**Diary Entry: The Promotion**
It’s no secret that promotions come in different ways—some earn them through hard work, others scheme their way up, and a few take a business trip with the right person.
The news that Margaret Whitmore, our retiring director, was being replaced by an outsider sent shockwaves through the office. Hopes that Edward Carter, acting director for the past two weeks, would take her place were dashed. Whispers swirled—she was young, strikingly beautiful, a real ice queen, rumoured to be the mistress of some high-ranking executive (whose name no one dared utter). As they say, let sleeping dogs lie.
At ten sharp, the staff gathered in the conference room to meet the new director. Daniel entered last. As if on cue, every head turned toward him.
Standing at the front was a woman with sleek, pulled-back hair. Her tailored suit fit like a second skin—sharp heels, bold lipstick, and an unreadable stare completing the image.
“Your name?” Her voice cut through the silence like a snapped wire.
“Daniel Radcliffe,” he answered smoothly, tipping his head slightly. It almost looked like he might bow. Almost.
“You’re late, Mr. Radcliffe. I was just saying punctuality is non-negotiable. First strike forgiven. Sit.” The steel in her tone made more than a few teeth ache.
Daniel dropped into the seat beside his mate, Ethan.
“She’s terrifying, yeah?” he muttered.
“Terrifying?” Ethan scoffed under his breath. “Machine’s more like it. Wants to turn us all into robots.”
One by one, employees introduced themselves, summarised their roles. From her sharp comments, it was clear she already knew the company inside out. When Daniel’s turn came, she dismissed everyone abruptly.
“Well, well,” Ethan smirked. “Rather you than me.”
Daniel shrugged. “Let’s get on with it before she sacks the lot of us.”
For two weeks, no one dared breathe out of line—coffee breaks strictly at lunch, smoking rushed and joyless. But old habits die hard, and soon, the usual slippage returned. No one pushed their luck, though.
Then, at the end of the third week, the secretary appeared at Daniel’s desk. “Ms. Whitmore wants to see you.”
“Take a seat,” she gestured. “I’ve noticed your work—precise, efficient. Why are you still a junior? Clash with the old boss?”
“No.” Daniel frowned. “Just… stayed under the radar.”
“Your department head retires next year. Time to groom a successor.” She studied him. He held her gaze.
“You’d handle it as well as she did.” She twirled a pen between her fingers. “There’s an expo in London this Friday—cutting-edge equipment. You’ll go, assess, report back. Expenses and tickets are at accounts.”
“Friday’s tomorrow,” Daniel said, dismayed.
“I’m aware. Back Sunday. Any objections?”
He hesitated. Couldn’t exactly say he’d promised his son, Alfie, a weekend at the funfair. The boy had been counting down the days. Or that his wife, Emily, would side-eye any claim this was strictly business. Still…
***
“Dad, you *promised*,” Alfie whined.
“I know, mate. But work’s work. Next weekend, yeah? I’ll bring you back… what d’you want?”
“A Transformer!” Alfie brightened instantly.
“Done.” Daniel ruffled his hair.
“Nobody else could go? Bit odd, a weekend trip,” Emily said flatly, folding shirts into his suitcase.
“Big expo—spreads it out so more can attend without disrupting work. Whitmore asked why I’m still junior. Might be a promotion after this.”
“About time. Is she attractive?” Emily’s tone was deceptively casual.
Daniel didn’t miss the jealousy beneath it.
“Who?” He feigned ignorance.
“Your new boss.” She snapped the suitcase shut.
“Polished. Ice-cold. Some say she’s part robot.” Privately, he wondered if this whole trip looked dodgy—toothbrush, shirts, razor. Like he was sneaking off for an affair.
On the plane, passengers stowed bags overhead. Daniel turned to the window. There was something poetic about planes—sleeping birds, waiting to soar.
He exhaled. Not bad, flying to London instead of grinding at his desk. First solo trip in ages. *Enjoy the freedom*, he told himself, closing his eyes.
