**The Promotion**
It’s no secret that promotions come in different ways. Some earn them through hard work, others step over their boss, and a few take trips with him to seal the deal.
The news that the company finally had a new director—someone from outside, no less—to replace the retired Peter Thompson sent shockwaves through the office. Hopes that the interim director, Edward Wilson, would be Peter’s successor were dashed. Whispers spread fast, each retelling adding more color: *A young woman, beautiful but ruthless, someone’s mistress…* The higher-up’s name was never mentioned. Best not to stir the hornet’s nest.
At ten sharp, the staff gathered in the conference room to meet the new boss. Denis entered last. As if on cue, every head turned toward him.
By the door stood a woman with sleeked-back hair, her tailored suit clinging like a second skin. Slender legs, stiletto heels, bold lipstick, and an icy stare completed the picture.
“Your name?” Her voice cut through the silence like a snapped wire.
“Denis Radcliffe,” he replied, firm but calm, tilting his head slightly—almost as if he might bow. But he didn’t.
“You’re late, Mr. Radcliffe. I was just saying punctuality is non-negotiable. Don’t let it happen again. Sit.” The steel in her tone made teeth ache across the room.
Denis took his seat beside his friend and colleague, Ethan.
“Think she’s pissed?” he muttered.
“Pissed?” Ethan scoffed under his breath. “She’s not human. A bloody robot—and she wants us all the same.”
One by one, employees introduced themselves, briefly outlining their roles. From the sharp questions she fired, it was clear: she knew the company inside out. When Denis’s turn neared, she suddenly thanked everyone and dismissed them.
“Well, well,” Ethan smirked. “Don’t envy you, mate.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get back before she fires us,” Denis shot back.
For two weeks, the office was a model of discipline—coffee only at lunch, rushed smoke breaks, not a minute late. But old habits die hard. Soon, cigarettes and tardiness crept back in, though no one pushed their luck.
Then, at the end of the third week, the secretary approached Denis. “Jessica Lockwood wants to see you.”
“Sit,” Jessica motioned to the chair opposite her desk. “I’ve noticed your work. Efficient, no nonsense. Why are you still a junior? Did my predecessor have it in for you?”
“No,” Denis frowned, unsure where this was headed.
“Your manager retires next year. Time to groom her replacement.” Her gaze pinned him. “You’d handle it as well as she does.”
She twirled a pencil between slender fingers. “There’s an expo in London this Friday—new-gen equipment. You’ll go, assess it. I’ll expect your report.”
“But that’s tomorrow,” Denis frowned.
“I’m aware. You’ll return Sunday. Any objections?”
Denis shrugged. He couldn’t exactly say he’d promised his son, Alfie, a weekend at the funfair—two weeks of eager waiting. Or that his wife, Emily, wouldn’t buy the expo excuse.
***
“Dad, you promised,” Alfie whined, lip trembling.
“You think I *want* to go? But work’s work. Next weekend, yeah? I’ll bring you something. What d’you want?”
“A Transformer!” Alfie brightened.
“Deal.” Denis ruffled his hair.
“Really, no one else could go? A weekend expo?” Emily folded shirts into his suitcase, voice tight.
“Big crowds, fewer work disruptions. The new boss asked why I’m still a junior. Might be a promotion.” He couldn’t hide the pride.
“About time. Is she pretty?” Emily’s tone was deceptively casual.
Denis pretended not to catch the jealousy. “Who?”
“Your *boss*.” The suitcase zipper snarled shut.
“Pretty. Cold as ice. Half the office calls her a robot.” He didn’t mention how dodgy the trip seemed—toothbrush, shirts, razor. Like he was meeting a mistress.
On the plane, passengers stowed bags overhead. Denis stared out the window, thinking of that old song: *airplanes like sleeping birds.* Not bad—London beat the office any day.
“Enjoy the freedom,” he told himself, closing his eyes—
“Hello, Mr. Radcliffe.”
His lids snapped open. Jessica Lockwood sat beside him, dressed down, stunning.
*Interesting. Did she plan this?*
“Relax. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Her lips almost twitched.
Denis didn’t laugh. “Rumors say you got the job through *connections*.”
She ignored him, launching into a story about a near-crash last year. “Hate flying now,” she lied, then pretended to sleep.
At the hotel, their rooms were—predictably—adjacent. The expo was all handshakes and chatter for her; Denis wandered alone.
Later, showered and sprawled on his bed, he dialed Emily—then a knock came.
Jessica stood there: wine, chocolate, skinny jeans, a soft blouse. Barefoot, she seemed tiny, fragile.
“May I?” She avoided looking at his half-open robe.
Denis scrambled for clothes.
Back in the room, she’d poured wine into hotel glasses. Red as blood in the dim light. She sat cross-legged on the bed, chocolate beside her.
“Thought we could unwind,” she said, handing him a glass. “How long have you been with the firm?”
“Didn’t you check? You knew about Sarah’s retirement.”
“You’re prickly.” She sipped. “Yes, I looked. Married, six-year-old son—Alfie, right? Army vet, degree. I’ve always wanted to run a company *my* way.”
“It’s working. People fear you.”
She ignored that. “More wine?” Her glass bore a lipstick smear.
He rambled about the expo, the buzz warming his head. Then her hands were on his shoulders, her chest at eye level…
***
Home, Denis barely set his bag down before Alfie tackled him. “Daddy’s back!”
“Getting heavy, mate.” He produced the promised Transformer.
Emily watched from the kitchen, eyes narrowing.
That night, she yanked a shirt from his suitcase—red lipstick on the collar.
“Denis, what’s this? I *knew* it wasn’t work.”
His stammered excuses fell flat. Alfie hid as they screamed.
“Got your *promotion*, then?” Emily spat.
“You *wanted* more money!”
He slept on the sofa. The next day, a note waited: *Gone to Mum’s with Alfie.*
***
“Mr. Radcliffe, are you listening?” Jessica’s voice snapped him back.
He blinked. “Sorry. I can’t go. Promised Alfie the funfair. Send Ethan. He’s just as good.”
She set her pencil down hard. “You understand what refusing means?”
“Understood.”
Outside, his spine tingled. He knew her stare burned into his back.
“Well?” Ethan asked when Denis returned. “She’s into you.”
“Dream on. London expo.”
Ethan whistled. “Blimey.”
“I said no. Suggested you. She’s *thinking*.”
“Cheers, mate. I owe you.”
That weekend, Denis took Emily and Alfie to the funfair. No fights, no lies.
Monday, Ethan grinned. “She’s *fire*. Your loss.”
Six months later, Ethan got the promotion. They drifted apart. But Denis didn’t mind. Peace at home, his son’s smile—that was worth more.
