The client I'd been chasing for three years finally agreed to sign. The celebration dinner was set for Friday.

I booked the private room a week in advance. I even found out what desserts the client's wife liked.

Friday afternoon, Ryan Cooper texted. He wanted to bring someone.

I asked who.

He said: "Daisy. She's been feeling down lately. I want to take her out to cheer her up."

Daisy—the receptionist who'd been at his company for three months, posting photos with him on social media every single day.

I told him it wasn't appropriate to bring outsiders to a business dinner.

He replied with one word: "Coming."

In my previous life, Daisy got drunk that night and spilled red wine all over the client's wife. The client was furious. The contract fell through.

Ryan told me afterward: "If you can't even handle something like that, why are you in sales?"

When I opened my eyes again, it was that Friday afternoon. Again.

The same message: "Daisy has been feeling down lately."

This time I replied instantly: "Sure. I'll arrange for her to sit next to the client's wife."

After all, that glass of red wine wouldn't be spilled on me.

I set my phone face-down on the desk. My fingertips were still tingling.

The memories from my previous life are too vivid. I can still see the wine dripping from the client's wife's chin onto her coat.

That sound was louder than a slap.

The client's husband, Derek Whitmore, threw down his chopsticks and walked out with his wife. "So this is the level of your company."

Three years.

I'd spent three years playing forty-seven rounds of golf with Derek Whitmore, buying limited-edition Japanese snacks for his wife eleven times, even preparing college application breakdowns for his daughter.

Three years of work—ruined by one spilled glass of wine.

Ryan didn't even glance at me that night. He just put his arm around the tearful Daisy and got in the car.

I stood alone at the hotel entrance. December wind cut down my collar. After half an hour, my legs went numb.

The next day, Ryan called me into his office.

I thought he was going to apologize.

He sat in his executive chair, legs crossed. "The contract's gone. Figure out how to make up this quarter's numbers yourself."

I said it was Daisy who spilled the wine.

He said: "She's just a young girl who had too much to drink. You're in sales—you couldn't even manage the situation. Whose fault is that?"

What happened next was even better.

The contract was gone, my numbers hit rock bottom, and I was first on the layoff list at year's end.

When Ryan signed the papers, he said with a straight face: "You've got the skills, but your emotional intelligence needs work. Go out and get some experience."

Daisy stood beside him, handing him coffee. She smiled at me.

I remembered that smile for the rest of my life.

Ryan and I had known each other since college. He'd pursued me. I turned him down.

When he started his company, I was the first one there to help.

He took my loyalty for granted and mistook Daisy's flattery for sincerity.

After losing my job, I spent three months job hunting. The industry is small, and Ryan had spread the word: "She's capable enough, but she chokes when it counts."

No one would touch me.

The month I couldn't make rent, I called Ryan to borrow money. Daisy answered.

Her voice was syrupy sweet: "Oh, Mr. Cooper's in a meeting. You can tell me whatever you need—it's the same thing."

In those final days, I lay on the floor of my apartment. The floor was cooler than the bed.

The AC broke. The repairman wanted two hundred. I had forty-seven left in my account.

My phone died the next day. The charging port was shot—I tried every angle, but it wouldn't take.

By the third day, I couldn't get up.

The last thing I saw was a water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a butterfly.

When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting at my desk. The banquet seating chart glowed on my screen.

My phone lit up. A message from Ryan.

"Daisy hasn't been feeling well lately."

I stared at that line for two full minutes. Then I started laughing.

I laughed so hard that colleagues walking past my desk did a double take.

I wiped the corner of my eye and typed: "That's fine. I'll arrange for her to sit next to the client's wife."

Send.

Ryan replied instantly with a smiley face: "I knew you'd be the most understanding."

Understanding.

Eight years I'd been hearing that word. From college until now. I was sick to death of it.

In this life, he could dig his own grave. I'd just hand him the shovel.

Reborn on the Day My Boss Ruined Me — Chapter 8

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