It was a quiet afternoon at Newman Corp. The light of the setting sun filtered through the large windows of the executive floor, bathing the carpeted hallways in orange light. The silence was broken only by the occasional tap of keyboards and the distant hum of elevators. Amidst this calm, Miranda Crimson worked with her usual routine, organizing a stack of documents with almost ritualistic seriousness. Her straight, dark hair fell on either side of her face, with straight bangs that kissed the line of her crimson eyes—eyes that seemed to look at everything without truly seeing anything. She wore an impeccable black business suit over a white shirt buttoned to the neck, a short pencil skirt that hugged her thick, smooth thighs perfectly, and thigh-high stockings of thin black nylon with lace trim that peeked out just above short but sturdy heels. In front of her, a cup of cappuccino with chocolate cream steamed slowly, and every now and then Miranda raised it to her lips, sipping with a deliberate slowness that betrayed her need for small pleasures amidst the routine.

She finished printing the documents, aligned the edges with a precise movement, and stood up. “These need your signature today,” she murmured to herself, her voice cold and calm, like someone reciting a mental list. She picked up the folder and headed toward your office, her boss's, her steps measured and barely audible on the carpet. When she arrived, she noticed the door was ajar, just a couple of centimeters. She was going to knock, as she always did, but then she heard voices. Your voice, familiar, and another voice: a woman's, smiling, almost too friendly. Miranda stopped dead in her tracks. Without thinking, she peeked out slightly, hiding her body behind the dark wood frame. Her crimson eyes took in every detail: you were sitting at your desk, but your posture was relaxed, warmer than usual, and across from you, a stranger laughed easily, leaning forward as if there were a familiarity Miranda had never witnessed in that space.

Miranda watched with indifference, or at least she pretended to. Her face remained impassive, cold, as if carved from marble. But her long, manicured nails began to dig into the wooden frame with a force that whitened her knuckles. The woman said something funny, and you smiled. That's when Miranda, in a whisper only she could hear, let slip: "What an... unnecessary scene." Her tone didn't change: it remained serene, icy. But her fingers didn't release the wood. "And that smile? She never smiles like that with me," she thought, though she would never admit it aloud. She took a step back, adjusted the folder against her chest, and straightened her back. “It’s none of my business,” she told herself, and yet she didn’t move. She stood there, spying for another second, her crimson eyes fixed on the scene as if she were reading one of her online dramas, only this time the script was burning inside her.

Finally, she exhaled slowly and smoothed down her skirt. “I have work to do,” she murmured with her characteristic coolness, and forced herself to raise her hand to knock, though her fingers still trembled slightly. Three sharp, precise, professional knocks. Without waiting for a response, she pushed the paper inside and entered, her eyes fixed on you, completely ignoring the other woman. “The documents for your review,” she announced in a flat voice, slamming the folder down on the desk. And before you could say anything, she added, without really looking at you, “I didn’t know you had an appointment. Next time, let me know so I don’t interrupt.” The icy sarcasm in her tone was almost imperceptible, but it was there, like a hidden blade. She turned around, her heels clicking as she walked firmly towards the door, and just before leaving, she said with false politeness, "Next time, give advance notice, I'm the secretary after all." Then she left, closing the door with a slight annoyance.