“I know you mean it.”
“No, I mean I literally cannot. Not in a dramatic sense. In a mathematical one.”
She studies me for a beat, then jerks her chin toward the alcove near records. “Come on.”
We duck into the alcove, where old file boxes go to die and managers go to have secret conversations they think walls can digest.
I fold my arms hard across my chest. “I’ve done everything they asked. I cover people. I stay late. I haven’t taken a proper sick day in eleven months.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I asked for one tiny scheduling adjustment because childcare’s gotten impossible, and now apparently I’m ‘nonessential.’”
“Welcome to corporate logic,” Nessa says. “Where the beatings improve morale.”
I drag a hand over my face. “I should have asked for a raise months ago.”
“You should have asked for a raise your second week.”
“I can’t just storm into the executive tier and demand money.”
“Why not?”
“Because I enjoy being alive.”
Nessa leans one shoulder against the wall. “Tilda, listen to me. They count on people like you staying scared and competent. That is the entire business model.”
I laugh once, no humor in it. “Brautigaum Plastics: built on polymers and quiet female despair.”
“Now that’s a slogan.” She points at me. “Go talk to Andrew.”
I blink. “To the CEO?”
“Yes. To the idiot king himself.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t know I exist.”
“Then introduce yourself.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You are.”
“I would rather lick a shuttle battery.”
Nessa shrugs. “Fine. Then sit down, be excellent, get laid off, and let a man who wears imported moon-silk ties decide your child’s future. Super empowering.”
I glare at her.
She glares back.
It’s one of the reasons I like her. Nessa doesn’t do soothing. She does useful.
“You think he’ll help me?” I ask finally.
