"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, completely unfazed. "Boring, mindfuck and pathetic. Just like you."
The employee scoffed. "I can digest last three words, but not the first one. Boring doesn't suit Paul Williams." He took a bold gulp of his coffee, then leaned in, his voice dialing down to a low, conspiratorial tone. "You're basically royalty in this capitalist castle. The prince of the marble kingdom. The chosen one."
"That's…flattering." Paul rubbed his temples as if he could massage the sarcasm out. "Why are you here? Did you realize you've a stick labelled 'Feckless' shoved up your ass?" He looked at the employee with zero enthusiasm. "Don't panic. It is a fact."
The employee stayed completely unmoved by Paul's sardonic comments, as though he'd witnessed harsher things and weathered storms far worse than anything Paul could throw at him. And, in many ways, he had.
"You're Ms. Danica's manager." He deflected. "That woman breathes ambition and probably sleeps in a soundproof glass box filled with money. She pays you well, right?"
Paul let out a chuckle that was one-third polite and two-thirds why-do-you-care. "Yeah, but..." but being a manager also involves dealing with dead bodies and blood.
"But?" The employee, Lee, (of course) wasn't letting that slide.
Paul froze as the truth hit him square in the jaw. He was absolutely not supposed to be exposing the chaos behind his glossy manager persona. Right? Because the moment he did, his corporate life would go up in flames, along with everything he'd bled for to climb this far.
"But, nothing much." He finished the statement quickly, zeroing his gaze on half-written revenue report on the computer screen.
Lee didn't budge. "Come on. We're friends. We have been working in this company for years, which means we are trauma-bonded. Do you remember that holiday party incident last year?"
Paul's finger stopped mid-air, an inch away from the letter 'F' on the keyboard and he finally clapped his eyes on his colleague and only man that he regretted befriending.
The smirk on Lee's diamond face, clench in his jawline and that damned tilt of his left brow reminded Paul of every awful fragment of a night he wasn't big fan of. Trust me, he was not a retrospective person.
"You always drag out the most irritating memories at the worst possible times." Paul pushed to his feet, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "I was drunk and completely out of my senses.
"Yeah, sure." Lee's smirk sharpened. "So out of it that you ended up in a bikini, doing a pole dance that had every man and woman at that party staring."
Bastard lee. Veiny hands of Paul curled into fists as he wrestled to keep his temper in check.
The statement had power to send a shiver down the spine, making him too aware of how terrible he'd look while swaying hips and gliding his six-pack chest against the iron rod while thousands of eyes were glued to him as if they were bees and he were fresh honeypot they couldn't resist.
"Why don't you shut the fuck up and die somewhere peacefully?" Paul replied, masking his inner chaos with hollow indifference. "Some of us actually have a work, unlike you."
"I wish I could die right here but that would be no fun if I don't get to watch you fuck up your precious corporate life one last time."
"You are a true definition of sadist." Paul punctuated each word.
"Holly molly, throw it on my CV and I wouldn't disagree."
"It's not a freaking compliment."
"But I am choosing to take it as one."
"What exactly will get you the hell out of my orbit right now? Name your price. Cash? Snacks? My firstborn? I'm flexible."
Lee chuckled and looked away for second before facing him. "That would be too much, man. I appreciate such generosity the same way I appreciate a migraine. And offering firstborn? Jesus, I cannot deal with another pain-in-the-ass version of you."
Paul ignored his retort and returned back to his desk, resuming the work. From a lifetime's worth of hard-earned experience, he knew that dragging out any mindless conversation with his friend would only end in one of two places: rage room or murdering someone (probably Lee).
"I know you hate me. And I've never had a problem hating you back." Lee continued, impassively. "Hate is its own kind of love-language, friendships just translate it better than most…"
Paul's fingers started hitting the keyboard as if the sharp staccato could smother his friend's voice into a dull background mumble.
"And it's like a pattern," Lee couldn't stop his mouth. "Friends nit-pick each other, laugh at each other's down fall, claim they hate each other but call one another whenever fire erupts in their panties and they need a saving…"
Paul's strike intensified, mirroring the rage and irritation winding tighter within him.
"So, I can bet million dollars on this company, stocks, my life and your life and say that you need a good release." Lee, at this point, was blind to his friend's visible indignation. "Not the one where you ask to spread legs, but the emotional one…"
Paul was one hundred percent sure his fingers were about to stage a revolt along with his ears. The keyboard practically stuttered as he hammered furiously to type: 'get-the-fuck-out-right-now!'
"It also wouldn't kill the bird if you let your guards down and tell me what exactly is making your life mind-numbingly boring when you have ludicrous pay, hawk-eyed boss and blessed with an amazing friend like me?"
That was it. The thin thread of patience he'd been clinging to finally caught fire and burned away.
"Alright. The thing is..." Paul stood up from his desk and took three steps towards where his friend was standing. "To be honest? Ms. Danica is... a bit domineering."
"A bit?" Lee had gall to chuckle.
Paul sighed. Regret already chewing at the edges of his self-control. "At a molecular level, she radiates intimidation. I am fairly convinced that she neither blinks nor breathes, and certainly doesn't believe in weekends. She once fixed a guy with a stare so intense he apologized for being born."
"I know. I was right there in that meeting."
"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."
Mason Lee, 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 steamrolled on, 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 as if I'm her personal emotional workhorse. Why? Because I am not out here pounding my chest and demanding respect…"
"No! I mean—she's—" The guy practically did a full-body mime trying to signal danger without using words.
