"How's everything going?" one of the employees asked, sipping his third coffee as if he wasn't dead inside already.
Paul looked up from his laptop and blinked. "Ah… the usual. Mind-numbingly boring."
The employee scoffed, offended on behalf of the universe. "Boring? You? Don't be dramatic." He took a heroic gulp of his coffee, then leaned in like a gossiping aunt. "You're basically royalty in this capitalist castle. The prince of the marble kingdom. The chosen one."
"That's… flattering. And also deeply tragic," Paul said, rubbing his temples like he could massage the sarcasm out.
"No, but seriously. You're Ms. Danica's manager. That woman breathes ambition and probably sleeps in a soundproof glass box filled with money. She pays you well, right?"
Paul gave a chuckle that was one-third polite and two-thirds don't-make-me-cry-right-now. "Yeah, but..." But being a manager also involves dealing with underworld-level shit behind the curtains. Like, think Mafia but with more spreadsheets and fewer gunshots—though honestly, that depends on the day and mood. You don't want to know. Really. It's safer that way.
"But?" The employee blinked, sipping the last drop of his coffee.
Paul froze. That little internal warning siren started blaring somewhere in the back of his head—Code Red: Stop talking now, idiot. "But, nothing much." He finished the statement quickly.
The employee wasn't buying it. "Come on! We're friends. We're practically trauma-bonded from that holiday party incident last year. You think I'm going to shout your secrets over the intercom? 'Attention, team: Paul's finally cracking under Ms. Clarke's ice-cold grip. Popcorn in Conference Room B."
He snorted reluctantly because, honestly, it did sound like something HR would botch up.
"Alright, fine. The thing is..." Paul took a dramatic pause, stood up from his desk and approached his friend. "To be honest? Ms. Danica is... a bit domineering."
"A bit?" The employee (a.k.a. his friend) chuckled.
Paul sighed. Regret already chewing at the edges of his self-control. "At a molecular level, intimidating. I'm ninety percent sure she doesn't blink. Or breathe. Or believe in weekends. She once stared at a man so hard during a meeting he apologized for being born."
"I know, right?" His friend burst out, giggling like this was a wine night confession.
"I've been working with her for three years," Paul continued, now fully leaning into the therapy session, "and she still looks at me like I'm an undercooked salmon on a five-star menu. You know, the kind the chef sends back twice before throwing it in the trash."
The employee, who until five seconds ago had been riding a caffeine high, suddenly froze mid-sip. His eyes darted to the row of cubicles over Paul's shoulder like a squirrel spotting a hawk. His entire body tensed when he realized Danica was approaching them. Talk of the devil, and the devil arrives in four-inch Prada heels, a black overcoat, and strong facial features. Terrifying.
"I'm two years older than her," Paul continued, oblivious to the doom eating up the distance between them. "…and I still say 'Boss' every time I breathe in her direction. But she has no respect for me."
That's when his friend's expression changed from caffeine-induced perky to downright mortified and pale. The Queen of Dominion Group was standing exactly three feet away behind Paul. And at this point, Paul was digging his own grave with the shovel that he had been given for the entertainment.
"Paul—" he whispered, eyes wide, color draining from his face, "Boss. Boss."
"Exactly my point. She bosses me around like I'm her personal emotional Roomba. Like, just because I don't stomp around demanding respect—"
"No! I mean—she's—" The guy practically did a full-body mime trying to signal danger without using words.
Paul, completely oblivious, brushed him off with a dramatic pat on the shoulder. "Let me have this moment, alright? I never complain. I bottle everything up like a good little corporate drone. And you? You're the only soul brave enough to sit through this emotionally charged TED Talk."
His friend looked like he was about to cry.
"Paul," he tried again, a whisper now, panic rising in his voice. "Just—stop. Please, for the love of your LinkedIn profile—"
But Paul was already grinning, his mouth moving faster than his common sense. "No one's listening, man. And if they are? Good. Let them. I'm done with being invisible. I am a manager, dammit, and I deserve—"
The employee gave up on verbal language altogether and spun Paul around with desperation, just to make him see what the aftermath looked like. Danica was standing right there, looking no less than a silent corporate assassin. Her expression was unreadable, and her gaze was twice as lethal as before.
For a full five seconds, Paul forgot how to function as a human being. "B-B-Boss..." he stammered, now physically shrinking into himself.
"RIP, my friend." The employee muttered under his breath. "I always knew this is how you died."
