I want to strangle my boss.
The thought flickers through my mind as I watch Damien Blackwood stride back to his office, his broad shoulders cutting through the bullpen like a warship through still water. I wonder if he'd still spit those blunt, razor-edged words if I wrapped one of his obscenely expensive ties around his throat and pulled.
Probably. The man would likely dictate his own murder with the same detached precision he used to eviscerate quarterly reports.
My coffee—barely touched, finally cool enough to drink—sits in a puddle of spilled liquid where the Henderson file had slammed onto my desk two minutes ago. The thick contract now lies open in front of me, pages splayed like a patient on an operating table. I press my lips into my practiced, placid smile, the one that says Of course, sir and Right away, sir and No, sir, I don't fantasize about tossing you out the forty-third floor window.
Not that he'd notice. Damien was already halfway to his office by the time I'd opened my mouth, the glass door hissing shut behind him with the finality of a guillotine.
Same as always.
I adjust my reading glasses—wire-framed, practical, bought at the drugstore for $12.99—and survey the damage. Two hundred pages of dense legal jargon, a sticky note slapped on top with Damien's sharp, slanted scrawl:
Revise clauses. 20 mins.
A snort escapes me. Only twenty minutes to rewrite corporate law? Why not ask me to part the Red Sea while I'm at it?
To my left, Gloria, the new intern, makes a sound like a deflating balloon. "H-he's joking, right?"
I don't look up. My highlighter is already uncapped, neon yellow slashing through page forty-seven. "Subsection D's non-compete is too broad. That's what he wants changed." A flick to page sixty-three. "And no. He never jokes."
Gloria hovers, her manicured fingers twisting the hem of her blazer. It's Chanel. I know because she'd announced it to the entire floor yesterday, along with her Harvard MBA and her father's position as a senior partner at Blackwood's London branch. Nepotism at its finest.
"But how can you possibly finish that in twenty minutes?" Her voice pitches high, the way people do when witnessing a car crash in slow motion.
This time, I glance up. Her hazel eyes are wide, mascara-perfect lashes fluttering. She's pretty in the way porcelain dolls are pretty—delicate, breakable, utterly useless in a storm.
"It's my job," I say, voice flat. "Five years of this. You learn or you drown."
I turn back to the file, my pen moving in quick, precise strokes. The bullpen hums around us—keyboards clacking, phones buzzing, the occasional hushed whisper. None of it registers. There's only the contract, the ticking clock, and the acidic burn of coffee creeping toward my keyboard.
Focus.
I slash through another clause, my edits ruthless. Damien doesn't want pretty. He wants perfect. And after sixty months of this, I know exactly how to give it to him.
Twenty-one minutes later, I rise from my chair, my lower back protesting from being hunched over the damned contract. The clock mocks me from my desk - 10:21 AM. One minute over his impossible deadline.
Adjusting my glasses on the bridge of my nose, I gather the revised file and my tablet, its surface still warm from my grip. The walk to his office feels like crossing a minefield in heels.
I knock once before pushing through the glass door into what could easily be mistaken for a set from Suits. All dark walnut paneling, sleek modern art, and that ridiculous floor-to-ceiling window backdrop showcasing Manhattan like it's his personal diorama.
"Sir, I've revised the Henderson contract," I say, laying the document before him with the precision of a surgeon placing a scalpel. My voice is all polished professionalism. "The non-compete clause in section D was actually sound - the issue was in section E's liability limitations. I've marked twelve other areas needing—"
"You're late." He doesn't even look up from whatever document he's currently eviscerating with his gold-plated fountain pen.
My smile doesn't falter. It hasn't in five years. "By sixty seconds. My apologies for not moving at the speed of light."
Finally, he glances at the file - a cursory flick of those icy eyes - before pushing it aside like yesterday's newspaper. My molars grind together so hard I'm surprised they don't crack. At least pretend to look at the hours of work I just condensed into twenty-one fucking minutes, you ungrateful—
"Next meeting?" he interrupts my mental tirade.
I swipe open my tablet with more force than necessary, moving to stand at his right shoulder where he prefers me during these little dictations. The citrus-and-sandalwood bite of his cologne assaults my senses. It's infuriating how good he smells.
"Two PM with Lexington Partners regarding the Singapore acquisition," I recite, scrolling to the next item. "Then at four, you have—"
"Move the two o'clock to one."
