**The Promotion**
It’s no secret that promotions come in different ways. Some earn them through honest work, others scheme their way up, and a few take a little business trip with the boss.
The news that a new director had been appointed—replacing the retired Peter Harrison—sent ripples through the office. Worse still, she wasn’t even from within the company. Hopes that the interim director, Geoffrey Whitmore, would take the role had crumbled. The gossip spread fast, each retelling adding new details: *a young woman, a real looker, ruthless, someone’s mistress…* The name of the high-ranking official remained unspoken. Best not to stir the pot.
At ten sharp, the staff gathered in the conference room to meet their new boss. Dennis slipped in last. As if on cue, every head turned toward him.
A young woman stood at the front, her hair sleeked back into a sharp ponytail. Her blazer clung to her like a second skin—tailored, exact. The click of stilettos, the flash of crimson lipstick, and a gaze cold enough to freeze fire completed the picture.
“Your name?” Her voice cut through the silence like a snapped wire.
“Dennis Radford,” he answered, tilting his head just slightly. It almost looked like a bow, though he stopped short of it.
“You’re late, Mr. Radford. And I was just saying punctuality is non-negotiable. First offense—forgiven. Sit.” The steel in her tone made half the room’s teeth ache.
Dennis dropped into the seat beside his friend and colleague, Ethan.
“She’s terrifying, isn’t she?” Ethan muttered.
“Terrifying? More like a bloody robot. And she’s here to turn us into the same.”
One by one, the staff introduced themselves, rattling off roles and responsibilities. From the sharpness of her questions, it was clear she already knew the company inside out. When Dennis’s turn came, she abruptly dismissed them all before he could speak.
“Well, well,” Ethan smirked. “Not feeling too lucky, are you?”
“Right. Let’s get to work before she sacks us.”
As they filed out, the whispered debates began—how much change was coming?
For two weeks, everyone arrived on time, drank coffee only at lunch, and smoked like they were on borrowed minutes. But old habits die hard. Soon, the usual chaos returned—late arrivals, smoke breaks, endless caffeine dashes—though no one dared push too far.
At the end of the third week, the secretary tapped Dennis’s desk. “Janet Llewellyn wants to see you.”
“Sit.” She gestured to the chair opposite her desk. “I’ve noticed your work. Precise, efficient. Why are you still a junior? Did my predecessor have it in for you?”
Dennis frowned. “No.”
“The head of your department retires next year. Time to train a replacement.” She studied him. He held her gaze.
“You’d do as well as her,” she continued, twirling a pen between slender fingers. “There’s an exhibition in London this Friday—new-gen equipment. You’ll attend, assess, report. Collect your tickets and expenses from accounting.”
“But Friday’s tomorrow,” Dennis protested.
“I’m aware. You’ll return Sunday. Any objections?”
He shrugged. Couldn’t exactly tell her he’d promised his son Jamie a weekend at the funfair—two weeks of pleading leading up to this. Or that his wife, Claire, would never believe this was purely business. And yet…
***
“Dad, you *promised*,” Jamie whined.
“Do you think I *want* to go? It’s work, Jamie. Next weekend, alright? I’ll bring you back… What do you want, anyway?”
“A Transformer!” Jamie brightened instantly.
“Deal.” Dennis ruffled his hair.
“Couldn’t she send someone else?” Claire folded his shirts neatly into the suitcase. “A weekend trip? Odd timing.”
“It’s so more people can attend without missing work. The new boss asked why I’m still a junior. Maybe this leads to a promotion.” He couldn’t hide the pride.
“About time. Is she pretty?” Claire’s tone was too light.
Dennis feigned confusion. “Who?”
“Your new boss.” She snapped the suitcase shut.
“Pretty? More like an ice sculpture. Everyone calls her ‘the cyborg.’” Though privately, he thought the trip did seem… questionable. Toothbrush, shirts, razor—packing like he was meeting an affair.
