumbled, attempting to stand. The room swayed dangerously, and I clutched the edge of the table.

"You look exactly like her," the man said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Like Elizabeth."

The name meant nothing to me, but the reverence with which he said it cut through my drunken fog. I stared at him, confused and suddenly afraid.

"I think you have the wrong person," I managed, though my voice sounded distant even to my own ears.

"No," he said with absolute certainty. "I don't believe I do."