Two days later, Zoe was summoned to Stacy's private office.
The room looked less like a workspace and more like a Vogue editorial—sleek marble desk, soft shadowed lighting, gold accents arranged with almost predatory precision. It didn't just look expensive; it looked curated. Controlled. Intimidating in the way only something immaculate and impossible can be.
Just like its owner.
"Sit," Stacy said, not bothering to lift her eyes from the screen.
One word. Crisp. Precise. A command wearing the guise of courtesy.
Zoe sat—then immediately regretted every life choice she'd made in the last seventy-two hours. Her heartbeat was loud enough to be its own percussion section
Stacy finally looked up. "I did some digging."
Her voice was smooth, but layered—like someone who had already reached her conclusion and was now enjoying the walk back to it. "Seems we haven't officially met. And yet, we've already fought over caffeine."
Zoe flushed so hard she felt her pulse in her ears. "I didn't know you were—"
"The woman whose name you used to get better coffee?" Stacy finished, sugar-sweet and razor-sharp.
Zoe sank an inch lower. "Yeah. That."
Silence settled. Heavy. Deliberate. Stacy leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with a fluid, practiced elegance that made Zoe's throat tighten. Her face remained unreadable—an expression carved from cool marble.
"You know, Ms. Rivera, most people try very hard to impress me at first."
She tilted her head. "You, on the other hand, stole my drink, lied to my face, and walked off with it like you owned the building."
Zoe bit back the instinct to babble for survival. "It wasn't exactly planned."
"No," Stacy said softly. "It wasn't."
A beat—sharp enough to break bone.
"But it was... memorable."
The word hung between them, warm in a way nothing else in the room dared to be.
Another pause. Longer this time. Charged.
"I'll be overseeing your division directly starting next week," Stacy continued, slipping cleanly back into business mode. "So we'll be seeing each other. Frequently."
Zoe blinked. Hard. "Right. Of course. Got it."
Stacy didn't blink. Didn't soften.
"Try not to steal anything else from me, hmm?"
No smile. Just the ghost of one—cold, calculated, almost taunting.
Zoe rose, trying not to look like someone whose internal organs had just relocated. "Got it."
Stacy returned to her screen, dismissing her with nothing but silence.
"Close the door behind you."
Zoe walked out like someone moving underwater—each step slow, careful, as though the shock might spill out of her if she moved too quickly. Her expression stayed neutral, professional.
But her stomach?
She was pretty sure it was still lying on Stacy Holloway's expensive marble floor.
The Design & Strategy team hovered around Zoe's desk like anxious satellites, trapped in that strange limbo between working and waiting. The air vibrated with a jittery tension, crackling like static before a storm.
Somewhere down the hall, the elevator chimed.
Footsteps followed—measured, confident.
Then... silence.
Zoe walked in.
She looked pale, almost ghostly, but her expression carried a strange, eerie calm—like someone who had walked through a blaze and survived on sheer willpower. Her hair was slightly out of place. Her eyes were unfocused. Her soul, clearly, had left her body at least once.
Everyone turned toward her at once.
Noah was the first to speak, voice breaking the tension like a snapped wire.
"Oh my god. You're alive."
"Barely," Zoe muttered, dropping her bag onto her chair with a thud that sounded like emotional collapse.
Jenny leaned forward, clutching her mug like a lifeline. "How bad was it?"
Zoe stared past them for a moment, searching for the words... then finally exhaled.
"Imagine being locked in a Dior showroom... with a panther... in heels."
Steven recoiled. "Gosh. So—bad."
"She knew about the coffee." Zoe's voice was hollow, flat, glacier-cold.
A collective gasp rippled through the room like a synchronized death wail.
All together: "NO."
Zoe nodded grimly. "Yes."
Noah's eyes widened, hungry for details. "What did she say?"
Zoe looked him dead in the eye—slow, deliberate, dramatic as a courtroom verdict.
"She warned me. Told me not to steal anything from her again."
Noah slapped a hand over his mouth. "She actually said that? Oh my god—she's terrifying."
"Word for word," Zoe replied. "Then she dismissed me like... like a pitch deck with pixelated icons."
Jenny winced. "That woman does not play."
A beat of silence.
"Did you cry?" someone whispered from the back.
"No," Zoe said. "But I think my soul did. Pretty sure it left my body and filed a complaint."
