My Boss Replaced Me With His First Love

The resignation letter had taken me eleven minutes to write and four years to mean.

I set it on Sandra's desk in the HR office at 9:03 on a Monday morning. Sandra, Woodford Group's head of HR—a woman who had worked here longer than I had been alive and communicated primarily through the strategic removal of her reading glasses—picked it up, scanned it once, and set it back down.

"One week's notice." She folded her hands. "You understand that any departure within the standard notice window requires an executive countersignature."

"I wasn't aware of that policy."

"Page forty-seven of your employment contract." She said it the way people say *obviously*. "For director-level exits, the signature needs to come from the CEO's office."

I kept my face very still. "I see."

"Mr. Woodford is in the building today, if you'd like to—"

"I'll handle it. Thank you, Sandra."

I walked out with the letter tucked back under my arm and didn't let myself think about it until I reached the end of the hall, where a floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the city. Forty-one floors down, taxis moved like slow yellow beetles. The sky was the kind of flat, bright gray that didn't commit to anything.

I pulled out my phone.

The contact was listed under his first name only. *Devin*. Four years of that name saved in my phone, four years of learning how to say it two different ways—the careful, professional one I used in conference rooms, and the other one, the one that belonged to darker hours and unmade beds and a version of myself I had thought was safe because it was secret.

I pressed call.

It rang five times. Six. I was already composing the voicemail in my head—*Mr. Woodford, this is Jennifer Huckabee, I have a document that requires your signature*—when someone picked up.

The voice was not his.

It was a woman's voice. Unhurried. The kind of lazy that comes from being very comfortable in a space.

"Hello?"

I said nothing. One second. Two.

"Looking for Devin? He's in the shower right now, but I can—"

"No need." My voice came out clean. Almost pleasant. The same voice I used to confirm catering orders and reschedule board meetings. "Thank you."

I hung up.

The window was cold when I pressed my fingers against it. I hadn't realized I'd moved. Forty-one floors below, a taxi cut off a sedan, and the sedan didn't honk. I watched that for a moment. Somewhere behind me, a printer woke up and began feeding paper through its rollers with a sound like shallow breathing.

My phone buzzed in my hand. Two minutes, maybe less.

*Devin Woodford calling.*

I answered on the second ring.

"Jennifer." His voice was the same as it always was on work calls—clipped, efficient, carrying the mild impatience of someone who had three other things open on his screen. Not a trace of the voice from last Thursday night, when he had said my name like