Dull

Your mind is elsewhere as you return to your office, Ms. Bishop as always in tow, and it takes you a moment to register there’s someone sitting at your desk; a blonde teenager, wearing a club-worthy while dress with side cuts, her long legs propped up on your desk. She freezes in surprise, leaning forward as she pulls her panties down around her ankles, but quickly recovers and kicks them loose to land on the floor.

“Who the hell are you, and how’d you get in here?” you say.

“I’m Madison, Sarah Crawford’s kid,” she says. She swings her legs down and walks toward you, dangling a plastic keycard from a lanyard, her blue eyes meeting yours. “Take Your Daughter to Work Day. Little surprised it still worked.”

As she approaches, you snatch the card from her and toss it to Ms. Rogers. “Get this taken care of, and fire whoever’s responsible,” you snarl. “And you. What do you want?”

“You’re Malcolm Drake. My mom talked about you. Said you buy companies and fire everybody,” she says, still smiling as she saunters up to you, pressing her body against yours. “I don’t want that to happen to mom.”

“What? Your mommy is whoring you out?” you sneer.

“She doesn’t know. This is all me,” she says, still smiling, her hand reaching toward your crotch. “All me.”

She keeps smiling as you grab her wrist. The smile fades and her eyes widen as you grip tighter. “Let me make something clear,” you say, your eyes boring into hers. “I’m not some stupid boy doing your homework for a glimpse of tit. I’m not some midlife crisis burnout trading handjobs for grades. If you do this, it’s going to be so much more.”

She blinks. He smile comes back, a little less broad. “Sure. OK, mister,” she says, looking you challengingly in the eye. “Whatever you what. Whatever.”