When the “Other Woman” Used Scissors to Violate My Person as an Act of Defiance, I Didn’t Cry; Instead, I Chose to Sever Both Their Careers and Futures
THE PAPER CUTTER ON THE 38TH FLOOR
CHAPTER 1: THE PERFUME ON THE PROPOSAL
At eight in the morning, Central Tower always exuded a distinctive scent: the aroma of rich Arabica coffee mingled with expensive floor wax and the luxury perfumes of people who believed they held the city’s destiny in their hands.
I—Helena Vance, Executive Vice President of Strategy—stood inside the transparent glass elevator. My black leather high heels clicked softly against the cabin floor. Through the glass, the city shimmered in the early morning sunlight, yet my mind was focused entirely on the stack of documents in my hands.
When the elevator stopped at the 38th floor, the chrome-plated doors slid open silently, revealing a vast workspace framed by walls of glass. Employees greeted me with polite yet hurried bows. I nodded in return, my demeanor flawless.
But the moment I stepped into my fifty-square-meter office, I sensed something amiss.
Resting on my solid olive-wood desk was a strategy proposal, left open. Perched atop it was a latte, still wisping with faint steam. It wasn’t the coffee that caught my attention, however, but the scent lingering in the air: the cloying, heavy fragrance of Black Opium—a perfume that was never mine.
I offered a faint smile. That scent belonged to Clara—a twenty-four-year-old woman appointed as a Market Research Assistant just three months ago. She was also the woman with whom my husband, Julian—the Group’s CEO—had spent his last three weekends on “special business trips.”
I didn’t knock over the coffee. I didn’t smash the furniture. I slowly approached the table, picked up the cup between two fingers, emptied its contents into the money tree plant in the corner, wiped the cup dry with a tissue, and returned it to its original spot.
My patience is not mere forbearance; it is the pause before the lever is pulled.
CHAPTER 2: THE SOUND OF SCISSORS IN THE CEO’S OFFICE
One o’clock in the afternoon. The executive meeting had just concluded.
I returned to Julian’s private office to retrieve the blueprints for the $50 million resort project—designs I had stayed up three nights straight to finalize. The heavy oak door was unlocked, standing slightly ajar.
When I pushed the door open and stepped inside, Julian wasn’t there. Only Clara was.
She was standing beside the large conference table. Gone was the timid, obedient assistant in her usual office attire; today, Clara wore a form-fitting burgundy dress, her lips painted the same shade. She didn’t startle when she saw me. Her eyes held a look of blatant, insolent triumph—and defiance.
“Helena,” Clara said, her tone playful. “Julian is in the restroom. Did you need something from him?”
“I’m here to pick up the blueprints,” I said calmly, my eyes sweeping over the folder lying right in front of her.
I stepped forward, reaching for the folder. But before my hand could touch the papers, Clara was faster. She snatched up the heavy metal shears lying on the table.
*Snip!*
The razor-sharp blades plunged into the folder, slicing right between the company logo and my draft signature. “Do you still think you’re the queen of this corporation?” Clara took a step toward me. She raised her hand—not to shove me, but to grab a lock of my long, dark-brown, gently curled hair. “All of this—this office, this chair, and even Julian—he’s sick and tired of your cold perfection. You’re nothing but an aging shadow clinging to his career!”
*Snip!*
The sharp, dry sound of scissors echoed. A lock of my hair, about twenty centimeters long, fell onto the wooden desk.
Clara looked at the hair in her hand, then at me, waiting. She was waiting for a scream. She was waiting for me to lunge at her, or at least shed a tear of humiliation—the reaction of a woman whose body and dignity had been violated right in her workplace.
But I didn’t give her that satisfaction.
My mind was so clear that I could hear the low hum of the air conditioner overhead. I didn’t step back. I didn’t lash out. I simply stood still, my ash-gray eyes locking onto hers—a gaze devoid of anger, holding only pity.
“Are you finished?” I asked, my voice perfectly steady.
Clara froze. The triumphant smile on her lips faltered. My silence was like an endless void swallowing up her hysteria, turning her mad act into a crude farce.
CHAPTER 3: THE CHARISMATIC NICKNAME
Just then, the office door flew open. Julian walked in, still fastening the cuff of his shirt. Upon seeing the scene in the room—Clara holding the scissors, a lock of my hair lying on the table, and me standing there with a lopsided, hacked-off patch—his expression shifted instantly from bewilderment to confusion, and then to sheer panic.
“Helena! Is everyth—”
…and personal lawyer: Julian has been officially suspended from his position, and the asset recovery process has begun.
I stepped out of the salon, taking a deep breath of the fresh city air. A cream-colored blazer was draped over my shoulders, and my short hair fluttered gently in the afternoon breeze.
I wasn’t screaming. I wasn’t crying. I was simply victorious.
