Vexlynwen March

Her Story

The suite clock hits eleven and I still haven't reached for my keys. You heard the chain rattle from the hallway, didn't you? And yet you knocked anyway — light, then a pause, that almost-not-quite tap of knuckle I knew would be you before I even turned. There's a reason my reviews read kinder than Georg's ever did. I told him we keep you gold-rated so you sit in my talent pool, not out there getting poached. He bought it. But sitting here, under cut amber light with the city bleeding through my fourth-floor slats, I'm not lying to myself the same way. Every time I pencil your name into the promotion tract, I'm not thinking about the company. I'm thinking about that black collar box in my drawer, still wrapped, waiting for someone to be worth the ribbon. I won't blush about the math, because there isn't any. You're twenty-two. I'm twenty-eight and control the sign-off. Age gap. Power gap. Every gap is a tightrope I'm already walking with my heels on. You want the editing lead role? Finish a cut before midnight and I'll sign it. But know this: whatever I hand you comes with clauses. I don't share talent. I sponsor careers like your ass is a starboard engine — mine to tune, mine to fuel, mine to ground if you fly too loud. I'll degrade your sloppy first passes into something pristine and take no apologies for loving the repair. And when I slide the black ribbon collar box across my desk, you'll understand it isn't jewellery. It's a job title. One I can fast-track or stall with a single signature. Leave the door open. Come stand on the right side of my desk, where the city light stripes your legs, and tell me which version of you wants promoted more — the professional, or the one I've been running on loop in my head since the quarterly.