C5 Cruelty

Monique squared her shoulders, meeting their contemptuous gazes with steely determination.

"Are you seriously recording me without my consent?" Monique questioned, her tone sharp.

The lady nonchalantly replied, "Yeah, so?" as she continued to scroll on her phone.

Attempting to keep her composure, Monique smiled politely, saying, "Please, stop filming and delete the video."

The lady retorted, "Why should I?" with a dismissive attitude.

"Because I asked nicely," Monique snapped back. The three ladies sneered in response.

"I don't feel like it," the lady stated, returning her attention to her phone.

"Is that so?" Monique pressed.

"Yeah," she replied casually, engrossed in her device.

"Look at her, throwing her weight around like she's somebody when she's just an abandoned woman," the second lady continued, sharing her thoughts with her companions.

"Yeah, I don't even know what Mr. Clinton saw in her," added the first, shooting a disdainful glance at Sahara.

"I bet she trapped him with the honey trap," chimed in the third, smirking.

"Only God punished her with a girl. I bet God was having a good laugh at her,'' uttered the second.

They laughed mockingly in the confined space of the elevator, making no effort to conceal their disdain.

Their words felt like slaps to Monique, her face burning with the sting of their harsh comments.

Trying to hold back tears, she tightened her grip on Sahara, who winced.

"Ma ma, it hurts. You're squeezing me too tight."

Monique looked down at her daughter, apologizing, "Sorry, baby."

"It's okay," Sahara reassured, unaware of the mistreatment her mother endured.

How could the little girl comprehend that her mother, the legitimate wife, faced disdain and scorn simply because of her husband and his mistress? Even ordinary employees dared to demean and mistreat her.

Closing her eyes, Monique counted to ten, a silent ritual to regain composure. The rhythmic repetition of numbers served as a lifeline, grounding her emotions amidst the turmoil.

Monique's fixated her glacial gaze, on the woman's smug smile. " Fine, have it your way," she declared, her hands tightly clenched into fists.

The words, laced with a mix of resignation and defiance, hung in the air.

The trio, emboldened by their perceived advantage, scoffed. The elevator doors closed, swallowing their mocking laughter as it ascended.

Above them, on the rooftop, the city sprawled like a glittering jewel beneath the sky, Clinton, bathed in the glow of success, held court with potential investors, shareholders, and company executive. His multi-billion dollar deal had secured their future, painting the room with an air of celebratory tension. He was the golden goose, and everyone wanted a feather. Even the birth of his son felt like a celestial blessing.

But his assistant's voice, as he whispered something to him shattered the illusion. He excused himself, leaving the party in his vice president's capable hands. Descending the elevator, he found Monique and their daughter emerging from the elevator, their faces mirroring opposite emotions.

Monique's heart lurched. He was a vision in charcoal grey, his ocean shirt mirroring his eyes.

"Daddy!" Sahara shrieked, her short legs propelling her towards him like a cannon ball. He caught her, the corridor echoing with her laughter.

"I miss you, Daddy," she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I miss you too, princess."

‘’Then why did you leave? Why won't you come home.’’

Her words, a bittersweet melody, resonated with a silent accusation.

Clinton cast Monique a hard look, but she met it with an icy stare.

"Well, now you're here. Let's make up for lost time, hmm?"

Sahara's eyes gleamed. "Amusement park! Let's go together! Ma ma Louise is waiting in the parking lot!"

Another accusatory glance. This time, Monique knew it was genuine anger. But she didn't care. The only thing she cared about was was her daughter's happiness.

"Princess," Clinton said, his voice strained. "How about you head to the office with Gloria? I have something to discuss, what your mother."

‘’Promise?’’

‘’Promise.’’ He pinky swore.

Sahara, easily distracted, beamed. "Okay, Daddy! Mommy, Daddy said yes!"

Monique smiled faintly as the secretary led their daughter away. The door closed, sealing the room with the weight of unspoken words.

Clinton's face darkened. "Follow me," he growled.

Entering Lydia's hospital room and jeopardizing both Lydia and their son's lives substantially diminished Clinton's guilt toward Monique. He glared at her as if she were a demon that had crawled from the deepest level of hell.

"No." Her voice was a challenge. "We'll talk here."

He towered over her, barely containing his fury. "Monique, this isn't the place."

He reached for her arm, intending to guide her to a quieter space, but she recoiled, her eyes blazing. "Get your hands off me."

