When Jake mentioned his company’s annual party, I casually asked if I could come.
“Nah, it’s boring. Networking and work talk,”* he mumbled, barely looking up from his phone.
My gut told me otherwise. He was hiding something. Probably a mistress at work.
*”Still, I’d like to come,”* I pushed.
Days of excuses followed. First, it was *”Spouses never come.”* Then, *”There won’t be any food you like.”* And finally, *”It’s just work people—you’d be bored.”*
I didn’t buy it.
Finally, he caved. *”Fine, come. But don’t be surprised if everyone’s jealous of my promotion,”* he smirked.
That night, I dressed up, expecting a fancy work event. But the second we walked in, I knew something was off.
No one spoke to us. Not a single *“congratulations”* for his promotion. No small talk. No friendly smiles. Just cold stares and hushed whispers.
Then came dinner.
A server guided us through a hallway—not toward the main banquet hall, but into a tiny, dimly lit conference room.
Just the two of us.
I barely had time to process the isolation before the projector flickered on.
At first, I thought it was some corporate slideshow. But then I saw it.
Screenshots.
Lines of text. Emails. Group chats.
One after another, flashing on the screen.
Then my blood ran cold.
They were all from *Jake.*
Mocking his coworkers. Insulting his boss. Calling his teammates *”lazy idiots.”* Complaining about “carrying” his department.
And worst of all?
An email thread where he *stole* credit for a major project—one that had landed him his so-called *promotion.*
I turned to Jake, my hands trembling.
*”What… what is this?”* I whispered.
But he was frozen, staring at the screen like a deer in headlights.
The door creaked open.
Jake’s boss stepped in, followed by HR.
*”Enjoy the party, Jake?”* his boss asked, voice dripping with venom.
Jake opened his mouth, but no words came out.
His “promotion” was a lie.
This wasn’t a celebration.
It was his *public execution.*
And I had front-row seats.
