Megan can’t forgive you

The air in Megan’s office feels heavy with tension, every second stretched out as you kneel before her, pleading. The words fall from your mouth in a stream of desperation—*“I’ll do anything. Please, Megan, I’m sorry.”* You cling to the hope that she’ll show some mercy, that your groveling will be enough to appease her. After all, you’ve been humiliated beyond recognition by Eleanor and Emily, and now, you’re doing the same in front of Megan. Surely, she’ll let you off the hook, right?

But then, she stands up from her desk, her chair sliding back with a sharp creak. Megan walks toward you, her heels clicking with ominous precision on the floor. You don’t dare to look up, keeping your eyes fixed on the carpet beneath you, your heart pounding.

Without warning, Megan’s hand strikes your face—a sharp, stinging slap that leaves you reeling. The impact sends you backward, and the sharp pain blooms across your cheek, making your eyes water. It’s more than the physical pain—it’s the shock of it, the suddenness of her rejection.

“I don’t accept your pathetic apology,” she snarls, her voice low and dripping with venom. “You think you can crawl in here, beg, and everything will go back to normal? Do you think I’m that easy to fool, Tom?”

You can’t speak. You just sit there, stunned, your face burning from the slap, your body frozen with shame and fear.

Megan shakes her head, disgust etched across her features. “You’re nothing,” she says coldly, turning on her heel. “A complete waste of my time.”

She storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her, leaving you alone on the floor. The sound of her heels fades away, but the weight of her words remains, crushing you with their finality. She’s furious, and no amount of groveling will fix this.

But even as the sting of her slap fades, something strange stirs inside you. It’s that familiar tug—the humiliation you crave, the need to be reduced, to be beneath her. Megan’s rejection doesn’t break you; it only deepens the twisted satisfaction that’s been growing within you. You’ve lost everything, your pride, your authority, your status—and it feels like freedom.

You look around her office, your mind racing. You can’t let things stay like this. If Megan won’t forgive you, if she won’t accept your submission, you’ll have to prove yourself in another way. Show her that you belong beneath her. You’ll make things right, not with words, but with actions.

You stand slowly, your body aching, and begin to move. First, you grab a cloth from a cabinet, finding some cleaning supplies. You start scrubbing down her desk, polishing the wood until it gleams. The mindless task feels soothing, almost meditative, as if each stroke of the cloth erases a bit more of the old Tom—the arrogant, cocky businessman who once ruled this office. That man is gone. In his place is someone new. Someone who knows their place.

As you move to the shelves, dusting off her awards and personal items, you notice the shoes—several pairs Megan keeps in the office. Heels, flats, even some boots, all neatly arranged in the corner. Your breath catches in your throat as you kneel before them, your fingers lightly brushing against the leather and suede.

You know what you have to do.

You take each pair carefully, one by one, polishing them by hand. The scent of the leather fills the air, mingling with the quiet of the office, and for a brief moment, you lose yourself in it. The sensation of caring for her shoes, of being on your knees, cleaning them—it's like an offering, a silent apology, a tribute to her power.

As you work, the office door swings open. You look up, heart pounding, but it’s not Megan. It’s one of the junior employees, a young woman from marketing. She blinks in surprise, seeing you kneeling on the floor with Megan’s shoes.

“Oh, um, Mr?” she asks hesitantly, clearly confused. “I—uh, I had a question about the quarterly report…”

For a second, you forget yourself, instinctively reaching for the authority you used to wield. But then, the reality crashes down. You’re not their boss anymore. Not really.

“I’m not handling that,” you say, keeping your head lowered. “Megan is in charge now. I’m just… helping out as her new secretary.”

The employee frowns, confused, but doesn’t press further. She nods awkwardly and leaves the room, probably wondering what the hell is going on. You don’t care. All that matters is finishing what you’ve started.

By the time you’re done cleaning her entire office—dusting, polishing, scrubbing every inch—you’re exhausted but satisfied. You’ve proven your dedication, even if Megan isn’t here to see it.

Suddenly, the door bursts open again. This time, it’s Megan. She strides in, her expression cold, her heels clicking sharply against the freshly polished floor. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees what you’ve done. The spotless office, the gleaming surfaces, the carefully arranged shoes.

“What the hell is this?” she demands, her voice seething with anger. “You think cleaning my office makes up for what you did?”

You try to explain, standing up quickly. “Megan, I—I wanted to show you. I’ll do anything. I’ll clean, I’ll serve, whatever you want. I’m here for you.”

But Megan’s face twists with fury. “You really are pathetic,” she spits, storming over to her desk. She grabs the cup of coffee you’d left there earlier, still warm, and without warning, she hurls it onto the floor, splattering the dark liquid across the freshly cleaned surface.

You flinch, watching as the coffee spills everywhere, soaking into the carpet, dripping off her polished shoes.

“Megan, please,” you stammer, rushing toward the mess, grabbing a cloth to clean it up. “Let me—”

Before you can finish, your foot catches on the slippery coffee, and in an instant, you lose your balance. You slip, your feet flying out from under you, and you crash face-first onto the floor with a dull thud. The **** of the fall sends your face directly into Megan’s shoes—her heels now covered in coffee. The leather is warm against your skin, the smell of spilled coffee and leather filling your senses as your cheek presses against the wet fabric.

You freeze, humiliated, your body sprawled awkwardly at her feet, coffee soaking into your clothes.

Megan looks down at you, her lips curling into a cruel smirk. She doesn’t move to help you. She just stands there, her foot twitching slightly, nudging your face as if you were nothing more than a bug in her way.

“I should fire you,” she says quietly, her voice sharp as a knife. “But that would be too easy. No, I think I’ll keep you around for now. Watching you humiliate yourself like this… it’s far more satisfying.”

You look up at her from the floor, your heart pounding, your face still pressed against her shoes. You want to speak, to apologize again, to say anything that might make her relent—but there’s nothing left to say. You’ve fallen as far as you can, and you’re exactly where you deserve to be.