Chapter 7
2317words
"Hangover?" Sarah asked quietly when she ran into me in the break room, her tone carrying both concern and gossipy curiosity.
"Sort of," I answered vaguely, hurriedly poured a cup of coffee and escaped back to my workstation.
All morning I was distracted. I had to read the client's revision comments three times to understand them, made mistakes twice on a simple logo adjustment, and even made basic errors in color matching that I normally handle with ease. The pixels on the computer screen began to blur, and I realized tears were starting to accumulate behind my sunglasses again.
"Chloe," Creative Director David walked to my desk, "are you okay today? Do you want to go home early?"
"I...I'm fine," I forced a smile, "just a bit of a headache."
David didn't seem convinced, but he didn't say much more. In this industry, everyone has their own problems, and as long as it doesn't affect project progress, bosses usually don't dig too deep.
But I knew my state was terrible. Alex's words kept playing on loop in my mind like a recorder: "You're convenient." "Don't make things complicated." "You completed the task perfectly." Every word felt like a needle piercing my heart.
In the afternoon, news began to spread around the office—tonight's team Happy Hour had been moved to that newly opened cocktail bar. Usually I'm an enthusiastic participant in such activities, but today I just wanted to go home, crawl under the covers and cry until dawn.
"You must come," Sarah insisted, "We haven't gone out together in ages. And I heard the bartender at that place is really handsome."
I didn't have the energy to refuse. Maybe alcohol could help me temporarily forget that feeling of complete humiliation.
At six in the evening, the Chimera Studio team made their grand entrance into the dimly lit bar in Tribeca. I took off my sunglasses, hoping that in the dark environment no one would be able to see my eyes clearly.
"A martini," I said to the bartender, "extra dry."
The moment the alcohol touched my lips, I felt that long-forgotten numbing sensation. Second glass, third glass, and my colleagues' laughter began to sound distant, even Alex's voice temporarily quieted down.
"Drink slowly," Mason said beside me. He unusually wasn't hugging his laptop tonight, but instead holding a beer, looking somewhat uncomfortable.
"I'm fine," I told him, my voice already a bit slurred, "Never been better."
But the truth is I wasn't fine at all. When Sarah started talking about her newest date, when David shared vacation plans with his wife, when everyone was discussing love and relationships, I felt like something in my chest was about to explode.
"...then he said he loves me," Sarah giggled, "Said he loves me on the third date, can you believe it?"
Love me.
Those two words were like a key, unlocking a tightly sealed room in my heart. Alex never said he loved me. For eight months, he never used any words close to love. I was just convenient, just a task, just a tool that could be used anytime.
Tears began to well up, I tried to control them, but the alcohol made me lose all self-restraint.
"I'm such a fool," I suddenly said out loud, my voice sounding particularly jarring against the music in the bar.
The conversation came to an abrupt halt, and everyone turned to look at me.
"I'm such a damn fool," I repeated, tears rushing out like a burst dam, "Eight months, eight damn months, I thought... I thought..."
I couldn't say it. Couldn't tell them I thought Alex would fall in love with me, that I thought I could change a person, that I thought I was special enough to make a man abandon his rules.
"Chloe," Sarah tried to stroke my shoulder, "What's wrong? What happened?"
"I was played," I sobbed, "Completely played. I was like... like a prostitute on call, summoned when he needed a date, summoned when he wanted sex, and then told not to make things complicated."
The air around us grew tense, and I could feel the awkwardness and sympathy from my colleagues. But I couldn't stop.
"I thought last night was some special night, thought finally... but he just needed a good-looking woman to decorate his arm. I'm such a fool, aren't I? A damn, stupid, naive fool."
"Not just one."
The voice suddenly came from across the table. It was Leo, putting down his glass, with a calmness in his eyes that I'd never seen before.
"What?" I looked up at him with tearful eyes.
"Not just one man, Chloe." Leo's voice wasn't loud, but clear enough, "Last month I saw you entering a hotel in Chelsea with a man in a suit. Two weeks ago, Mason said he bumped into you dating someone else at the Museum of Modern Art. We all thought you were just... busy."
The air froze.
Everyone was looking at me, their gazes shifting from sympathy to confusion, shock, and a hint of judgment.
"So," Sarah slowly released my shoulders, her voice becoming cautious, "you... you've been dating several people at the same time?"
"It's not... I'm not..." I tried to explain, but the words got stuck in my throat.
"Wait," David frowned, "that man who made you break down, is he your boyfriend? Or..."
"Neither." I heard myself say, my voice sounding hollow as if coming from someone else's mouth, "None of them are. I have a list. A rotation system. High value-for-money entertainment."
I spoke those words that once made me feel clever, rational, and in control, but at this moment, under the shocked gazes of my colleagues, these words sounded pathetic and twisted.
"Oh my God, Chloe," Sarah took a step back, "I thought... I thought you were just heartbroken."
"I am heartbroken," I smiled bitterly, "heartbroken over someone who was never my boyfriend. And I rejected all the people who were genuinely good to me, including Ethan. He discovered the truth tonight, saw the photos, and gave me a chance to choose."
"What did you choose?" Mason's voice was soft, almost inaudible.
I turned my head to look at him, remembering the donuts he bought for me, remembering his clumsy but sincere care.
"I chose to continue being a fool." My tears flowed again, "I chose the person who hurt me and rejected the person who loved me. Because I am a complete jerk."
The silence was as heavy as lead. This was no longer just a heartbroken girl's breakdown, but a naked self-exposure. I showed my ugliest side to my colleagues, without any embellishment, without any excuse.