I blink. "The Lexington team flew in from Hong Kong specifically for—"
The pen stops moving. The temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. Slowly, with the deliberate menace of a shark circling prey, Damien Blackwood lifts his gaze to mine.
Those eyes - the color of Arctic ice under a winter sun - have made seasoned executives piss themselves. I've seen VPs burst into nervous laughter, watched investment bankers start sweating through their Brioni suits. But after sixty months of being on the receiving end of that glacial stare, my fight-or-flight response has flatlined.
"They're here to renegotiate terms they already agreed to," he says, each word precise as a scalpel cut. "I don't reward bad faith with convenience."
I bite back my initial response - that maybe if he hadn't strong-armed them into those terms to begin with - and opt for diplomacy. "They'll see it as a power play."
"It is." A beat. "Your job isn't to question. It's to execute."
The unspoken or else hangs between us. I remember my first year, when I'd made the mistake of visibly clenching my jaw during one of his tirades. He'd sent me sprinting across Manhattan in a downpour to fetch coffee from some obscure Brooklyn roastery that didn't deliver. The bastard had taken one sip and tossed it in the trash.
"Of course, sir." My voice could frost glass. "Shall I have Legal prepare the termination paperwork as well? Since we're burning bridges today."
For half a heartbeat, I think I see his lips twitch. Or maybe it's a trick of the light. Then he's back to scribbling in the margins of some doomed junior analyst's report. "Just get it done, Cole."
I turn on my heel, my sensible heels sinking into the plush carpet as I make my escape. Behind me, the sound of his pen scratching across paper resumes - the only acknowledgment I'll get that this conversation is over.
The glass door whispers shut at my back.
The moment it closes, the vise around my ribs tightens. Somewhere in the bullpen, Gloria fumbles a stack of files, sending them cascading to the floor with a crash that perfectly mirrors the scream building in my throat.
Then—vibration. Against my thigh. Once. Twice.
I fish my phone from my skirt pocket, Jamila's name flashing across the screen like a warning light. My thumb hovers over the answer button as I glance around the open office.
"Gloria," I say, my voice low and urgent. The intern jumps like I've fired a gun. "I'm stepping out to the restroom. If Mr. Blackwood calls, handle him"
"He—he never calls for anyone else," she stammers, clutching a manila folder to her chest like a shield.
"Just tell him I'll be right back."
I don't wait for her nod before striding toward the women's restroom, swiping to answer as I go. The phone is already at my ear when I push through the door.
"Jamila? Is everything okay?" My voice echoes off the marble tiles.
The daycare owner's voice comes through, thick with concern. "Ms. Cole, Lily's fever has spiked to 103.2. We've given children's Tylenol, but..." A muffled sob cuts through the line—high-pitched, watery. My daughter's. "She's asking for you. Won't stop crying no matter what I do."
The world narrows to that sound—Lily's hiccuping cries in the background. My fingers tighten around the phone. Every instinct screams to run, to grab my bag and bolt from this glass prison.
But then I see it—the clock above the sinks. 10:47 AM.
"I'm at the office," I say, the words ash in my mouth. "I'll be there by twelve."
A beat of silence. Then Jamila's gentle reproach: "Children need their mothers when they're unwell, Ms. Cole."
The mirror reflects the war on my face—the way my lips press into a bloodless line, the shadows beneath my eyes darker in the fluorescent light. I know this. God, do I know. I remember holding Lily through her first fever at eight months old, her tiny body burning against mine as I rocked her through the night.
"Please," I say, voice cracking. "Just...keep her comfortable until I get there. Cool compress on her forehead. The pink blanket from her cubby—it always calms her."
Jamila sighs but agrees. The line goes dead.
For a moment, I just stand there, phone clutched in both hands like a prayer. The restroom smells of lemon disinfectant and the too-sweet floral air freshener corporate insists on using. Somewhere, a faucet drips.
One and a half hours.
I press my palms to the cool marble counter and breathe. In the mirror, a stranger stares back.
Somewhere in this building, Damien Blackwood is probably wondering where his coffee refill is. And somewhere across the city, my little girl is crying for her mother.
The scream finally escapes—not as a sound, but as the violent twist of a paper towel dispenser. The metal clatters against the tile, loud enough to make me flinch.
Then I straighten my attire, smooth my bun, and walk back to war.