Esme worked as an accountant at a modest construction firm situated in a nondescript office block on the outskirts of London. Her income was standard, and her life was a routine affair. Deep down, however, a cherished dream lingered — to start her own business. In the evenings, like many of her colleagues, she delved into financial management software and absorbed business publications, devising entrepreneurial strategies.

Then there was Oliver, who appeared in her life unexpectedly. Mutual friends invited her to a countryside gathering. He worked as a sales manager at a car dealership, earning a good salary and charming everyone around him. They enjoyed romantic dates, bouquets, and weekend film outings. A year later, they tied the knot.

The initial phase of their marriage was harmonious. Esme continued her career and self-education, setting aside funds for her venture. Oliver dismissed her passion for entrepreneurship: “Let her entertain herself as a businesswoman, as long as she cooks on time.”

However, troubles began at the car dealership. Sales dwindled, and salaries were cut. Oliver returned home irritable, snapping over trivial issues. Esme remained oblivious — she had just received a promotion to finance manager, now earning double, which only added to his frustration.

Every evening became a silent challenge. Oliver would linger in the living room with his phone, pointedly ignoring her. If she wanted to discuss work successes, he would scowl and retreat to the balcony for a smoke. When she bought a new laptop to replace her outdated one, he slammed the door on his way out to his mates. “Wasting money again?” he muttered the following morning. “This is my money, Oliver. I earned it,” she shot back for the first time, only for him to hurl a mug into the sink before rushing off to work.

The tipping point came with an invitation to a corporate event. “Dress code: formal. Attendance is essential with spouses,” the HR email read. Esme tried to decline, sensing a negative outcome, but her boss insisted, “You’re now a company representative. You need to fit the part.”

The event was held in a cozy restaurant near Hyde Park. The firm had booked the entire second floor for about thirty people, not counting their plus ones. Esme felt anxious; it was her first occasion speaking as head of the finance department. She chose a simple black dress and comfortable shoes, never one to seek attention.

Oliver grumbled throughout the journey, first about traffic, then about parking, and finally about his tie being too tight. Esme stayed quiet, accustomed to his moods over the past few months since difficulties had arisen at work.

The evening kicked off well. The CEO, Mr. Braxton, delivered a speech celebrating the firm’s achievements and presented awards to standout employees. Esme received special recognition for implementing a new financial tracking system that saved the company millions.

“Now I’d like to toast our new finance manager,” Mr. Braxton lifted his glass. “Esme joined us three years ago as a regular accountant. Through her hard work, intelligence, and determination, she has proven her worth. Congratulations on your promotion!” He winked at her.

Everyone clapped, and her boss, Linda, embraced her, whispering, “You’ve earned it, love.” Colleagues smiled warmly — Esme was respected within the team.

Then someone asked, “What’s the salary of a finance manager now?”

Mr. Braxton, slightly flushed from drink, waved his hand dismissively, “Quite generous! Now our Esme earns monthly what some do in six months!”

Oliver, who had been munching quietly, suddenly sat up straighter. His face reddened, not from embarrassment, but from fury. “What’s there to celebrate?” he called out loudly for everyone to hear. “Moving documents around? I work my backside off at the dealership…”

“Darling, maybe it’s best to keep quiet?” Esme gently placed a hand on his arm.

“Why?” he shook off her touch. “Why is everyone bowing to her?”

Esme noticed the twitch of his cheek — a warning sign of an impending outburst, the same look he had the day he learned of his demotion.

“Do you think she’s special?” His tone dripped with venom. “She just knows how to flatter the higher-ups! Meanwhile, I’m the one dealing with customers…” “Oliver, please…” Esme attempted to intervene.

“What about Oliver?” he turned abruptly towards her. “Is the truth that hard to face? You’ve sat comfortably in your office clicking keys, and now you’re a star?” He grabbed his glass, spilling the drink. “And I’m nothing? A nobody?”

Esme felt the shame wash over her colleagues at the table. But Oliver couldn’t stop himself: “Should I just stop working altogether? Ha! It’s laughable! I’ve got a wife who’s a cash cow!” The clink of glass on the plate rang like a shot. Linda turned pale. Mr. Braxton frowned. And a young programmer, Sam, who often cracked jokes in the break room, suddenly stood up.

“You ought to apologize, mate.” Oliver’s face flushed even more.

“Apologize to her?” He pointed his finger at Esme. “She wouldn’t be anything without me! I taught her everything!”

“Taught me what, Oliver?” Esme’s voice was calm, but all went silent, drawn in by her words. “How to stay silent when it hurts? How to smile when it disgusts? How to pretend everything’s fine?”

She stood up, smoothing her dress. “Thank you. Truly, thank you. You’ve taught me a lot. For instance, that some men only want a doormat to wipe their feet on.” She turned and walked toward the exit, hearing a scuffle behind her — it seemed Sam had indeed punched Oliver, but she didn’t look back.

In the taxi, she didn’t cry. Instead, she gazed out the window at the city at night, reflecting on how fortunate she was not to have had a child with him. How right she had been to stand firm and continue working. How crucial it was to hear those words — “cash cow” — to finally awaken and stop pretending.

Esme awoke at six the next morning. Her head throbbed, not from alcohol, but from thoughts. Oliver was still dozing on the couch, reeking of stale drink. On the coffee table lay an empty bottle and a toppled frame of their wedding picture.

She pulled out four hefty trash bags from the cupboard and began packing up his belongings.

At nine, a knock came at the door as Oliver stirred. “What’s happening?” His disheveled face reflected genuine confusion. “Changing the locks,” Esme replied calmly as she opened the door for the locksmith. “Why?” “So you can’t come back.”

He jumped up, “Are you serious? Because of yesterday? I just had a bit too much to drink!”

“No, Oliver, not just because of yesterday. Your things are by the door. I’ve placed your documents in the side pocket of your bag. You can leave the keys here.”

As the locksmith worked on the door, Oliver silently dressed. At the threshold, he turned back. “You’ll regret this.”

“Not a chance,” Esme replied.

The divorce was swift and quiet. Esme dove headfirst into her work. Oliver showed up unexpectedly one day at her office, “Listen, I’ve got a situation… I got fired. Can you give me a job? I mean…”

“Ex-husband?” Esme looked up from her laptop. “Sorry, but we only hire women. Company policy.” He paused at the door.

“You know, I was rash back then. You’ve done well for yourself…”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “Close the door, please. And you can send your résumé to HR; they respond to everyone.”

Her phone rang — her younger sister, Sarah. “Esme, guess what? I got accepted! I’m a finance manager too!”

“Congratulations, darling!” Esme beamed. “Get ready; there will be plenty of work.”

“I’ll manage! I’ve got you to teach me everything.”

“I will,” she glanced at a photo on her desk of them when they were little. “Just remember: never let anyone call you a cash cow.”

Laughter echoed through the phone, “Yeah, you’ll definitely teach me that! Hey, how about we start something together? Our own business?” “Maybe,” Esme replied, picking up her bag. “Come over this weekend, and we can discuss it.”

She stepped out of her office and headed toward the tube. People rushed past her — weary and frowning, each with their own story. Esme knew there were others like her among them — those who weren’t afraid to start anew. Those who believed in themselves. Those who learned to say “no.”

At home, her first action was to remove her shoes, turn on the kettle, and open her laptop. She began sketching out a plan for a new company — one she would build with her sister. Something practical and much-needed, without pretense or flash. Perhaps training sessions for new entrepreneurs? Or consultations for women wanting to start their own ventures?

As rain pattered outside, Esme draped a blanket over her shoulders and smiled at her ideas. Tomorrow would be a new day, and it would surely be better than the last.