My voice grew louder, and my tears flowed more. I knew it would be awkward returning to the office tomorrow, I knew this would become break room gossip. But worse, I knew how they saw me now—not as a victim of heartbreak, but as someone who played with emotions, someone who ultimately got what they deserved.
And they were right.
Mason stood not far away, holding the beer he had barely touched, his expression looking even more pained than mine. When our eyes met, there was disappointment, pain, and a kind of understanding in his eyes that I couldn't bear.
Was he also on the list? He wondered. That box of donuts he bought, those sincere concerns, were they also just "high-value entertainment" in my eyes?
"Mason—" I wanted to explain something, but he had already turned away.
"I have to go," he said to David, his voice flat, "See you tomorrow."
He walked straight toward the door, his back stiff and hurt. I wanted to chase after him, wanted to tell him it wasn't like that, he was different, he was never on that damn list. But I was pinned to my seat by shame, unable to move.
"Maybe we should take you home," David said gently but distantly.
I shook my head and downed another drink. "No need, I'm fine. I just... I just need to face reality. Admit that I'm an idiot."
Sarah called an Uber, and other colleagues took turns making sure I got home safely, but no one talked to me like they usually did. Their kindness had turned into obligation, their concern carried distance.
Throughout the whole process, I kept repeating that sentence: "I'm such a fool."
But now this sentence had a new meaning. I wasn't just crying for Alex, but for everyone I had hurt—Ethan, Mason, and that Chloe Miller who once thought herself so clever.
* * *
Mason walked briskly along the streets of Manhattan, with Chloe's crying still echoing in his ears. He never knew how to comfort people, never knew what to say at times like this. But seeing her in such pain, he felt an ache in his own chest.
He remembered a few weeks ago when Chloe had mentioned a donut shop. It was a casual complaint, saying she always wanted to try it, but every time she passed by there was a long line, and she didn't have the patience to wait.
"Dominique Ansel Bakery's donuts are said to be the best in all of New York," she said at the time, "but who has time to wait in line for two hours? Especially for a donut."
Mason remembered this detail. He remembered many details about Chloe, though he was never good at expressing this kind of attention.
It was now nine in the evening, but he knew the store stayed open late, and the lines on Friday nights would be especially long. But perhaps that was exactly the point—to do something for her that she wouldn't do for herself.
After waiting in line for nearly two hours, Mason finally bought an entire box of mixed-flavor donuts. Lemon caramel, chocolate sea salt, raspberry rose—all the sophisticated flavors that sounded like something Chloe would enjoy.
Back home, he sat in front of his computer, staring at a blank sticky note for a long time. He didn't know what to write. "Hope you feel better" sounded too formal. "Don't be sad" sounded too fake. "I care about you" sounded too... scary.
Finally, he wrote in his clumsy handwriting: "For the hungover person."
Simple, practical, and wouldn't make her feel pressured.
Early the next morning, he arrived at the company an hour early, gently placed the donut box on Chloe's desk, stuck the note on it, then returned to his own workstation, pretending to check emails.
* * *
At ten o'clock Saturday morning, I dragged my hungover body into the office. My head was pounding, my stomach churning, and my mouth tasted like a dead rat. But worst of all was the memory—last night's complete breakdown in front of my colleagues replaying in my mind like a movie.
I needed to come to the office to finish the project I messed up yesterday. I also needed to face reality and think about how to apologize to everyone.
When I reached my workstation, I stopped in my tracks.
There was an elegant white box on my desk with a sticky note attached. I moved closer to make out the crooked handwriting: "For the hungover person."
I opened the box to find a complete set of exquisite donuts, each one perfect like a small work of art. Lemon caramel, chocolate sea salt, raspberry rose... all those sophisticated flavors that I love.
Suddenly, tears started to well up again. But this time they weren't tears of pain, but rather a complex feeling of being moved.
These donuts were from that store I had mentioned, the one where you need to wait in line for two hours. Someone remembered that casual complaint, someone was willing to stand in that line for me.
I turned to look at Mason's workstation. He was staring at his screen, pretending to work diligently, but I could tell he was secretly observing my reaction.
"Mason," I called his name, my voice trembling with emotion.
He turned his head, his face as red as a tomato. "What?"
"Thank you."
He nodded and quickly turned back to his screen. "You're welcome. Are... are you okay?"
This is a simple question, but no one asked me this question last night. They all tried to analyze my situation, give me advice, comfort me, but no one simply asked if I was okay.
"I'm okay," I said, taking a bite of the lemon caramel donut. It was sweet just right, making my stomach begin to settle down. "Thank you for waiting in line."
"It's nothing," he said awkwardly, "I... I'm not good at talking. So I just..."
"So you just did it."
He nodded.
In that moment, I felt something I hadn't felt in eight months—pure kindness. No conditions, no expectations, no "tasks" or "convenience." Just one person seeing another person in pain, and trying to help in whatever way they could think of.
I looked at Mason again. His face was still red as he stared at the screen, obviously uncomfortable with this emotional moment. But he did this. When I was at my lowest, he spent two hours waiting in line to buy me donuts.
I was about to say something when my phone vibrated again.
Alex: "There's something of yours left at my place from last night's party. Want to come get it?"
My hand froze in mid-air, the donut in my mouth suddenly turning bitter.
Mason noticed my change in expression and asked with concern: "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I forced a smile, "Just work stuff."
But my phone was still on the table, the screen still lit, Alex's message still there.
Mason's donut, and Alex's summons.
Which one should I choose?
