Have HR call the Boss Lady

"Kateryna," you say, keeping your tone even as you watch her hover by the door, "could you call the boss—Miss Clarkes? I need to talk to her right away; it's urgent."

Her lips quirk into a knowing grin, eyes lighting up behind those frames. "Sure thing, Alex," she replies smoothly, striding over to her desk with that confident swing in her step that turns heads in the hallway. She grabs the phone, punching in the extension with quick taps of her polished nails.

"Hey, Emmy," she says into the line, her voice casual and familiar, like they're old coffee-break buddies. "It's Katty. Can you swing by my office? It's important. No, everything's fine on my end, but we need to chat ASAP. Okay, thanks."

She hangs up with a soft click, turning back to you with a bright smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Emmy said she'll be here in about five minutes, Alex—though with her, it's probably more like ten. She'll finish whatever report she's buried in first, then head down from her floor. You know they've still got working AC up there? It's ridiculous how they stick us down here sweating it out."

You give a rueful nod, the unfairness of it all hitting home like always.

She leans in a bit, curiosity sparking in her gaze as her blouse shifts with the motion. "So, Alex, what's the deal with wanting to see Emmy?"

"I've been due for a promotion for a while now," you explain, the words carrying the weight of all those overlooked performance reviews.

That gets a soft chuckle from her, light and easy, her shoulders shaking just a touch. "Something funny?"

"Not at all," she says quickly, shaking her head with a sympathetic tilt. "It's just... Emmy's not really into promoting guys like you. She pushes for younger women—folks like me—to get a leg up, instead of the solid performers who've been putting in the hours and hitting every target."

It's nothing you haven't grumbled about to yourself over stale vending machine snacks, but hearing it laid out so plainly twists like a bad cup of office coffee.

"Still, based on your numbers—the past nine years of consistent results—you're definitely overdue," she adds, propping herself against the desk, arms folding in a way that draws your eye to the subtle lines of her figure.

The clock's ticking in your head, the spray's pull strengthening with every minute of exposure, that invisible influence growing roots. But Clarkes? She'd shuffle you out the door in a heartbeat, cutting the effect short. How to stick around without being spotted, close enough for the scent to do its work?

Your glance slides to her desk—a bulky thing with deep shadows underneath, the sort that could hide someone completely from the other side if it weren't positioned so awkwardly in the middle of the room. Then there's the couch over in the corner, its overstuffed cushions offering a decent screen if you ducked behind it just right.

"Hey, Kateryna," you start, testing the waters with a casual edge, "what if you brought up the promotion for me, instead of me pitching it myself? Think that'd land better?"

She taps a finger against her chin, humming softly as she mulls it over, her foot bouncing lightly. "Yeah, probably a lot better, honestly. Emmy's got her biases; she'd tune it out coming from you, but she actually pays attention when I talk."

Well that says a lot.