"Besides, Mr. Gilbert is so capable—he even runs his own company. Girls would kill for a man like that."
"If you ask me, you're just one of those jealous shrews who can't stand the thought of him falling for someone younger. You're trying to get rid of me, aren't you? Well, let me make one thing perfectly clear—"
"Unless Mr. Gilbert fires me himself, I'm not going anywhere."
Gladys bit down hard on those last few words.
A challenge. A declaration of war.
The line went dead.
Silence swallowed the room. I let out a breath so quiet even I barely heard it.
There's a saying that makes more sense to me now than it ever did before.
You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved.
After that, Gladys stopped pretending altogether.
She made a sport of answering Warren's phone—no matter where he was, no matter who might hear.
According to her, he was always "passed out drunk at some hotel" or "getting a massage."
She even posted a photo of them on social media. Both of them. Clothes rumpled. Skin flushed.
Visible only to me.
Her lipstick kept "accidentally" appearing in Warren's car.
His shirt collars kept coming home with smears of red that had no business being there.