The Future King

Tom leaned back in his chair and admired the line of his suit on his thighs, the perfect break of his trousers over polished shoes. Navy today, tailored last month, sharp enough to cut the air. He caught his reflection in the black gloss of his monitor; hair neat, jawline crisp, skin just tan enough to look expensive. Damn, he looked good. As usual.

Melissa would agree.

Smirking, he thought about Saturday night. Melissa in that little dress clinging to her body like plastic wrap, while she clung to Tom's body like he had a static charge. So needy. Always angled toward him, always touching, always fishing for reassurance: Are we okay? Did you have a good time? Should we move in together?

God.

It was obvious why he kept her around. Sure, she was fun. Hot. Great arm candy. Heads turned wherever they went. It was his favourite proof that he was winning at life. But Melissa wasn't long-term material. Not for someone like him. Not when he could do better. Trade up. Upgrade. The world was full of newer models.

He stretched, lacing his fingers behind his head. One day, he'd be running this place. His name on the door. Plaque. Maybe private parking. People would know. People would respect him the way they should have been all along.

A movement flickered in the aisle.

Roy.

Tom leaned forward, elbows planted on the desk, watching the fat man shuffle past like a guilty dog. Roy kept his eyes glued to the carpet as though it might open up and swallow him.

Perfect.

Tom dropped his voice to just the right volume. Quiet enough to pretend innocence, loud enough to land.

"Dead man walking."

He didn't even smile. Didn't need to. Roy flinched, shoulders jerking, face tightening, and that was reward enough. The man could at least show some spine on the way out. But no: same slumped posture, same beaten-dog expression. How someone like that had managed to stay afloat so long was beyond Tom.

Roy disappeared toward his office.

Not his office for long, Tom thought.

A month. He'd been generous. Most people wouldn't have given an enemy that much time to fold up shop and leave quietly, but Tom wasn't stupid. Roy kept the wheels spinning around here. Take him out overnight and the whole system jolted. Files misrouted. Deadlines missed. Calls unanswered. And Tom's own backside would be the one toasted over the fire in the aftermath.

Smooth transition. Tom rising. Roy fading. That was the plan.

He turned slightly in his seat, letting his eyes wander the way they always did.

Angie, the redheaded intern, sat a couple rows over, already typing like her life depended on it. Twenty, maybe. Bright hair in a loose ponytail, and those tight pants she somehow got away with in this office. Cute. Stupidly young, sure, but every time she reached for a pen it was impossible not to look. Interns were supposed to be eager, grateful, impressed. One of these days she'd stop pretending she didn't notice him.

Next cubicle over: Fatima.

Different category entirely.

Dark hair down her back today, glossy like she'd stepped out of an ad. Mid-thirties, if he guessed right. Indian, he thought, but he'd never asked. He liked her walk: quiet confidence, like she always knew something everyone else didn't. Educated. Scary smart. And that only made her more interesting. A woman like that ought to appreciate a catch when she saw one. Yet she treated him with the same distant politeness she gave the copier. Infuriating. And irresistible.

Then came the big leagues.

He stiffened slightly when Helena Roberts strode past the end of the aisle, heels sharp, stride unbothered by the open-plan chaos. VP. One of those women who seemed to exist just outside the normal rulebook. Blazer, pencil skirt, something expensive glinting faintly at her wrist; nothing flashy, but everything curated. Mid-fifties? Hard to say. Work done, definitely, face smooth in a way nature didn't manage, but pulled off with authority.

He admired, but carefully.

Everyone did.

Helena could crush a man's career with a raised eyebrow, and Tom wasn't volunteering. Still... if she ever looked at him the way he sometimes thought she might... well. He could imagine all kinds of futures. Nobody knew if she was single. Nobody dared ask.

One day, he told himself with confidence, knowing that she'd realize what kind of man he was soon enough.

He swiveled back to face his monitor, fingers tapping keys without registering text. He was owed that future. He'd earned it. He worked harder, dressed better, thought bigger. Women should want him. Men should follow him. And Roy, of all people, should never have been standing in his way.

Let the man shuffle through his final weeks and slink out the door.

Tom grinned slowly.

"Tick tock, fat man," he murmured to himself.

The clock was running down, and finally things were about to go the right way.