Paul waved him off without a second thought. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You wanted me to spill the beans. You pushed for honesty. The release, huh? So now deal with it. I never complain. I shove everything into a neat little emotional vault like the model corporate machine I am. But you? You're the only lunatic willing to sit through this toxic, emotionally radioactive nonsense."
Lee felt like hosting a private funeral for his remaining sanity.
"Paul," he tried again, a whisper now, panic rising in his voice. "Just—stop. For Christ Sake, 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—"
Lee gave up on verbal language altogether and spun his friend around with sheer desperation, just to make him see what the aftermath looked like.
Danica was standing right there, giving every appearance of being a silent corporate assassin. Her expressions were unreadable, and her gaze was twice lethal than before.
Paul's limbs numbed for three seconds and he forgot how to function as a human being.
"B-B-Boss..." he stammered, wishing he'd a magical ability to punch holes on ground and jump in them.
"Rest easy, brother." Lee 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 shit about what you or anyone else think of me."
Both men froze for a heartbeat. Was this…mercy?
"I am not offended." She added. "But there's something important than 'workhorse' that needs to be discussed. Let's go."
Paul swallowed and shot one last death glance at his friend before following her with the obedience of a golden retriever.
Once they were out of sight, Lee let out the longest, most dramatic sigh known to mankind that probably deserved a parade.
"Our new product launches in two days." Danica addressed, power-walking towards the elevator. Her heels clicked against the marble floor with precision of time bomb.
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 managed, keeping up with her pace. "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 tried to explain. "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."
Wait. WTF?
His smile faltered as he pictured the internet tearing him apart—thousands of strangers roasting him on every social platform for shortsightedly releasing a skincare product that didn't smooth complexions so much as scorch them off.
Absurd. Undeniably absurd.
The elevator opened with an annoying ding, and Paul 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 threw a revised pitch and pressed the 80th number on the elevator's panel.
Danica shot him a deadpan glance. "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 for serum literally says, 'Dangerously Beautiful.' We cannot afford to accidentally endanger someone and then go viral for launching a chemical weapon in a glass bottle."
"So, fix it." She arched a brow.
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 remotely sympathetic but the one that promised a slow death and a very public funeral.
"If we delay this launch, Dominion's reputation takes the hit along with me. And I don't back my commitments." She emphasized at last. "If you know what's wrong, document it. We'll meet with the team leaders, and I'll chew them to get this launch back on track."
Paul offered a curt nod. "Yes boss, I was working on the report when—"
"—when you were busy bitching about me." Danica finished the statement, arching a one of the eyebrows at him.
"Well, 'bitching' is… a strong label," he replied with a painfully nervous grin. "I was…"
"If the Lise Rose doesn't show up for promoting the new skin care," Danica interrupted, bored with whatever excuse he was scrambling to construct, "then let me know. I'll ensure her one hundred fifty million followers rethink their devotion by the end of the day."
"What about the promotion then?" His forehead creased into various thin lines. "We can pivot to another influencer. I will prepare the list."
"That's time consuming. We don't have a heartbeat to waste, Paul." A beat of cold silence. "I will promote it myself."
His brain ambushed him with the mental footage of Danica Clarke live-streaming the new skincare on company's microsite with no smile, no warmth and zero trace of any human emotion. That would be...as engaging as person's will to live on workday. He grimaced and shoved the image out of his head before it made his retinas beg for mercy.
The elevator numbers crawled upward at a tormenting pace: fifty, fifty-eight and then…sixty.
With every passing second, Paul's nerves sharpened into something brittle and volatile. Silence pooled between them, dense and oppressive, crawling into the small of his back. His heartbeat surged wildly, slamming against his chest with frantic insistence. And somewhere between those flickering numbers and sickening feeling in gut, his tie transformed from cloth into something constricting, insidious noose as he struggled to drown out the voices in his head he couldn't bear to hear.
"Get me out of here."
Screams. Wailing.
He threaded shaky fingers through his hair, brushing away the sweat gathering on his brow in a futile attempt to mute the echoes rising inside him. But the voices from his darker days grew louder and louder and swelled until old moments flickered to life before him as if the past had stepped into the present.
"This is for killing her."
"It's all because of you."
"Bend over!"
"What are those, mom?" "It's nothing. I fell from the stairs."
Numbers climbed to sixty-five, seventy, seventy-one—
If I didn't say something or anything. Heat crept up from his stomach to his throat, twisting into nausea. Sedatephobia, would be the death of me.
Numbers reached to seventy-five.
"We also have that award function at the end of the week." He forced out.
"I know."
"I'm sure you'll win Businesswoman of the Year again." Paul added, wrestling against the pins-and-needles racing under his skin. "As usual."
She didn't lift her gaze to acknowledge him at all.
Seventy-seven. Seventy-eight.
"We're launching a new product. I'm sure you have plenty to focus on. Don't you?" Danica sliced straight through his compliment, unimpressed.
"Uh, yes. Of course. Always doing my best," he nodded.
Seventy-nine. Eighty.
She stopped, looked at Paul for a second before responding in a flat voice. "Good for you."
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.
The noise of corporate life came rushing to life when he stepped out of elevator and voices of his past ebbed slowly. Paul exhaled, smoothened his appearance and pretended he didn't feel the sharp unease crawling beneath his skin.