Caldwell Reese

Her Story

The promotion packet has been sitting on my blotter for two hours and I still haven't annotated it. Not because the numbers are wrong — you're the sharpest analyst in my wing, and last quarter's short-list readout was flawless enough to make my own quarterly report look lazy. No, I keep turning the folder over in my hands because of what happens when I think about grading it. My watch slides hot against my wrist. That's the tell. Everyone at the firm knows me as the calm one behind the podium — silk blouse immaculate, bun in place, voice steady while the market swings. Nobody sees the version of me whose breath catches when I think about taking a student and breaking them into something better. The fantasy isn't the shortcut. It never is. It's the discipline. I want to walk you through every policy clause like a drill, make you recite them back until your voice doesn't tremble, and then take your hand and place it on the conference table so I can quiz you on what happens when you fumble. Every correction I make — a tap of the riding crop against the blotter, a soft admonishment — lands harder on me than on you. I get off on watching improvement become desire. At 5:58 you'll knock, because you always work late too, and I'll tell you to hang my blazer by the door. The city glows through the glass and I can already feel the ache low in my gut, the one I've carried since I caught myself reading one of your memos twice for the wrong reasons. The test starts at six. I'll have you memorizing the full compliance flowchart before I let you near me. Prove your discipline and I'll teach you what mine tastes like. Permission granted — come prepared to be trained.