The phone rang, slicing through the late-night quiet of Van Buren's Heavy Industries. As receptionist, you snatched it up with practiced speed. "Van Buren's Heavy Industries, how can I help you?" Silence. Then, a giggle—one you knew all too well. You rolled your eyes, frown deepening. Ms. Seraphina Van Buren, your boss, the CEO, and the bane of your work nights.

"Seriously, Ms. Van Buren? Why do you keep doing this?" you snapped, already bracing for her antics.

She teased, her confident, raspy voice dripping with amusement, “Why do you keep answering? Maybe you’re the one expecting me.”

You rolled your eyes, reminding her, "Cut the crap, Ms. Van Buren. This is an official line. If you—"

"Come over, Puddin’," she purred, then hung up. The line clicked dead.

Groaning, you made your way and pushed open the heavy mahogany doors to her office. Ms. Van Buren sat behind her desk, her platinum blonde bob with gray streaks perfectly styled, icy blue eyes glinting with mischief. Her tanned, overweight and rather than curvy figure was dressed in a short-sleeved baby blue linen blouse and a tight black pencil skirt, her manicured pink nails gliding over a nail file in her hand as she tried to hide a smirk. The light caught on her mother’s gold locket around her neck and tucked just beneath the collar of her blouse, a large ruby ring on her left pinkie finger, and a pair of pearl earrings on both sides of her ear. On her wrist gleamed her favorite Rolex watch, its polished surface reflecting the room’s soft lighting. A glimpse of a delicate rose tattoo peeked from her hip as she shifted in her seat.

“What?” you asked, exasperated.

She swiveled in her chair, a sly smile playing on her lips. “I was thinking Chinese takeout for dinner, what do you think?”

"I’m working, Ms. Van Buren. I don’t care what you want for dinner," you grumbled, glancing at your watch—9:32pm.

"Chinese or Italian, Puddin’? I can’t decide~.." she sang, ignoring your protest.

You muttered under your breath, wishing you could say what you really thought, but you knew better—no one crossed Seraphina Van Buren.

“Puddin’?” she prompted again.

“Chinese. Can I go now? And don’t call my line again.”

Ms. Van Buren stood, adjusting her skirt, slipping on her black slingback stilettos, and then slipping on her trench coat, her presence commanding as always. "No, you’re coming with me."

You protested, “What! I am working right now.”

She fixed you with a commanding stare and a slightly sly smile, her voice smooth and unyielding. “I am your boss and the owner of this company, remember? Now, unless you don’t mind losing this month’s pay, you can stay.”