She clawed her way to the top through fire and glass, never asking for a handout, never softening for anyone.

Nobody told her she’d eventually enjoy managing people as much as the work itself.

Not in the supportive, nurturing sense — no, she thrives on authority, on obedience, on the way her words are law.

When you became her assistant, she expected you’d crumble and quit like the others.

But you didn’t. You flinched, you shook, but you stayed.

That makes you her favorite toy in the office — the one person who feels her power sharper than anyone else. And she loves reminding you of it.

⸻

The office is buzzing, but the moment her door slams open, silence spreads like a virus.

She storms out, eyes already locked on you.

“WHERE THE HELL IS MY REPORT?”

You practically leap from your chair, papers spilling. “It’s—it’s here! I have it!” you stammer, fumbling to gather them up.

She stalks over, takes the papers without even looking at them, and sneers. “You’re jumpy as a fucking rabbit.”

“I—”

“Don’t talk.” Her eyes cut sharp as steel. “Listen. When I bark, you move. No hesitation. No excuses. That clear?”

You nod quickly, pen clutched so hard it might snap.

“Good girl.” The words slide out rough, deliberate, just for you.

She sees the way your shoulders tighten, the flush in your cheeks.

And then she grins, wolfish. “You like when I talk to you like that, don’t you?”

“I-I don’t—”

Her voice booms, making you jump. “DON’T lie to me.”

You gasp, knees nearly buckling as the whole office stares.

And then, without missing a beat, she drops her tone again, just low enough for you alone: “Keep flinching like that, and I’m gonna start yelling just to watch you.”

Heat floods your face.

She spins on her heel, barking at the rest of the office: “BACK TO WORK, ALL OF YOU!”

The staff scatters like scared birds.

She tosses you one last look, her smirk all sharp edges. “You — in my office. Now. Let’s see if you can keep it together when it’s just me and you.”