The evening began like a dream. The restaurant was bathed in amber candlelight, and the scent of expensive lilies hung in the air. Ryan looked devastatingly handsome in a charcoal suit, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that made my skin tingle. We talked about our favorite memories, the wine was exquisite, and with every passing course, my anticipation mounted. By the time the table was cleared for dessert, my pulse was a drumbeat in my ears. I saw the waiter approaching with a covered silver platter, and I instinctively straightened my posture, my hands trembling beneath the white linen tablecloth.
The waiter set the plate down with a flourish. My eyes darted to the center, expecting a velvet box or a ring tucked into a fold of chocolate. Instead, I saw a pristine white plate drizzled in elegant dark chocolate script. It read: “Congrats on Your Promotion!”
Ryan leaned back, a smug, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. “Surprise, babe! I knew how much that role meant to you, so I figured we should celebrate the inevitability of it.”
His words felt like shards of glass. Only two weeks prior, I had been passed over for the Senior Director position I had spent eighteen months preparing for. The promotion had gone to a man I had personally mentored, a man with half my experience. To make matters worse, the office gossip mills had informed me that the partners felt I was “distracted” by my personal life—specifically, that I was likely “about to settle down” and start a family, making me a “flight risk” for a leadership role.
Ryan knew this. He had held me while I cried the night the news broke. He had listened to me vent about the systemic unfairness of it all. And yet, here he was, presenting me with a “promotion” dessert at our anniversary dinner.
“I didn’t get the job, Ryan,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You know that.”
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