"I... I was just—" Paul began, trying to salvage anything from the flaming wreckage of his career. "Trying to act—no, uh, a role play—that's even bad. I mean, who—"
"It's alright," Danica cut in, her voice maddeningly calm. "You are entitled to your opinions. I am not. I don't give a damn about what you or anyone else thinks of me."
Both men froze for a heartbeat. Was this…mercy?
"I didn't feel offended," she added. "But there's something important that needs to be discussed. Let's go."
Paul swallowed and shot one last glance at his friend before following her with the obedience of a golden retriever.
Once they were out of sight, his friend let out the longest, most dramatic sigh known to mankind that probably deserved an Oscar.
"Our new product launches in two days." Danica addressed, taking big strides towards the elevator. Her heels clicking like a time bomb against the marble floor.
Why does she walk like she's in a Marvel fight scene? Does she have beef with the concept of walking slow? He thought bitingly, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Yes, but—" he panted, nearly jogging to keep up. "We're still finalizing the UX reports. The app integration team hasn't signed off. And the influencer pitch deck is still in limbo. So maybe—just maybe—we should consider a teeny tiny delay?"
She didn't even glance at him. "Not an option."
Paul gritted his teeth as they passed confused interns and one terrified junior designer who tripped over a chair getting out of Danica's path.
"We've got five departments trying to meet deadlines that were already technically impossible," he explained, breathless. "Marketing needs another 48 hours. Hell, I need another 48 hours. Minimum."
"You'll survive." Danica stabbed the elevator button.
"And what about the press kit?" he protested, trying to keep his voice low. "The prototype images were glitchy in the last export. If we release that to the press, we're going to look like amateurs who threw this launch together using Canva and good intentions."
Danica's eyes flicked to him. Briefly. Lethally. "We didn't throw it together. You did."
Ouch. That was rude AF.
The elevator opened up with an annoying ding, and Paul—still trying to normalize his breath from a jog—stretched his hand out, keeping the door open until Danica slid inside.
"Boss, the new skincare line uses heat-activated peptides. We're telling people it adapts to their body temperature to enhance glow in real time. Do you know what happens if that serum glitches and burns someone's cheek off during a livestream?" He added, pressing the 80th number on the elevator's panel.
She looked at him, deadpan. "I assume... they stop livestreaming."
She was kidding, right? He couldn't tell. She said it with the same tone people use when discussing tax returns. How can someone be so infuriatingly adamant, genius, and dead inside at the same time?
"The whole campaign is banking on the tech working flawlessly. Not almost. Flawlessly." He pressed on anyway. "The slogan literally says, 'Dangerously Beautiful.' We cannot afford to accidentally endanger someone and then go viral for launching a chemical weapon in a glass bottle."
She arched a brow. "So, fix it."
He wanted to scoff but swallowed it down. "Fix the laws of biothermal absorption overnight?"
"Yes."
"Great. No problem. I'll just call the gods of molecular science and ask them to clear their weekend."
That statement earned him a look that wasn't at all sympathetic but the one that promised a slow death and a very public funeral.
"If we push this launch, we lose our October retail slot. You know how long I fought for that placement?" She finally emphasized.
He did. She'd practically chewed through five CEOs and a boardroom full of lawyers to get it.
The elevator's numbers were slowly crawling up. 50.
"Yes, but if we go forward and it's not ready—"
"We don't do not ready," she interrupted, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. "We do Precise. Two days. I expect results."
Paul nodded like a man signing his own death certificate.
The number climbed to 62.
"Oh, and make sure…" She added in her firm tone. "…the microsite will be live by tonight. If I see that 'Coming Soon' banner one more time, I'll light someone on fire."
"Duly noted," he muttered, already envisioning who to throw under the bus. (Kevin from Digital, this is your moment.)
70th
A sudden thought rushed his mind and tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. "We also have that award function at the end of the week."
"I know."
"I'm sure you'll win Businesswoman of the Year again. As always." He tried to toss in some flattering backup vocals to soothe the sting of his earlier rant.
She didn't even batted her eyelashes.
76th
"We're launching a new product. I'm sure you have plenty to focus on—don't you?" Danica sliced straight through his compliment like a samurai through cake.
"Uh, yes. Of course. Always doing my best," he nodded, mentally throwing himself into the nearest trash bin.
79th
She stopped, looked at him for a second before responding in a flat voice. "Good for you."
80th
The door dinged open, and she swept out like a thundercloud in tailored black, her coat trailing like a villainess about to deliver the keynote speech and commit corporate murder.
Paul followed her.
He was in deep, irreparable shit.
As always.