“No,” she says. “I think he might help himself in a way that accidentally benefits you. Which is the closest thing to generosity men like Andrew Brautigaum are capable of.”
I let out a breath.
“He likes boldness,” she goes on. “Likes being pitched. Likes feeling like the smartest person in the room. So don’t go in there begging. Go in there making a case.”
“For what?”
“For why keeping you is cheaper than losing you.”
My laugh this time is weak but real. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I know.” She pats my arm. “Now pull up your spine and weaponize your competence.”
The rest of the morning crawls.
I answer messages. Update shipping logs. Process supply requests. Flag a discrepancy in regional plastics outputs that nobody thanks me for fixing. Every task gets done because my hands know how, but my brain is somewhere else entirely, rehearsing.
Mr. Brautigaum, thank you for seeing me?—
No.
Andrew, I wanted to discuss?—
Worse.
Sir, due to increased responsibilities?—
Repulsive.
At lunch I sit in a corner with my stale wrap and type numbers into a private sheet. Rent. Food. Jesse. Supplemental insurance. Care. Transit. If I lose the job, I have maybe six weeks before things get ugly. Four if Jesse breaks anything expensive. Two if the landlord decides compassion is for richer neighborhoods.
By midafternoon, I’ve built and discarded twelve versions of a speech.
By late afternoon, I’m angry.
Anger is useful. Anger has bones. Fear just leaks all over the floor.
At seventeen hundred hours, I smooth my skirt, check my reflection in the dark screen of my terminal, and head for the executive level.
Brautigaum’s assistant is a man named Colven whose smile looks outsourced.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asks.
“No.”
“Mr. Brautigaum is extremely busy.”
“I’m sure he is.” I plant both hands on his desk and smile like a woman on the brink. “Tell him Tilda Robertson from admin support has a proposal regarding employee retention and corporate image.”
That gets a flicker.
Image is a holy word in this building. Probably more sacred than ethics.
Colven hesitates, then taps his comm. “Sir? There’s an admin associate here with… a proposal.”
A pause.
Colven’s eyebrows lift. “Yes, sir.”
