The next morning, I walked into work feeling better than I had in weeks. There he was—my boyfriend, my boss—Aaron Simmons, already at his desk, sleeves rolled, head down, laser-focused on whatever high-powered task the day had begun with. The sight of him settled something warm in my chest.
I headed toward the bathroom to check my hair. But as my hand touched the doorknob, I froze.
Retching. Then sobbing.
"Hello?" I pushed the door open cautiously.
Flickering fluorescent lights revealed a woman hunched over the toilet, her whole body convulsing. The stench of vomit mixed with the unmistakable sting of cheap vodka hit me like a wave.
"Miss, are you alright?" I asked, stepping inside—but before I could get to her, footsteps echoed behind me. I turned.
Three women stood at the doorway, peering past me.
"Use the bathroom downstairs," one of them said with a grimace. "Somebody had a situation in here."
They vanished down the hall, heels clicking like punctuation.
I carefully crossed the mess and crouched beside the woman. She was shaking. Brown hair stuck to her damp face, her eyes glassy and red-rimmed. The vodka bottle at her side was nearly empty.
"Honey," I said softly, "why don't I call you a cab and let Mr. Simmons know you've had an emergency? I'll cover things from here."
She turned her head slowly. There was raw pain in her eyes. Then, a broken laugh.
"He's found someone else," she whispered. "He didn't even have the decency to call. Just changed his number. Cut me off like I was nothing."
She lifted the bottle with trembling hands and took a long swig. I quickly took it from her and tossed it into the trash.
"I'm going to help you up. Let's get you washed off, then I'll call you a cab."
She nodded weakly. At the sink, she splashed cold water on her face. I caught a glimpse of her name tag.
Trish Sakimora.
She looked at her reflection and gave a bitter laugh. "Her name is Alaina. I've heard she's beautiful. And that Aaron… that he loves everything about her." Her voice cracked. "I tried calling him last night. He didn't answer. Of course he didn't."
I froze for a moment, unsure of what to say. I felt her pain—part of me wanted to help. But another part of me, the part that had fought tooth and nail for emotional security, wanted nothing to do with this kind of drama.
"Listen," I said, gently but firmly, "I've got to get back to work. Wait downstairs in the lobby, and I'll call you a cab from my desk."
She nodded, eyes vacant. I left quickly, heart pounding, and closed my office door behind me.
For a few minutes, I stood staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, trying to collect myself. Then—
The doorknob rattled.
I turned just as Trish slipped inside, eyes wide, desperate.
"I didn't want him to see me like this," she said. "But I saw you walk in and I… I just needed somewhere to sit."
Before I could respond, she collapsed into a chair by my desk. My eyes darted to Aaron—still on the phone, oblivious. I swallowed the knot in my throat.
Suddenly, Trish stood.
"Why is this here?" she demanded.
She was holding Aaron's watch— watch. The one his father had given him. The one he never let out of his sight.
She stared at it like it was proof of something unforgivable. Then her gaze snapped to me. Then Aaron.
"YOU!" she screamed.
Before I could move, she hurled the watch against the wall. It shattered.
Aaron's head jerked up as he bolted toward my office.
"Trish, what the hell—?" he barked, stepping protectively in front of me.
Trish rounded on me, eyes wild, tears mixing with mascara and fury. "" she spat. "You think you're better than me?"
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
She grabbed a vase from my desk and flung it. Aaron ducked. It shattered against the doorframe, glass raining down like a warning.
In less than an hour, the police were leading her out of the building in handcuffs, still screaming.
Aaron stood beside me, rubbing his temples.
"Well," he muttered. "The press is going to have a field day with this."
He looked at me, eyes tired. "That was Trish Sakimora. We were together. A long time ago. She cheated on me about a year back, and I sent her to Arizona to cool off. When I finally cut it off, I thought she'd moved on."
I nodded slowly. "But how did she even get into the building?"
Aaron blinked. "That's a better question than I have answers for right now."
I told him everything—the bathroom, the vodka, her sobbing. I didn't leave anything out. He listened in silence, then exhaled.
"I'll tell you more later," he said. "Right now, I've got to address this mess with PR."
I nodded, my mind still reeling, and returned to my desk as Aaron walked out of the office.
For the next few minutes, I stared out the window, trying to process everything that had happened. The crowd outside the building had grown—flashbulbs popping as photographers took photos of the scene. I could already hear the headlines:
As I began to sweep up the glass, I noticed something odd—a purse. I picked it up, my curiosity getting the best of me, and opened it. Inside, I found a gun holster, a few sticks of gum, and what looked like a handful of angry, handwritten love letters.
My stomach dropped. Whatever Trish's story had been, it was clear she wasn't just some scorned lover.