Separate Ways

That afternoon, Mary Clark called me into her office under the pretense of discussing a project. The office blinds were drawn tight, and under the warm glow of the desk lamp, she handed me a freshly brewed cup of tea. I usually don't drink tea much, but thinking it was a gesture from my superior, I didn't refuse. The moment the tea touched my throat, an unfamiliar burning heat slid down. When I looked up at Mary Clark, the smile in her eyes was laced with a strange greed—that was when I realized she had drugged me. The drug took effect swiftly and violently; my limbs grew limp as if bereft of bones, and my consciousness began to fade. Mary Clark walked over and grabbed the collar of my shirt. I tried to pull away, but didn't even have the strength to lift my hand. "Yale, stop pretending. Haven't you always wanted to be promoted to supervisor? Sleep with me just this once—I guarantee you'll get it." Her voice was slimy and disgusting. I shook my head desperately as tears mixed with cold sweat streamed down. My shirt collar was twisted out of shape; the cold wind blew in, yet I felt my whole body burning up. At that moment, the office door was thrown open violently. It was Yolanda Shawn, clutching a freshly printed report. Seeing what was happening inside, the report slipped from her hands and scattered loudly across the floor. She rushed over, pushed Mary Clark aside, and took off her own coat to wrap tightly around me. Mary staggered back a couple of steps, humiliated and furious, shouting, "Yolanda Shawn, mind your own business!" Yolanda ignored her and supported me as she walked out. The anxiety in her eyes seemed ready to ignite, burning so fiercely that my chest ached. Later, I found out that after Yolanda sent me home that day, she was ambushed by people Mary had sent. They didn't lay a hand on her but splashed strong acid on her face. When I saw her in the hospital, her right cheek was wrapped in thick bandages, with only one eye visible. I sat beside the hospital bed, my voice trembling uncontrollably: "Yolanda, do you regret it?" Her single visible eye fixed steadily on me, her tone unusually sincere: "Nothing is more important than you." Hearing that, I collapsed beside the bed, crying like a helpless child. After leaving the hospital, Yolanda Shawn and I both resigned. We both knew Mary Clark would never let us off; staying at the original company would only mean constant harassment from her. Back then, we had little money, so we rented a tiny apartment of just over ten square meters. During the day, we chased clients together; at night, we stayed in the apartment, revising proposals on the computer. Yolanda Shawn's scarred face always drew strange looks from clients, but she never once complained. Once, a client said right in front of her, "Miss Shawn, if you were not disfigured, maybe we could still negotiate, but now..." I was furious and was about to confront the client, sleeves rolled up, but Yolanda held my arm and smiled, saying, "It's okay, we’ll prove our capacities to them." Later, we spent three months conducting market research so detailed it seemed to see straight through the market. We revised the proposal again and again, and finally secured that client. By steadily building our client base, the company gradually began to turn around. Five years later, our company had firmly established itself in the industry. Everyone said we were the best partners, but only we knew that we were each other's lifeline. Eventually, we got married and had a son named Nick. After Nick was born, Yolanda Shawn held my hand and said, "Yale, you stay home and take care of Nick. I'll handle the company." I hesitated—after all, I had built the company with my own hands—but looking at Nick's soft little face, I nodded. From then on, I retreated to the background, becoming a full-time dad, taking care of the household and Nick with careful attention. I thought this life would go on forever—until a man named Eric Jones appeared. That day, I went to the company to deliver some documents to Yolanda Shawn. Just as I reached her office door, I heard an unfamiliar male voice inside. I pushed the door open and saw a man in his early twenties sitting on the armrest of her office chair, his hand resting on her shoulder. Yolanda saw me, her eyes clearly flickering before she quickly pushed the man away.