On the plane, passengers shoved jackets into overhead bins. Dennis turned to the window, imagining jets as slumbering metal birds.
He relaxed. Not bad, flying to London instead of the office. First solo trip in ages. *Enjoy the freedom,* he told himself, closing his eyes.
“Mr. Radford.” A voice like polished steel cut through his thoughts.
Dennis turned. There, in the next seat—Janet Llewellyn herself.
*Interesting. Did she not trust me alone, or was this the plan all along? Accounting knows she’s on this flight. The rumors will spread…*
“Try not to look so shocked. You’d think I was your wife.” The ghost of a smirk touched her lips.
He didn’t laugh. Noticed she was dressed down, stunning. They exchanged hollow pleasantries.
“People say you got your position through… connections,” Dennis ventured.
She ignored it, launching into a story about a near-crash last year—fear of flying since. *Changing the subject. Fine.* Then she shut her eyes, feigning sleep.
He watched clouds through the window. How would this end? How should he act? Did the exhibition even matter, or was this the real test?
At the hotel (their rooms were, predictably, side by side), they headed straight to the exhibition. Janet knew everyone—pausing, chatting. Dennis wandered alone, then returned early.
Fresh from the shower, he reached for his phone—then a knock.
Janet stood there, wine in one hand, chocolate in the other. Jeans, a soft blouse, no heels. Tiny, almost fragile. A startling transformation.
“May I? Hope I’m not interrupting.” Her eyes flicked away from the gap in his robe.
“Not at all.” He grabbed trousers and a shirt, vanishing into the bathroom.
When he returned, the wine was poured—red like blood in the dim light. She sat cross-legged on the bed, the chocolate half-unwrapped. He kept his distance.
“Thought we both needed to unwind.” She handed him a glass. “How long have you been with the firm?”
“You didn’t research that? Since you knew about Natalie Whitmore retiring.”
“Prickly.” She sipped. “Yes, I looked. Married, six-year-old son—Jamie, right? Army, degree. Me? I’ve always wanted to run a company—my way.”
“It’s working. People are terrified of you.”
She ignored that. “Another?” She held out her glass. “What did you think of the exhibition? Forgot to ask earlier. Too many acquaintances.”
He listed his thoughts. The wine buzzed in his head. He didn’t notice her watching until she set her glass down, stood before him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her chest level with his eyes…
***
Back home, Jamie barreled into him before he could set down his bag.
“Daddy’s back!”
Dennis lifted him. “Getting heavy.” He pulled out the promised Transformer.
“Yes! Exactly what I wanted!”
Claire watched from the kitchen, silent. Dennis avoided her eyes.
Dinner passed quietly.
Later, unpacking, she froze—then held up a shirt with a red lipstick smear on the collar.
“Den. *What is this?* I knew it wasn’t just a work trip.”
He stammered excuses. She didn’t buy them. The fight exploded. Jamie hid in his room.
“Got your *promotion*, did you?” she screamed.
“You’re always saying I don’t earn enough! Now I will!”
That night, he slept on the sofa. The next evening, a note waited: *Gone to Mum’s with Jamie.*
***
“Mr. Radford—*listen*.” Janet’s voice snapped him back.
He blinked. Years had flashed by in seconds.
“What was I saying?” Her glare was ice.
“Sorry. Distracted. I can’t go. Promised my son the funfair—two weeks he’s waited. Send Ethan Cole. He’s just as good. Desperate for the role.”
“I’ll consider it. Understand the consequences?” She set her pen down like a judge’s gavel. “Leave.”
The chill down his spine said her eyes were drilling into his back. He forced himself to walk, not run.
“What took so long?” Ethan asked the moment Dennis returned to their office. “She’s got a thing for you.”
“Don’t be daft. Wanted me in London for some exhibition.”
“Bloody hell.” Ethan whistled.
“Six months later, Ethan got the promotion, but Dennis found peace in Sunday roasts with Claire and Jamie, watching his son play with that Transformer on the living room floor.
