My five-year relationship wasn't just with my CEO girlfriend, Olivia; it was with the company we built from scratch. I poured my heart into both, from the late nights debugging to the vision of an empire.
Then her entitled nephew, Liam, an intern who knew nothing, pushed a catastrophic error into our live system. It was a million-dollar mistake that could cripple us. When I confronted him, he whined to his aunt.
Olivia called me into her office, her voice cold. Liam sat there, feigning tears. She snapped that I was bullying her nephew, who was "just trying his best."
Her solution? A choice: either I get demoted to Liam's personal assistant, mentoring him and taking full responsibility for his incompetence, or I clean out my desk and move out of our shared apartment.
I signed my resignation, printing it from her own printer, and slid it onto her desk. "I choose option two," I said, handing back her apartment key. "We're done."
Olivia, stunned, ripped up my resignation, screaming that I was fired. As I walked out, Liam, emboldened, pointed and yelled that everything was my fault, that I had sabotaged the company. I just kept walking.
