Part 1He Called My Job Worthless Now I Am The CEO

I had to work until eleven, and I hadn’t managed to get the Kobe Ribeye Liam wanted.

As a peace offering, I splurged on an expensive Black Cod, the kind he’d mentioned wanting last week.

But he didn’t want it anymore. He smashed the container against the tile floor, the spray of water soaking my slacks.

The comments section was buzzing.

[It’s the FMC’s fault. How much does that overtime pay anyway? Keeping the ML happy is the real job.]

[Black Cod is delicious and expensive, but the ML specifically asked for the beef. Anyone would be mad at that kind of obvious substitution.]

Really?

Maybe they had a point, but I had just spent over twelve hours on the clock, and I was utterly exhausted.

Too tired to handle the mess on the floor, or the furious man standing over it.

* * *

It was almost eleven PM, and only our office lights remained on in the entire corporate tower.

I rubbed my pounding temples and saved the sixth draft of the proposal before powering down.

The five-hour project review that afternoon had ended with the client tossing out everything we had. The whole team scrambled, managing to nail down the final outline just before the late-night commuter train stopped running.

But we weren't done. We had a week until the project deadline, and there was still a mountain of work to climb.

Despite the screaming protest from my body, I shoved my laptop into my tote bag.

The moment I pushed open my apartment door, a blast of cold air, thick with stale cigarette smoke, hit me.

Liam was sitting on the sofa, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. The acrid smoke made me cough.

A low, almost inaudible scoff reached my ears: “Don’t start…”

The sound vanished a second later, so fast it felt like a hallucination.

On the first day we moved in together, we set a firm rule: no smoking inside the apartment.

Liam was fine with it initially. Then, he started arguing that the living room wasn't a room—only the bedrooms counted. Now, ash trays were scattered in every corner of our small space.

Perhaps it was the chill of early winter, but my coughing escalated, a tight, painful spasm that felt like a tiny claw scratching at my lungs. I dropped my bag and headed straight for the water glasses.

They were all empty.

That’s when Liam finally spoke, his voice ice-cold.

“You decided to come back, then? Take a look at how many times I called you.”

I had already seen.

The second the meeting ended, I checked my phone: five missed calls and one text message.

[Get the Kobe Ribeye from The Prime Butcher on your way home. They close at seven.]

I’d called him back, but he never picked up.

I knew he was angry. Ever since I joined the project team, my life had accelerated. When I got busy, every minute, even for eating or drinking, was calculated.

Liam was a freelance artist, usually sleeping until the late afternoon. He couldn’t accept my reasons. We’d fought countless times over missed calls and slow text replies.

“We had a project review today. Everyone had to silence their phones.” I put my bag down, my voice heavy with exhaustion. “I saw the text at seven-thirty.”

Liam sneered. “And? Where’s the beef?”

“The Prime Butcher was closed.” I pulled a clear container from my canvas bag. “But I bought you Black Cod. It’s very fresh. Twenty minutes steaming, and it’s ready.”

He shot up, snatched the container, and stared at the pale red fish, his eyes dangerously cold.

“Ava. I was specific. The Kobe Ribeye from The Prime Butcher.”

He ground out every word: “Are you suddenly deaf, or do you just not care what I actually want?”

The words ended in a low, seething growl.

A few familiar sentences scrolled across my vision.

[The ML is just worried the FMC is working too hard. He’s taking it out on her.]

[FMC, just apologize. Say some sweet words and it will all blow over.]

[Honestly, the ML just feels neglected. That's why he’s so furious.]

A massive sense of absurdity washed over me.

If he was just worried about me being tired, Liam had all afternoon—why couldn't he have gone to pick up the beef?

Why was I expected to work a twelve-hour day, buy the groceries, and then cook the meal?

I was too drained to argue. I tried to reason with him calmly. “Liam, I didn’t get out until eight. That place was honestly closed. This fish—you said last week you were craving it. I drove forty minutes out of the way to the seafood market for this.”

“Out of your way?”

He scoffed. “Ava, you are always like this. Always falling short, always just almost enough. Just like you think you’re so dedicated to this stupid job, but you can’t balance our life with your so-called career!”

His voice rose sharply. “Your company is making bank—have they cut you a single check for all this? You’re always pulling all-nighters, but why are you never the one getting promoted?”

I froze. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re naive!”

He practically yelled. “What’s the point of all this effort? You don't have the connections, you don't have a family name, and you're not exactly a stunner—you are never going to move up! Just like this fish…”

He violently threw the container onto the floor. “It will never replace the Kobe I wanted!”

Under the harsh overhead light, Liam was breathing heavily, his eyes bulging with rage.

I could barely see his face through the scrolling comments.

[The ML went too far. He’ll regret this in a minute.]

[He’s just worried about the FMC constantly working. He doesn't know how to express it.]

[FMC, don’t be sad. The ML actually wanted you to have the beef, not him.]

I looked at the water spreading on the floor, the Black Cod’s scales flashing faintly under the light.

That fish cost nearly fifty dollars. It was expensive for me. I’d deleted the new clothes I’d been eyeing for weeks from my online cart just to afford it.

Now, it seemed I had lost both the pretty clothes and the fresh fish.

I spoke softly. “Liam, I am genuinely exhausted.”

He paused, clearly thrown by my subdued reaction.

The usual Ava would already be explaining, apologizing, and placating him.

She would probably promise to take a day off tomorrow just to buy him that specific beef.

But he quickly recovered his rhythm, his voice louder than before, a raw, furious accusation.

“You’re tired? I’m the one who’s tired!”

“Waiting up for you every night, only to find out I can’t even have the one thing I asked for!”

The comments kept refreshing.

[The ML is using reverse psychology! He means he misses spending time with you.]

[FMC, go hug him! He’s been waiting all night just to have dinner with you.]

I stared at the words, and a small, brittle laugh escaped me.

“What are you laughing at?” Liam frowned.

I shook my head, knelt down, and carefully picked up the Black Cod.

Its eyes were still clear, maintaining that fresh, glossy look.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

I didn’t answer. I simply walked over to the kitchen trash can and dropped the entire fish inside.

“Ava!” He shouted, his voice laced with disbelief.

I turned back to him. “Since you don’t want it, I’m throwing it away.”

The comments went silent for a beat, then erupted into a frenzy.

[What is the FMC doing? She’s escalating the situation!]

[The ML is stunned! She has never acted like this.]

[It’s over, it’s really over this time!]

Liam’s mouth was open, momentarily speechless.

He looked at my calm face, his expression shifting from blind fury to confusion, even a hint of panic.

“I’m going out.”

I picked up the bag I’d just dropped.

“Ava!”

He called my name, his voice uncertain. “Where are you going?”

I stopped at the doorway but didn’t turn around.

“Maybe I’ll go find a place that’s still open right now, where I can buy The Prime Butcher’s Kobe Ribeye.”

I spoke quietly. “Or maybe just a place where I can eat a meal in peace.”

I opened the door, stepped out, and closed it.

The actions were fluid, without hesitation.

The motion-sensor light in the hallway clicked off. I stood in the dark and heard his frustrated sigh from inside the apartment.

Then, the comments finally began to change.

[This feels different.]

[Is the FMC actually… leaving?]