Mutant in a suit

Life's about to give me the awful wake up call. I always thought the person in question would have the definitive moment at which they knew they were living a nightmare. It could be something catastrophic, a car wreck perhaps, or a cheating confession, or maybe just a pink slip sliding across the desk. 

For me the call came right at 7:08 AM on a miserable, drizzly Tuesday as the old, chewed up phone speaker blasted Zachary's sharp, accusatory voice. 

"Oh face it! You think you are so fucking smart, don't you Sierra? You are playing the victim, pretending to be innocent, when all you are doing is whoring yourself to get a promotion." 

I flinched and dragged my fingers through my messy hair, still sitting on the edge of the bed. The coldness of hardwood white oak floor met my bare feet, and I made no move to change that. I didn't breathe.

"You think I don't know what you and Damon Cross are doing?" Zachary hissed. "You think you're better than me now? Sleeping your way to the top?"

The words hung like a noose around my neck.

I blinked down at the phone, part of me wishing it would just disintegrate in my hand; no such luck. Zachary kept ranting, his voice rising until it cracked from fury.

"You're a slut, Sierra. A gold-digging, lying slut."

I pressed the End Call button with a trembling thumb. My hand hovered above the screen for a moment, quaking. A wave of nausea roared through me, violent and unforgiving.

This wasn't new; Zachary had been throwing grenades of accusations since we broke up six months ago. But today's words had a timbre and sharpness, they were meaner than before. They were created to cut me open and watch all of the insecurities I had bleed out.

And God help me, they were working.

My vision blurred as I shoved the phone into the nightstand drawer and slammed it shut. I squeezed my eyes closed, breathing deep through my nose like my therapist had taught me, but the panic surged hot and wild under my skin

He knows about Damon

Well, he thinks he does.

Technically, there was nothing going on between me and Damon Cross. Nothing real, anyway. I wasn't sleeping my way to a promotion, regardless of what Zachary wanted to believe.

But still, the thought gnawed at me.

Would everyone else believe it, too? Would the whispers start in the office? The odd glances? The pitying smiles?

My chest tightened. I fumbled to my feet, feeling heavy, clumsy, off-balance. I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the other side of the room and grimaced.

Puffy eyes. Pale skin. Hair like a bird's nest.

I didn't look like the kind of woman who would take on a corporate shark like Damon Cross. I didn't even look like the kind of woman who could withstand another dose of Zachary's poison.

I looked like someone who was already losing.

The kettle let out a deafening shriek from the kitchen but I ignored it. I pressed my arms around myself, shivering even though the apartment was not cold. A cracked ceiling, above me, faded into gray static. 

Zack was probably right. 

I was probably weak. 

I was stupid to think I could rebuild my life after what he did to me. 

I bit down on my lower lip, hard, until I tasted blood. 

No. 

Not today. 

I'd survived worse mornings than this. I'd survived Zach's mind games while living with him, while his words were in tandem with slamming doors, shattered glass, and icy silences that felt like they would last forever. 

I had survived leaving him and three months on a friend's couch, eating instant noodles and not crying as the tears of everything I went through shuddered down my spine. 

I would survive this too. 

I would survive this.

Squaring my shoulders, I pulled open my closet and grabbed whatever my hands found first--a white blouse and a blue pencil skirt. The clothing felt stiff and formal against my skin, but it was the armor I needed. 

I needed to act as if I was made of something stronger than shattered glass.

Twenty minutes later, I was at the bus stop with a thermos of burnt coffee clenched between my hands as the drizzle turned my hair into limp strings. The city buzzed and groaned around me, horns blared and tires hissed over wet asphalt, conversations hummed around me like insects.

With my head down, I burrowed my shoulders against the world.

I kept telling myself it didn't matter.

I kept telling myself I didn't care what people thought.

But as I boarded the bus and caught a glimpse of two women whispering to each other, their eyes darting towards me, my stomach twisted, notwithstanding.

Paranoia, I told myself.

It's just paranoia.

Except Zachary had a way of making the imposition of bad things seem inevitable. If he is willing to insinuate I slept my way to the top, what else would he insinuate?

I was already annoyed by this though, imagine something worse gnawing at me all the way downtown.

By the time I finally stepped into the lobby of Cross Enterprises, my heart was pounding in my chest as if it might explode like a shaken soda can. I barely paid attention to the polished marble flooring or the massive gleaming gold emblem emblazoned across the wall behind the front desk.

I hardly paid attention to the receptionist's smile.

I was just focused on getting to the elevators intact.

Once in the elevator, I sagged down against the mirrored wall and pressed the button for the thirty-fourth floor. My reflection stared back at me-tight mouth, pinched cheeks, and wild eyes.

The doors flowed closed with a soft hiss.

I closed my eyes and uttered the three words that had recently become my modus operandi.

"You are enough."