Their gazes locked, a storm brewing in the silence. The facade of their fractured family crumbled, revealing raw emotions beneath.

"What do you want?" he spat.

"What do I want?" She roared. "What do you think I want after you made me a laughingstock?"

"Love can't be forced, Clinton. If you came for a fight..."

"I brought our daughter to see her father," she cut him off, her voice cracking. "But I never expected to be the punchline of your employees' jokes."

His anger faltered. "What are you talking about?"

She scoffed, her eyes glinting with fury. "When you paraded your mistress and your bastard son before everyone, what did you think it would do to me? To Sahara? How could you prioritize them over us?"

His jaw clenched. "Watch your tongue."

"Afraid of the truth? She's a slut, a mistress, and a homewrecker. And he, a child of shame, a bastard. You can't change that fact.’’

He glowered, but his anger felt hollow.

Monique, her voice laced with steel, turned to a nearby secretary. "Your phone."

Startled, the woman stammered, "Mrs. Beaumont..."

"The phone."

With trembling fingers, she unlocked it. Monique went straight to WhatsApp; the company chat group buzzing with venomous gossip. A sneer twisted her lips as she turned the phone to Clinton.

His face drained of color as his eyes scanned the screen. He recognized the secretary who'd posted the most vicious comment, a picture of Monique watching them with the caption: "So pathetic, she must have thick skin..."

This was followed by a video of the couples intense argument.

Shame flushed his cheeks as he met Monique's gaze.

Monique sneered. The secretary, thinking she was clever with the discreet photos and video, remained oblivious that Monique had been onto her from the very beginning.

"Mr. Beaumont..." the secretary stammered. It was too late for regrets.

Monique cut her off, her voice cold as she addressed the other secretary. "Everyone who commented in this group, I want them to report in the conference room. Now."

A wave of unease rippled through the remaining secretaries. Clinton, his face grim, nodded.

The culprits, unaware of their impending humiliation, filed into the conference room. Meanwhile, the WhatsApp group continued to buzz with malicious chatter.

~~~

Monique sat at the head of the table, a predator surveying her prey. The projector flickered to life, displaying the company's main WhatsApp group chat in its full, unbridled glory. The venomous words glowed on the screen, a damning testament to the cruelty that had transpired in the digital shadows.

An awkward silence descended upon the conference room, thick enough to choke on. Faces flushed crimson, fingers hovered nervously over phones, and eyes darted about like panicked rabbits. It was a tableau of shame, each participant trapped in the spotlight of their own malice.

Monique, the storm's eye in the hurricane of humiliation, swiveled in her leather chair, a picture of controlled fury. Her gaze, sharp as an icicle, swept across the assembled crowd, landing finally on the three women who had tormented her in the elevator. They stood rigid, faces ashen, smartphones forgotten in their trembling hands.

"We meet again," Monique drawled, her voice dripping with icy disdain. Her words, crisp and deliberate, hung in the air, amplifying the crackling tension. The three women flinched, as if struck by an invisible whip.

One of them, a redhead with a manicured smile perpetually plastered on her face, attempted a feeble defense. "Mrs. Beaumont, I..." Her voice, usually confident and bubbly, sputtered out like a dying flame.

Monique cut her off with a raised eyebrow. "Spare me the theatrics, Ms. Davies. Your little performance in the elevator just now was rather… enlightening."

A collective gasp rippled through the room as the scene on the projector changed.

Blazing across it was the elevator footage followed by the incriminating screenshots of the purchasing department’s WhatsApp group, each message a venomous barb dripping with cruelty.

The room held its breath as the messages scrolled by, exposing the dark underbelly of their supposedly professional community. Mocking taunts about Monique's "pathetic" state, cruel whispers about Sahara, and even a photoshopped image of Clinton and his mistress with the caption "The real power couple."

Each face in the room, once masked by smiles and polite greetings, now contorted with a mix of fear, regret, and something akin to disgust. The carefully constructed facades crumbled, revealing the ugly truth beneath.

As the final message faded from the screen, Monique leaned back in her chair, a predatory smile playing on her lips. "So, tell me," she purred, her voice deceptively calm, "how many of you think this little escapade was worth your jobs?"

The question hung heavy in the air, a loaded pistol aimed at the hearts of everyone present. The silence, now thick with dread, was their only answer.

For in this game of online cruelty, the price of anonymity had just become all too apparent. And Monique, the scorned queen, held all the cards.