**The Promotion**
It’s no secret that promotions come in different ways. Some earn them through honest work, others by undermining their boss, and some by taking a business trip with them.
The news that a new director had finally been appointed—replacing the retired Peter Whitmore—and worse, someone from outside the company, sent shockwaves through the office. Hopes that Eugene Hartley, who had been acting director for two weeks, would take over had been dashed. Everyone passed the gossip along, adding spice and speculation: *She’s a young woman, beautiful, a real ice queen, mistress of so-and-so…* The name of the high-ranking superior was left unspoken. Better not tempt fate.
At ten o’clock sharp, the staff gathered in the conference room to meet the new director. Dennis walked in last. As if on cue, every head turned toward him.
A young woman stood by the front, her hair pulled sleekly back. Her tailored suit fit like a second skin—sharp, polished, effortless. Slender legs, stiletto heels, bold red lipstick, and an unreadable, icy stare completed the picture.
“Your name?” Her voice cut through the silence like a snapped wire.
“Dennis Redford,” he said, firm but composed, dipping his head slightly. For a second, it looked like he might bow. He didn’t.
“You’re late, Mr. Redford. And I was just explaining that lateness is unacceptable. I’ll let it slide this time. Sit.” The metallic chill in her tone made several people’s teeth ache.
Dennis took his seat next to his friend and colleague, Tom.
“Bracing for a storm?” he muttered.
“Storm?” Tom whispered back. “She’s a machine. And she’s turning us into robots too.”
One by one, the team introduced themselves, rattling off their roles. From her sharp questions and remarks, it was clear she already knew the company inside out. When it was Dennis’s turn, she abruptly dismissed the room.
“Well, well,” Tom smirked as they left. “Good luck with *that*.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get back to work before we’re sacked,” Dennis replied. The hallway buzzed with nervous chatter about what changes were coming.
For two weeks, everyone arrived on time, drank coffee only at lunch, and smoked quickly, without pleasure. But habits built over years don’t vanish overnight. Soon enough, the old ways crept back—late arrivals, smoke breaks, endless coffee runs—though no one pushed their luck.
At the end of the third week, the secretary approached Dennis’s desk. “Mr. Redford, Miss Whitmore wants to see you in her office.”
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “I like how you work. Efficient, no nonsense. So why are you still just a regular employee? Clashed with my predecessor?”
“No.” Dennis frowned, unsure where this was headed.
“Your department head retires next year. Time to start grooming a replacement.” She studied him. He held her gaze.
“You’d do just as well as she has,” she mused, twisting a pen between slender fingers. “There’s an equipment expo in London this Friday. You’ll go, assess what’s new. I’ll expect a report. Expenses and tickets are with accounts.”
“Friday’s tomorrow,” Dennis said, uneasy.
“I’m aware. You’ll be back Sunday. Any objections?”
He shrugged. Couldn’t exactly tell her he’d promised his son a weekend at the funfair. Ben had been counting down the days. Or that his wife, Lisa, would likely suspect “business trip” was code for something else. Yet…
***
“Dad, you *promised*,” Ben whined, lip trembling.
“You think I *want* to go? But work’s work. We’ll go next weekend. I’ll bring you back… what d’you want, anyway?”
“A TorBot!” Ben brightened instantly.
“Deal.” Dennis ruffled his hair.
“Couldn’t they send someone else? Weird timing, a weekend trip.” Lisa folded shirts into his suitcase, her movements precise.
“More people can attend without disrupting work. The new boss asked why I’m still just a junior. Maybe this leads to a promotion,” he added, pride sneaking in.
“About time. Is she pretty?” Lisa’s voice was too casual.
Dennis didn’t miss the jealousy beneath it.
“Who?” He played dumb.
“Your new boss.” She zipped the suitcase with a sharp tug.
“Pretty, yeah. And cold as ice. Everyone calls her ‘the robot’.” Dennis almost laughed—packing like this *did* look suspicious: toothbrush, shirts, razor. Like he was meeting a mistress.
On the plane, passengers shoved coats and bags into overhead bins. Dennis turned to the window. The lyrics of some old song flitted through his mind—airplanes *did* look like sleeping birds.
He exhaled. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Better than the office, at least. And it’d been ages since he’d traveled alone. *Enjoy the freedom*, he told himself, closing his eyes.
“Mr. Redford.” A familiar steel-edged voice.
He turned. Sitting beside him was Miss Whitmore herself.
*Interesting. Did she not trust me alone, or planned this all along? What’s her game? Accounting must know she’s on this flight. The rumors’ll spread…*
“Relax. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips.
Dennis didn’t laugh. She was dressed less formally—and looked stunning. They exchanged empty pleasantries while others settled.
“People say you got your position through connections,” he ventured.
She ignored it, launching into a story about a near-crash last year that left her nervous to fly. *Changing the subject. Fine.* Soon, she shut her eyes, feigning sleep.
Dennis stared at the clouds. What *was* this? How should he act? Was his promotion *really* riding on this trip?
After check-in (their rooms, unsurprisingly, were adjacent), they headed to the expo. Miss Whitmore was greeted warmly, pausing often to chat. Dennis wandered alone, then returned to the hotel.
Fresh from a shower, he reached for his phone to call Lisa—then a knock came. He canceled the call with a sigh.
Miss Whitmore stood there, holding wine and chocolate. Dressed in cropped trousers and a blouse, no heels, she seemed smaller, almost fragile. The transformation stunned him.
“May I come in?” She avoided looking at his half-open robe.
“Of course.” He grabbed a shirt and ducked into the bathroom.
When he emerged, the wine was poured—deep red, like blood in the dim light. She sat cross-legged on the bed, the chocolate unwrapped beside her. Dennis kept his distance.
“I thought we both needed to unwind. Helps with rapport.” She handed him a glass. “How long have you been with the firm?”
“You didn’t look that up? You knew Margaret’s retiring.”
“You’re prickly.” She sipped. “Yes, I checked. Married, six-year-old son—Ben, right? Army, uni. Me? I always wanted to run a company *my* way.”
“It’s working. People are terrified,” he said.
She ignored that. “Pour me another.” She held out her glass. “So, the expo? Sorry, got caught up with old contacts.”
Dennis listed highlights, the wine warming 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 was level with his eyes…
***
Dennis barely set his suitcase down when Ben barreled into him.
“Dad’s back!” He scooped the boy up.
“Getting heavy, mate.” He set him down, pulling out the promised TorBot.
“YES! Exactly what I wanted!” Ben beamed.
Lisa peered from the kitchen, eyes sharp. Dennis looked away.
After dinner, she unpacked, carrying shirts to the laundry—then returned, holding one up. A red lipstick smear on the collar.
“*What is this?* I *knew* this wasn’t just business.”
He stammered excuses. Lisa wasn’t buying it. The fight exploded. Ben fled to his room.
“Get your promotion, did you?” Lisa shrieked.
“You *always* say I don’t earn enough! Now I will!”
That night, he slept on the couch. The next day, a note waited on the table: Lisa and Ben had gone to her mother’s.
***
“Mr. Redford, are you listening?” Miss Whitmore’s voice yanked him back.
He blinked—how had so much flashed through his mind in seconds?
“What was I saying?” Her glare was razor-sharp.
“Sorry. Got distracted. I can’t go. Promised my son the funfair this weekend. Two weeks he’s waited. Send Tom Walker—he’s just as good. Dying for that promotion.”
“I’ll consider it. You *do* understand the consequences of refusing?” She set herHe exhaled slowly, the weight of his decision settling in—knowing that sometimes, a peaceful home was worth more than any job.
