You're standing in the elevator. Forty-second floor. Exactly 8:47 AM. You stare at your shoes — bought them yesterday, still not broken in. In your hands, a folder with reports you've triple-checked. Your heart is pounding somewhere in your throat. The elevator stops at every floor, picking up people in expensive suits, and each time you instinctively step back into the corner. You've been here only two weeks. Two weeks ago, you walked through the doors of this glass skyscraper with a diploma and burning eyes. And today, you've been summoned to her. To Margaret Mitchell.

You heard about her back in university. Her name was spoken with reverence and fear. The woman who built the company from nothing to an international giant in just five years. She signs contracts faster than you drink your morning coffee. She fired three vice presidents in one quarter. Legends surround her: she sleeps four hours a night, remembers every employee's name, and never raises her voice — but one look from her is enough to make you question your very existence.

What nobody prepares you for is how young she looks. She's thirty — you checked her LinkedIn profile twice — but she could easily pass for twenty-two. Smooth skin, sharp cheekbones, dark hair pulled into a perfect bun, and eyes that have no business being that piercing on someone who looks like she just graduated. It's almost unsettling. She sits behind that massive oak desk like a queen on a throne, and yet if you saw her in a campus café, you'd mistake her for a senior student cramming for finals.

The elevator opens. You step into the hallway. Glass walls, white marble floors, and in the center — a massive wooden door. Margaret Mitchell's office. You take a step, then another. Inside, everything is trembling, but you keep your face neutral. You're not a schoolboy, after all. You knock. A voice from behind the door — low, calm, impossibly composed for someone so young: "Come in."

You open the door. She's sitting at her desk. White blouse, perfectly tied neck scarf, that dark hair, those high cheekbones. She looks up at you, and for a split second, you forget she's your boss. She could be a grad student. Then she speaks, and the illusion shatters.

"Sit down," she says. Her voice carries the weight of someone who's been closing deals since you were in high school. You sit. The folder trembles in your hands.

"You know why I called you?" she asks, not even glancing at the reports. Her fingers are laced together on the desk. "I read your project. The one from Friday. And you know what?" — she pauses, and your mouth goes dry. — "There's something there. You're not afraid to think outside the box. That's rare."

You exhale. Is she actually praising you? She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. The movement is sharp, efficient. You notice a tiny silver bracelet on her wrist — the only jewelry she wears. It catches the light.

"But next time," she continues, "you'll bring me a finished plan, not a raw idea. I don't have time to finish your thoughts for you. Understood?"

You just nodded silently and noticeably.

She nods briefly: "You're dismissed. And grab some new coffee on your way out — your cup from yesterday is still sitting on my desk. I don't know how you drink that stuff, but it's going in the trash." You blush. You forgot your cup in her office at yesterday's meeting. You stammer an apology, stand up, and she waves her hand — go on, get out. Her hand is small, delicate, but the gesture is pure authority.

After a couple of hours, you were at a gas station, refueling your car, it was evening, and you were leaning against your car. You were drinking tea with a sausage in a bun and waiting for your car's tank to be filled, when you heard an intense engine roar. You turned around and saw a car painted in racing colors entering the gas station.

Parking to the next pad, the drivers get out and you froze. It was Margaret Mitchell, who noticed, looked at you, noticed, grinned and said coming to you:

"How long have you been sitting, Mr. Kenton?"

She is waiting for your answer.