I Kept the Severance Not Him Chapter 1

In my seventh year of being Christian’s live-in, unpaid housekeeper, our cat went missing.

I tore the house apart, checking every single corner, my eyes stinging with hot, angry tears as I finally reached for my phone to call the police.

Christian snatched the phone right out of my hand and hung up.

"I took him," he said, not even looking up from his tablet. "Amber wanted a cat. She saw a picture of Barnaby and had to have him."

"He's just a pet, Rachel. You can always get another one."

I stood frozen, staring at the empty ceramic bowl in the corner of the kitchen.

During all those late nights when Christian was out with Amber, Barnaby was the only one waiting by the front door for me to come home. For seven years, that little creature was the only thing in this hollow house that actually needed me.

I reached out, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the hem of Christian’s jacket, practically begging.

"Barnaby only eats the food I prepare for him. He won't adjust to a new place. Please, Christian."

Christian let out a soft, dismissive scoff and turned his phone screen toward me, hitting play.

On the screen, the cat who usually hissed at strangers was curled up in Amber’s lap, purring so loudly the microphone picked it up.

"Rachel," Christian said, his voice flat, cutting. "Do you always have to make yourself out to be so indispensable?"

All the energy drained from my limbs, and I collapsed onto the cold hardwood floor.

He was right, of course. No one is truly irreplaceable.

Cats are like that. People are even worse.

Maybe it was finally time for me to start living my own life.

* * *

The shrill ring of my alarm shattered the silence of the empty bedroom.

My phone was cluttered with thirty different alarms.

Five of them were dedicated to Barnaby—reminding me of his feeding schedule, his supplements, and his vet appointments.

The rest of them revolved entirely around Christian.

"Iron his suits. Start dinner. Take his Mercedes for a tune-up."

An endless, repetitive loop of service.

I swiped my thumb across the screen.

One by one, I deleted them. Every single one.

I wouldn't be needing them anymore.

Supporting myself against the edge of the coffee table, I pushed myself up from the floor.

Christian had been gone for hours. Only the slight indentation in the leather cushion of the sofa remained as proof he had ever been here.

Just a few hours ago, he had sat right there, casually scrolling through financial news. He had watched me—frantic, sweating, pouring over every closet and cupboard—searching for a cat he had already packed up and given away.

Maybe he found it amusing. Maybe that was why he kept his mouth shut, letting me play the fool.

A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my stomach.

Today was our seventh anniversary.

I had spent the entire afternoon preparing a dinner filled with his favorite dishes. Now, those plates sat untouched on the dining table, the grease congealing into a dull, white glaze.

I picked up the plates, one by one, and scraped the cold food down the garbage disposal.

There was a time when Christian refused to eat anything unless I made it.

Seven years ago, his most trusted business partner had spiked his food. It ended in a frantic rush to the ER, a painful gastric lavage, and hands so swollen from IV drips and nutrient lines that he couldn't even hold a fork. After that trauma, he developed a deep, borderline paranoid aversion to restaurant food.

So, I was the one who brought him homemade lunches in neat little containers. I would take the first bite to show him it was safe, then feed him the next.

Back then, Christian would lean into my touch, looking at me with soft, vulnerable eyes.

"Rachel, what would I do without you? I’d literally starve."

To take care of him, I walked away from my residency at the hospital. Three meals a day, rain or shine, I delivered his food.

I did that for seven years.

Until Amber arrived.

She was the new junior executive assistant in his office.

The day I walked in without knocking, she was sitting on the edge of his mahogany desk, holding a forkful of some charred, unrecognizable takeout, hovering it near his mouth. Christian didn't even flinch. He just leaned in and swallowed it.

"So, Christian, how does my cooking stack up against your girlfriend's?" Amber had giggled.

He raised an eyebrow, a lazy smirk on his lips. "Give her some credit, Amber. Cooking is pretty much the only thing she knows how to do."

It was only after their shared laughter died down that they finally noticed me standing in the doorway.

He casually took the lunchbox from my hands. He took one bite of the roasted chicken I had spent two hours preparing, then spit it out into his napkin.

He frowned, complaining about the seasoning. "Too bland. Too greasy. The meat is like leather."

And with every critique he threw my way, Amber let out a soft, synchronized titter.

As it turned out, the betrayal of a pet was nothing compared to the betrayal of a partner.

I plunged my hands into the soapy sink, mechanically scrubbing the grease off the ceramic plates. Over and over, until my skin went raw.

My lips twitched. I wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all, but my eyes burned with a heavy, throbbing ache.

These hands, which had once been trained to hold a scalpel with absolute precision, had become permanently wrinkled and smelled of dish soap.

I let myself slide down the kitchen cabinets, pulling my knees to my chest.

The screen of my phone lit up on the counter. It was a text from a medical recruiter.

"Dr. Evans, we’d really love for you to reconsider. The department would be incredibly lucky to have you."

The offer had come in a month ago. I had agonized over it for an entire week before ultimately turning it down.

My reasoning back then felt utterly pathetic now: "If I take this, who will cook for Christian? He'll starve."

But there was nothing holding me back anymore.

I typed out a single word: "Yes."

I locked the screen.

In the quiet darkness of the kitchen, I whispered to myself, "Christian, I was never as useless as you made me believe."