The Friend I Promoted Fired Me FirstChapter 1

Three years ago, I championed Amelia Thorne's entry into the company. From intern to HR Director, every promotion she received, I had vouched for her. Now, there were 23 names on the redundancy list. Mine was at the top. She had submitted it.

"Helen, I couldn't help it." Her eyes red-rimmed, "It was decided by management."

I said nothing. Her phone vibrated. A text message. Top contact, marked with a red heart emoji. The profile picture was a man's side profile. A dark blue plaid shirt. The same one I had personally ironed for Oliver Goddard last night.

Oliver Goddard is my husband.

I put the list into my bag and stood up. "Amelia, the shirt the person in your top contact is wearing—"

"I ironed it last night."

Her face went white.

* * *

"Helen! Helen, wait!" Amelia's voice, tinged with a sob, chased me down the corridor. I didn't look back. My heels clicked on the tiled floor, a steady rhythm. The elevator doors opened. She caught up to me, grabbing my arm. "You misunderstood, that person isn't Oliver..."

"Dark blue plaid shirt, with a small scorched hole under the left chest pocket." I looked at her hand. "I accidentally ironed it like that last night." Her fingers loosened. "Helen..." "Amelia." I pressed the elevator button. "You've been using that trick on me for three years—your left eye reddens first, then your right. It's not very effective anymore."

The elevator doors closed. I leaned against the elevator wall, watching the numbers drop. Basement one. Parking garage. I got into my car, closed the door. My phone lit up. A message. Amelia sent a voice note; I didn't open it. Another text came: "Helen, if you don't believe me, you can ask Oliver directly. He'll explain." I stared at the message for ten seconds.

I opened Oliver's social media. Last Wednesday, he posted a picture of coffee with the caption: "Working late, this coffee delivered tastes extra good." That night he told me he was busy with a project at work; I hadn't sent him any coffee. The first comment was from Amelia: "You're working hard [heart emoji]." Oliver replied with a smiling emoji.

I scrolled down further. A month ago, during the holiday weekend, he said he was taking clients for golf in the Bahamas. No pictures posted on his feed. But Amelia had posted. A beach, sunset, red bikini, with the caption: "Be good to me, holiday." In the bottom right corner of the second photo, a man's hand, wearing a very familiar wedding band on the ring finger. The scratch was on the left side—Oliver always rested his left hand on the steering wheel when driving, wearing it down.

I exited the app, started the car. I arrived home at 7:30. Oliver poked his head out of the kitchen, smiling. "You're back? Why so early today?" "Nothing much, so I came home." "Wash up, dinner's ready. The ribs just came out of the oven."

At the dining table, he served me food, recounting his day at the office. "You remember Mark from finance? Today he added an extra zero to a report, and the boss thought our department's revenue had increased tenfold. He was happy for a whole hour..." He smiled very naturally. I smiled too.

"Oh, right," he said, "you ironed my blue plaid shirt, didn't you? I have an important meeting tomorrow." "It's hanging in the third compartment of the closet." "Thanks, wife." He reached over and squeezed my fingers. His fingertips were warm.

After dinner, he went to wash the dishes. I went into the bedroom and opened the closet. The blue plaid shirt was hanging there. I picked it up and sniffed it closely. Beneath the scent of laundry detergent, there was a faint fragrance. Bleu de Chanel. I had given it to Amelia for her birthday three years ago. "I love it so much!" she had hugged me then, saying, "Helen, you're truly the best person in the world to me."

I hung the shirt back up. In the pocket, I felt a crumpled receipt. Two cups of coffee from a local cafe. One Americano, one low-sugar latte. I drink Americano. Oliver also drinks Americano. Whose was the low-sugar latte?

The sound of water stopped in the bathroom. He walked out, wrapped in a towel. "Wife, I might be home late tomorrow; a project needs finishing." "Okay." "Don't stay up too late." He kissed my forehead. "Oliver." "Hm?" "How long has it been since you celebrated our wedding anniversary with me?" His movement paused. "Last month wasn't..." "Last month you said you had an unexpected business trip to the Caribbean." "Right, that client couldn't be put off..." "Did that client wear a red bikini?" His expression flickered, then returned to normal. "What are you talking about? The client is a bald man in his fifties." "Oh." "Why are you suddenly thinking about this?" "Nothing. There's a small hole under the pocket of your shirt. I accidentally did it while ironing; I hope you don't mind." "Not at all." He smiled. "You ironed it for me; even the hole looks good."

I turned off the light. In the darkness, his breathing gradually became even. My eyes remained open. At 2 AM, his phone lit up. A message popped up, labeled "Project Team - Kevin": "Hubby, I've handled the last issue. She won't have a chance to turn things around. Don't worry." Followed by a kissing emoji. Hubby. She. Turn things around. The screen darkened. Oliver turned over, his arm resting on my waist. "Mmm... wife..." he mumbled indistinctly. I didn't move. "Goodnight," I said. No one replied.