Eight Years His Girlfriend, Thirty Days His Downfall - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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By my third month at the company, I discovered that my colleagues had been calling me "the old crow" behind my back.
The nickname came from Callan Thorne's stuck-up secretary Sable Quinn.
Because at 32, I was still clinging to an eight-year relationship, endlessly waiting for that marriage certificate that never came.
I confronted Callan: "Your precious secretary are calling me 'the old crow.' Did you know that?"
He didn't even bother to look up:
"Come on, Sable jokes too much, you know that. You’re 32—are you seriously arguing with a little girl?"
Then he looked at me and gave a faint chuckle
"You know what? You gotta admit—it kinda fits."
My heart felt like it was being crushed by an ice-cold fist. Eight years of devoted love, and to him it was all just some amusing joke.
I turned and walked away, submitted my resignation, and blocked him on everything.
But suddenly, that ever-composed man completely lost it.
"Rowan, I’m begging you, please come back."
The first time I heard "old crow" crystal clear was during Monday's company meeting.
Sable sat there with her eyes downcast as I chewed her out, tears hanging at the corners of her eyes.
During the break, someone muttered:
"Typical old crow—always bullying the young, pretty girls."
The words hit me like a slap. My mind went blank.
That opened the floodgates. The whispers behind me got louder and nastier.
"Acting all high and mighty, taking it out on the poor girl."
"She’s 32 and still hanging on to some dead-end relationship from eight years ago? That’s just sad."
I set down my coffee cup. The conference room went dead silent for a split second.
Every pair of eyes turned on me like I was the villain here.
Sable dabbed at her slightly red eyes with a tissue.
"Ms. Sylver, I'll double-check the data."
"Not double-check. Redo it."
I forced myself to ignore the stabbing pain in my chest and kept my voice ice-cold.
"Get me a full analysis and recovery plan—on my desk first thing tomorrow."
My gaze swept over her, then over all the rubberneckers.
"Meeting's over."
I stood up first and walked out of the conference room.
Behind me, the chatter started up again like a tidal wave.
This time, they weren't even trying to hide it.
"What's she trying to prove? Everyone knows she only got that director position because of Callan."
"Old crow's really showing her claws now. What is this, early menopause?"
Back in my office, my computer pinged with an internal email.
I opened it. The subject line was impossible to miss:
"Suggestions for Optimizing Management Communication and Supporting Employee Mental Health."
The sender was the HR director, but I knew exactly whose handiwork this was.
Sable's tears apparently carried more weight than my performance reports.
I snorted and closed the window just as Callan's direct line rang.
His voice had that lazy, soothing tone that couldn't have cared less:
"Rowan, you were pretty fired up in that meeting, huh? Made the poor girl cry."
"Sable's young and inexperienced—she's bound to make mistakes. Cut her some slack, will you?"
I could hear faint sniffling in the background.
I forced down my emotions and kept my voice as level as possible:
"Sable's basic data was riddled with errors. It's going to mess up our quarterly report."
"Oh come on, work stuff—mistakes happen."
He brushed it off like it was nothing.
"Sable's on her period and feeling rough. Give her a break."
"Hey, want to grab dinner tonight? That new sushi place—I already made reservations."
The nickname came from Callan Thorne's stuck-up secretary Sable Quinn.
Because at 32, I was still clinging to an eight-year relationship, endlessly waiting for that marriage certificate that never came.
I confronted Callan: "Your precious secretary are calling me 'the old crow.' Did you know that?"
He didn't even bother to look up:
"Come on, Sable jokes too much, you know that. You’re 32—are you seriously arguing with a little girl?"
Then he looked at me and gave a faint chuckle
"You know what? You gotta admit—it kinda fits."
My heart felt like it was being crushed by an ice-cold fist. Eight years of devoted love, and to him it was all just some amusing joke.
I turned and walked away, submitted my resignation, and blocked him on everything.
But suddenly, that ever-composed man completely lost it.
"Rowan, I’m begging you, please come back."
The first time I heard "old crow" crystal clear was during Monday's company meeting.
Sable sat there with her eyes downcast as I chewed her out, tears hanging at the corners of her eyes.
During the break, someone muttered:
"Typical old crow—always bullying the young, pretty girls."
The words hit me like a slap. My mind went blank.
That opened the floodgates. The whispers behind me got louder and nastier.
"Acting all high and mighty, taking it out on the poor girl."
"She’s 32 and still hanging on to some dead-end relationship from eight years ago? That’s just sad."
I set down my coffee cup. The conference room went dead silent for a split second.
Every pair of eyes turned on me like I was the villain here.
Sable dabbed at her slightly red eyes with a tissue.
"Ms. Sylver, I'll double-check the data."
"Not double-check. Redo it."
I forced myself to ignore the stabbing pain in my chest and kept my voice ice-cold.
"Get me a full analysis and recovery plan—on my desk first thing tomorrow."
My gaze swept over her, then over all the rubberneckers.
"Meeting's over."
I stood up first and walked out of the conference room.
Behind me, the chatter started up again like a tidal wave.
This time, they weren't even trying to hide it.
"What's she trying to prove? Everyone knows she only got that director position because of Callan."
"Old crow's really showing her claws now. What is this, early menopause?"
Back in my office, my computer pinged with an internal email.
I opened it. The subject line was impossible to miss:
"Suggestions for Optimizing Management Communication and Supporting Employee Mental Health."
The sender was the HR director, but I knew exactly whose handiwork this was.
Sable's tears apparently carried more weight than my performance reports.
I snorted and closed the window just as Callan's direct line rang.
His voice had that lazy, soothing tone that couldn't have cared less:
"Rowan, you were pretty fired up in that meeting, huh? Made the poor girl cry."
"Sable's young and inexperienced—she's bound to make mistakes. Cut her some slack, will you?"
I could hear faint sniffling in the background.
I forced down my emotions and kept my voice as level as possible:
"Sable's basic data was riddled with errors. It's going to mess up our quarterly report."
"Oh come on, work stuff—mistakes happen."
He brushed it off like it was nothing.
"Sable's on her period and feeling rough. Give her a break."
"Hey, want to grab dinner tonight? That new sushi place—I already made reservations."
End of Eight Years His Girlfriend, Thirty Days His Downfall Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Eight Years His Girlfriend, Thirty Days His Downfall book page.