“Mr. Radcliffe.” A familiar, steel-edged voice.
He turned. Ms. Whitmore herself sat beside him.
*Interesting. Afraid to send me alone, or planned this all along? Accounting must know she’s on this flight. The gossip’ll be vicious.*
“Relax. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Her lips twitched—almost a smile.
Daniel didn’t laugh. Dressed down, she looked stunning. They exchanged pleasantries as others settled in.
“Rumour is, you got the job through… connections,” he ventured.
She ignored it, launching into a story about a near-crash last year. Said she’d been nervous flying ever since. *Changing the subject. Fine.* Soon, she pretended to sleep.
Daniel watched clouds drift past. How would this end? What did she want? Was his promotion really tied to this trip?
After check-in (*of course their rooms were adjacent*), they headed straight to the expo. Ms. Whitmore knew half the attendees, pausing constantly to chat. Daniel explored solo, then returned to the hotel.
Fresh from the shower, he reached for his phone—then a knock. He cancelled the call and opened the door.
There she stood: jeans, a soft blouse, no heels—suddenly small, almost fragile. A bottle of wine and a bar of chocolate in hand.
“Am I interrupting?” Her eyes avoided the gap in his robe.
“No, come in.” He grabbed clothes and ducked into the bathroom.
When he emerged, she’d poured wine into hotel glasses. The red gleamed like blood in the dim light. She sat cross-legged on the bed, the chocolate open beside her. Daniel kept his distance.
“Thought we could unwind. Helps with… rapport.” She handed him a glass. “How long have you been with the firm?”
“Didn’t you check? Since you know about my department head retiring.”
“Prickly.” She sipped. “Yes, I checked. Married, six-year-old Alfie. Army. Degree. I, however, always wanted to run a company—my way.”
“It’s working. People are terrified.”
She ignored that. “More?” She extended her glass. “The expo—what stood out?”
The wine warmed his head. He rambled; she listened intently. Then, abruptly, she set her glass down, stood, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her blouse dipped close…
***
Daniel barely set his suitcase down before Alfie barrelled into him.
“Dad’s home!”
He swung him up. “Blimey, you’re getting heavy.” He pulled out the promised Transformer.
“Yes! Exactly what I wanted!”
Emily watched from the kitchen, eyes narrowed. Daniel looked away.
Later, unpacking, she reappeared, holding a shirt—lipstick smudged on the collar.
“Daniel. *What is this?*”
He fumbled excuses. She wasn’t buying it. The row exploded. Alfie hid in his room.
“Got your promotion, then?” Emily yelled.
“You *complained* about my salary! Now there’ll be more!”
He slept on the sofa. Next evening, a note waited: *Gone to Mum’s with Alfie.*
***
“Mr. Radcliffe?” Ms. Whitmore’s voice snapped him back.
He blinked. A whole melodrama in seconds.
“You weren’t listening.” Her glare pinned him.
“Sorry. I… can’t go. Promised Alfie the funfair this weekend. He’s been waiting. Send Ethan Walker—he’s just as capable. Desperate for the role, actually.”
She set her pen down with a click. “You grasp what refusing means?”
A chill crept down his spine. He turned, forcing himself to walk out calmly.
Ethan pounced the second Daniel returned to their office.
“Took ages. She’s keen on you, mate.”
“Don’t be daft. Wanted me at some London expo.”
“Bloody hell!” Ethan grinned. “Lucky sod.”
“I said no. Suggested you. She’s ‘considering.’”
“Cheers, mate. Owe you one.”
That weekend, they hit the funfair—ice creams, laughter, no accusations.
“Well?” Daniel asked Monday.
“Absolute *smokeshow*,” Ethan sighed. “Your loss.”
Six months later, Ethan landed the promotion. They drifted apart, but Daniel didn’t mind. Peace at home and Alfie’s smile were worth more than any title.
