Climbing the Corporate Ladder

**”The Promotion”**

It’s no secret that promotions happen in all sorts of ways. Some earn it through hard graft, others by stepping on toes, and a few—well, let’s just say they take a “business trip” with the boss.

So when word got out that the company had hired an outsider to replace old Peter Edwards, who’d finally retired, jaws dropped. Everyone had assumed his deputy, James Whitmore—who’d been acting as temporary director for two weeks—would get the job. Instead, rumours swirled: the new boss was a woman, young, glamorous—a proper ice queen, some said. Others whispered she’d got the job thanks to “connections,” though no one dared name names. Best not to poke the hornet’s nest.

At 10 AM sharp, the staff gathered in the conference room to meet the new director. Dennis was the last one in. As if on cue, every head turned his way.

Standing at the front was a woman with slicked-back hair, clad in a suit that fit like it had been stitched onto her. Slender legs, killer heels, bold lipstick, and a stare colder than a British winter completed the look.

“Your name?” Her voice cut through the silence like a snapped violin string.

“Dennis Radcliffe,” he replied, keeping his tone steady but cheeky enough to raise an eyebrow. He gave a slight nod—almost a bow, but not quite.

“You’re late, Mr. Radcliffe—just as I was explaining punctuality is non-negotiable here.” She paused, letting the steel in her voice set teeth on edge. “First and last warning. Sit down.”

Dennis slid into a seat beside his mate, Greg.

“She’s terrifying,” Greg muttered.

“Terrifying? She’s a flipping cyborg. And she wants to turn us all into drones.”

One by one, staff introduced themselves, summarising their roles. From her sharp questions, it was clear she’d done her homework. When Dennis’s turn came, she abruptly dismissed the room—leaving him in suspense.

“Well, well,” Greg smirked. “Good luck with that.”

“Cheers. Suppose I should actually work now—before she sacks me.”

For two weeks, the office was eerily disciplined: punctual arrivals, coffee strictly at lunch, rushed smoke breaks. But old habits die hard—soon, the usual chaos crept back in. Still, no one pushed their luck.

At the end of week three, Dennis was summoned to “Madame Director’s” office.

“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite. “I like your work—efficient, no nonsense. Why are you still a junior? Clashed with my predecessor?”

“No,” he said warily.

“Your department head retires in a year. Time to groom a successor.” She studied him. “You’d manage just fine. There’s an exhibition in London this Friday—cutting-edge equipment. You’ll attend, assess, report. Tickets and expenses are sorted.”

“But—Friday’s tomorrow,” he protested.

“I’m aware. You’ll be back Sunday. Objections?”

Dennis bit back a groan. He couldn’t exactly say he’d promised his son, Tommy, a trip to the funfair. Or that his wife, Sarah, would side-eye a “weekend exhibition” like it was code for something… dodgy.

***

“But Dad, you promised!” Tommy whined.

“Work’s work, love. We’ll go next weekend. I’ll bring you back… what d’you want?”

“A Transformers set!” Tommy perked up.

“Done.”

Later, Sarah folded shirts into his suitcase. “Why you? Odd timing, a weekend trip.”

“New director’s intrigued why I’m still junior. Maybe a promotion’s coming.”

“About time. Is she pretty?” Sarah asked casually—too casually.

“Who?” He played dumb.

“Your new boss.” The suitcase zipper yanked shut.

“Stunning. And about as warm as a freezer. Office joke is she’s a robot.” Privately, he cringed—toothbrush, shirts, razor. Looked a bit like he *was* off for a rendezvous.

On the plane, Dennis stared out the window. Planes *did* look like dozing birds, he mused. Might as well enjoy the break from the office grind…

“Hello, Mr. Radcliffe.”

His stomach dropped. There she was—in the seat *right* next to him.

*Did she plan this? Or just lose nerve sending me alone? Either way, the gossip mill’s gonna love it.*

“Relax. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Her lips twitched—almost a smile.

Unamused, Dennis noted her casual outfit. Stunning, naturally. As passengers settled, they exchanged polite nothings.

“Office rumour is you got the job through… *connections*,” he ventured.

She ignored him, launching into a story about a near-crash she’d survived. “Hate flying now,” she admitted. *Deflection. Fine.* Soon, she feigned sleep.

After checking into the hotel (*of course* their rooms were adjacent), they hit the exhibition. She schmoozed; he browsed alone.

Back in his room, post-shower, he dialled Sarah—until a knock interrupted.

Director Fletcher stood there, holding wine and chocolate, dressed in casual perfection. Without heels, she seemed almost… human.

“May I? Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Her eyes flicked away from his half-open robe.

“Er—course. One sec.” He scrambled for clothes.

When he emerged, she’d poured wine into hotel tumblers. The red glowed like blood in the dim light. She sat cross-legged on the bed, the chocolate half gone. Dennis kept his distance.

“Thought we could both unwind. You’ve been with the company long?”

“You’d know—you researched me.”

“Touchy. Yes, I know you’re married, have a six-year-old, Tommy, was it? Army, degree… I, however, always wanted to run things *my* way.”

“It’s working. People are terrified.”

She ignored that. “Top me up.” She handed him her glass. “So—thoughts on the exhibition?”

Wine loosened his tongue. He barely noticed her watching him—until she stood, placed her glass down, and stepped close, hands on his shoulders. Her cleavage was *right there*…

***

Home at last, Dennis barely set his bag down before Tommy barrelled into him. “Dad’s back!”

“Blimey, you’re getting heavy.” He handed over the promised Transformers set.

“YES! Exactly what I wanted!”

Sarah appeared, eyeing him. Dennis looked away.

Later, unpacking, she froze—holding up a shirt with a lipstick-stained collar.

“Den. What’s *this*? Knew it wasn’t just some work trip!”

He stumbled through excuses, but she wasn’t having it.

“Got your *promotion*, then?” she shrieked.

“You *moan* about my salary! Now there’ll be more!”

That night, he slept on the sofa. Next evening, a note waited: *Gone to Mum’s with Tommy.*

***

“Mr. Radcliffe. Are you *listening*?”

Dennis snapped back to reality. Blimey—whole film reel of memories in seconds.

“Sorry. I… can’t go. Promised Tommy the funfair. He’s waited ages. Send Greg—he’s just as good. Probably *wants* your job more, honestly.”

“Fine. But you grasp what refusing means?” She dropped her pen like a gavel. “Go.”

Walking out, his spine tingled under her glare. He shut the door—calmly, though every fibre screamed *run*.

“Well?” Greg pounced as Dennis returned. “She’s got a thing for you, mate.”

“Don’t be daft. Wanted me in London—some exhibition.”

“Bloody hell!”

“I said no. Suggested you. She’s *thinking*.”

“Cheers, mate. Owes you one.”

That weekend, they hit the funfair—ice creams, laughter, no drama.

Monday, Greg was grinning. “She’s *fire*. Your loss, turning her down.”

Six months later, Greg got the promotion. They drifted apart—but Dennis didn’t mind. Peace at home, Tommy’s smile… worth more than any title.

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Climbing the Corporate Ladder