He looks at me. “You may go in.”
The office is ridiculous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. A sculptural desk that appears to be made from one seamless piece of translucent polymer. Ambient lighting that makes Andrew Brautigaum look lightly blessed from above. He rises when I enter, all white teeth and expensive tailoring and manic energy. He’s younger than he should be for this level of power and older than he should be for this haircut.
“Tilda! Fantastic. Sit. No, wait—stand, actually. Better energy standing.”
I stay standing because apparently this is theater now.
He clasps his hands. “Colven says you have a proposal.”
I wet my lips. “I wanted to discuss my role here, sir. My workload has increased consistently, and my compensation hasn’t reflected that. I’ve also had ongoing childcare constraints, and I believe retaining experienced support staff is in the company’s best interest.”
He stares at me for two seconds.
Then he gasps.
Actually gasps.
“Oh, this is perfect.”
I falter. “I’m sorry?”
He starts pacing. “Perfect, perfect, perfect. I have been begging the universe for authenticity and instead it keeps sending me media-trained dead-eyed influencers with inspirational jawlines.”
I blink at him.
He points at me like I’ve just proven a theorem. “You. Single mother. Hardworking. Relatable but not depressing. Attractive in a grounded way. Tremendous audience sympathy potential.”
The room goes cold around me.
“I’m here,” I say carefully, “to ask about my job.”
“Yes! Exactly.” He beams. “Your future. Upward mobility. Brand integration.”
I have a very bad feeling.
He taps his desk and a holo display blooms between us, bright and spinning. A logo bursts across it in flaming silver letters.
GALACTIC EXTREME CHALLENGE.
I stare.
“No,” I say immediately.
He doesn’t even hear me. “Brautigaum Plastics is finalizing a sponsorship package, and one of our designated contestants dropped out after an unfortunate allergen incident involving atmospheric shellfish. We need a replacement by tonight.”
I just look at him.
He smiles wider.
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “You want me to do… whatever that is?”
His face lights up with evangelical zeal. “Compete. Represent the company. Human resilience! Working mother grit! We position you as the determined underdog and if you perform well, we get weeks of premium exposure.”
“I work in administrative support.”
“And now you may also work in narrative.”