A heavy, collective exhale.
"What now?" Noah asked.
Zoe rubbed her temples, bracing herself. "She's overseeing us. Personally. Starting next week."
Silence fell like a dropped anvil.
Noah was the first to speak, voice barely above a whisper.
"Well... this is how we die."
Zoe nodded. "If we go down," she said, mustering a tired but defiant grin, "we go down with clean margins, consistent branding, and zero widows."
"Amen," Jenny murmured.
Zoe clapped her hands once, the sound cracking through the tension. "Alright, people. Back to work. Let's not give her any more reasons to eat us alive."
The team scattered, returning to their desks with new urgency. Zoe sat, reached for her coffee—then froze.
She muttered to herself, almost inaudibly:
"And I'm never touching anyone else's latte again."
Hours passed. Designs sharpened. Voices stayed low, but focused.
By the time the sun dipped low beyond the office windows, the day had worn them all a little thinner—but also a little tougher.
Zoe packed up slowly, mind still spinning, heart steadier than it had been that morning.
Tomorrow, they'd be ready. Or at least... closer.
**SUPRISE VISIT**
Morning light filtered softly through the windows, casting a warm glow over the quiet office.
No last-minute fire drills. No surprise client calls. No passive-aggressive emails marked "urgent." Just the low hum of computers and the quiet shuffle of a team deep in their groove. Laughter came soft, conversations came easy. Coffee steamed gently from ceramic mugs instead of being gulped between crises.
It was, by all accounts, a good morning.
Until the elevator dinged.
Every head lifted—just slightly. Eyes flicked toward the glass door at the far end of the room.
And then she appeared.
Stacy Holloway.
Immaculately dressed, a study in control. Silk blouse tucked into tailored black slacks, heels clicking with purpose on the polished concrete floor. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze sweeping across the room with quiet precision.
The air shifted.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Postures straightened. Mouse stopped moving. Even the coffee seemed to cool a few degrees.
Zoe looked up from her desk, heartbeat skipping, then stood—poised but alert.
"Ma'am," she said evenly. "We weren't expecting you today."
"That's the point," Stacy replied, tone as crisp as her collar. "I don't announce inspections."
She began to move through the room—slow, deliberate, the kind of walk that made people wish they'd cleaned their desktops five minutes earlier.
"Clean space," she said. "That's a good start. Let's see if the work matches."
Noah nervously offering a tablet "We've been finalizing the spring campaign visuals—minimalist, bold palettes. Zoe led the concept, Ma'am."
Stacy browsing through it quickly "Color balance is off on slide three. And this font? It's 2022 at best. Did no one notice?"
Silence. Zoe steps in.
"We debated that choice—we felt the serif brought a contrast to the flat background."
"Debate's fine. Delivering subpar work isn't." Stacy's cold response.
She hands the tablet back.
"You've got talent here, Zoe. But talent without precision? That's wasted potential." Stacy stated.
She moves to another desk, picks up a printed mockup.
"Who did this layout?" Stacy asked with a hint of disappointment on her face.
"T-that's mine, Ma'am." With a trembling voice, Steven answered.
"Margins are inconsistent. Fix it. Today."
She turns back to Zoe
"I want revised drafts by 9 a.m. tomorrow. Understood?"
"Understood." Zoe replied.
"Good. Carry on."
She leaves as abruptly as she entered. The room exhales.
Noah's eyes were wide as he broke the silence. "That felt like getting roasted by a coffee-fueled panther."
Jenny let out a nervous laugh. "I think my soul just filed a formal complaint."
Steven shook his head, dryly remarking, "Margins inconsistent? I didn't even realize margins could be inconsistent."
Zoe smiled, a spark of determination lighting her eyes. "Welcome to design under siege, folks. Quick question—how fast can we fix this layout?"
Noah straightened, mock-heroic. "Faster than Ms. Holloway can throw shade. Challenge accepted."
Jenny grinned. "Do you think 'survivor of panther inspections' would look good on a resume?"
Zoe lifted her coffee like a battle flag. "If this ship is sinking, we're at least sinking with impeccable aesthetics."
Steven smirked. "I'm already sharpening my pixel sword."
Laughter rippled through the team as the tension finally began to ease, replaced by a fierce determination to rise to the challenge.