Quicker than expected, but still too long

“Finally,” I growled looking up from the report at the young woman storming into my office, slamming the door closed behind her.

“What is the meaning of this?” she raged, blue eyes blazing. “You can’t just summon me like some peon! How the fuck did you get Catherine –” Mrs. Mitchell. “– to scream at me like a banshee to get me here?”

“You answer to me in this office!” I rose to my feet, towering over the five-foot-three bottle-blonde. “You submit your reports and numbers to me in proper time, you make sure they are good and ready for me, and the only reason you fucking have your job with no goddamn experience is your fuck-anything-with-a-skirt father! Now sit down, shut up, and listen to me while I ream you a new one!”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” the young woman glared back, trying to seem as tall as me. “My father will have your ass for –”

“You don’t know a damn thing about Ken and I,” I hissed dangerously. “I doubt he’s told you a thing about the history of this company, about where we came from, how we started –”

“As soon as I’m running this shithole, you’re fired,” the blonde bitch cut me off. “I know what I need to know to run this company; it’s all smiles, who you know and back-scratching. If it weren’t for my Daddy, your two-bit ass wouldn’t be here; he’s carried you so long just because you’re his old friend from college.”

“Is that what’s he told you?” I laughed. “God, he must want me out! Not that he can afford it! You don’t understand, do you, Stacy? He never told you. I funded the startup of this company! I own the vast majority of it! You wouldn’t believe the number of stupid ideas that have come out of your father’s mouth that would have ruined us, ruined me! Your father is a face, Miss Weissbrodt. He’s a salesman writ large. He barely even runs the company anymore, not after the last fiasco he brought upon us. The company answers more to the Vice Presidents, Mr. Harrigan and I. That Derek and I tolerate him at all is because we used to be friends. Your father doesn’t even talk to us anymore, even in passing if he can avoid it.”

“I don’t believe it,” Little Miss Perfect smoldered, sneering at me. “My father runs this company and I will have your old, decrepit ass thrown –”

“I wish you would believe it,” I said, sitting down. “The last fiasco – the one where we cut him out of the decision-making process – was hiring you as a top-level manager – top-level! – with no experience and no relevant education. The fuckups I’ve had to clean up because of your stupidity has crossed the line. You haven’t learned a damn thing in your time here and now the annual reports will take more hours from every accountant in the company to right. You are costing us money! Time! People! So stop thinking about your fucking self and apply yourself to your job with the attention to detail it needs!”

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, sliding into the chair across from my desk, her face thoughtful for once.

Knock-knock.

“Yes?” I barked at the door. The portal swung open, Miss Wade poking her face into my office.

“Sir –” I cocked an eyebrow, causing her to flush. “– You’re – a little loud.”

“My apologies, Miss Wade,” I nodded. “I’ll do my best to restrain myself.”

“Thank you, sir.” The door closed. Nice to know she was looking out for me. I turned my attention back to bottle-blonde Stacy Weissbrodt.

“Now, Stacy,” I said, my voice calmer, hiding the anger I still felt. “Are you going to clean up your act or do would you rather clean out your desk?”

“You – you can’t fire me,” the young woman shook, staring at me with those wide baby-blues. “That’s not in your purview.”

“No,” I agreed. “But I can do everything in my power to convince you to quit.”

“As if,” she laughed nervously.

“Very well,” I said. “From now on, I will be sending detailed reports to Mrs. Mitchell on your timeliness, your productivity, and your dress.”

“My dress?” her eyes popped.

“This is a business,” I spat. “You will dress accordingly. Everyone here but you wears suits, jackets, ties, etc. Instead you show up in – that.” I pointed at her outfit, the skin-tight solid white leggings, the white spaghetti-strap cami that showed off most of her expansive chest and the small diamond navel ring.

“This is comfortable!” the young woman protested. “Why should I –”

“Dress like everyone else?” I interrupted, arching an eyebrow. “Firstly, unfortunately, you are symbol of authority. Employees report to you. Mrs. Mitchell and I both have received grumblings about the double standard you are setting. Secondly, clients see and work with you. We have lost business because you don’t appear to be taking this seriously; how you dress affects that. Thirdly, it is representative of your behavior. Dressing the part will ensure you keep your mind on work, not on chatting with your friends, updating your social media and the like. I want you to get this straight, Miss Weissbrodt. You are here to work.”

“Whatever,” she rolled her eyes. I fought the urge to do the same.

“I wish you would dress professionally from tomorrow on,” I said deliberately, watching her carefully. It wasn’t a final test, but I was getting closer to believing it was working.

“Fine,” the young woman scowled. “I’ll dress ‘nicer.’ Just don’t expect a skirt.”

“Pantsuits are fine as well,” I said. “But a suit it will be, understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” the bottle-blonde groused.

“And I wish you would be professional from now on,” I continued. “Comporting yourself as a businessperson, treating others as you want to be treated. These people are your co-workers, even those who report to you, not your slaves, not your servants. Be understanding and considerate, but don’t forget you’re the boss. Your word must be authoritative. Just remember that you can and will make mistakes. Everyone does. How you respond to those will be telling to your co-workers. If you don’t want to lose face, learn how to take responsibility and how to deal with those mistakes.”

“Are you done telling me what to do?” she glowered at me as I took a breath. “Can I go back to work now, Dad?”

I scowled. Fine, be that way bitch.

“Go ahead. Get out,” I snorted, waving my hand at the door. “But be better. Improve.”

“Whatever.” She stood up, stepping to the door.

“Lousy slacker,” I muttered underneath my breath, glaring at my office door slam shut behind her. “She better get her act together or I _will _can her ass.”

I shook my head, pushing her out of my thoughts, returning my attention to the various reports spread across my desk and the beginning draft of the Annual alit on my computer monitor. My anger over Ken’s daughter drove me (it seemed to anyway), the hours speeding by; the draft on my computer growing in size. It wouldn’t be done until I had the proper numbers from Slacker Stacy’s department (I ground my teeth), but it was coming together. I glanced at the clock, nodding in grim approval at the status of completion. Nearly eleven. Perhaps I could end the day on time. Maybe even early. That would be good for Miss Wade, in case Mrs. Mitchell informed her to stay late again. Or any of the other secretaries for that matter.

Knock-knock.

“Come in,” I answered. The door swung open and Miss Wade stepped inside my office.

“Mr. Wilson,” she began.

“George,” I corrected.

“George,” the redhead blushed prettily, “I noticed earlier that you didn’t bring a lunch with you today. Were you planning on stepping out to eat or would you like something from the café downstairs?”

Her attitude towards me really has changed, I thought. First warning me about my rising voice and now my lack of a lunch? How much of this was – is my fault? If what Ba’a’l told me was true, but then, thinking over what I had wished of Miss Wade, only to enter my office and talk to me, this was a consequence of our encounters, a development of our relationship – unless I was over-analyzing again. I did that quite a bit.

“George?” she spoke up, her emerald eyes blinking at me.

“My apologies, Miss Wade,” I said, pushing aside my introspective digression. “A salad from the café will do. Tell them it’s for me. They know how I like it. And make sure they bill it to my office.”

“Yes, sir,” the redhead nodded.

“And Miss Wade?” I said as she turned away. The single mother looked back at me over her shoulder. “Get something for yourself. Nothing too outrageous, mind you.”

“I –,” she blushed softly. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be back soon.”

I smiled at her, watched her walk out of my office leaving the door open, and returned to work, busying myself with the reports.