Page 2 of The Office Games
“Okay.” I nod as if she can see me.
“Why don’t we talk about something else?”
I don’t have anything else.“Um…”
“Are you looking forward to spending time with your family for the holidays?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I’ve had my bags packed for months. Staying at The Grace Estate with them is always the best part of my year.”
“Do you ever consider asking them to show you old pictures from the years you can’t remember?”
“I…” Her question hits me like a ton of bricks; it’s the real reason I have a therapist, to see if one of these days I can unlock memories since “the accident” that I never address, but it’s been years with zero progress.
“That’s okay,” she says. “Is anything good happening for you at work?”
“I’m being considered for a huge promotion.”
“Oh wow, that’s amazing.”
“AgainstJames Calloway,” I say. “I swear, if he gets this over me, I might plot his murder. You can’t testify against me in court, right?”
“Okay, that’s it.”
“Just hear me out,” I say, launching into a spiel I’ve given her countless times before.
I know it’s not his fault that I wasted years in failed companies or got sucked into pyramid schemes, but after finding my true calling in marketing, it’s not fair that he’s standing in my way.
He can sell someone a cure for a disease they don't have. Can sell a stranger anything with a single line from his perfectly molded mouth or from the way his sapphire eyes make you believe in every word he says.
And he knows it.
“But that doesn’t make him better than me, you know?” I say. “He has to know that.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I ask. “Dr. Foster, are you still there?”
Before I can check to see if she hung up on me, the light turns green.
Forgetting about therapy, I keep my focus on the road and mentally flip through the files I've worked on all year.
When I finally reach company headquarters, I pull into my special “Creative Director” spot and rush to the top level.
“Good morning, Miss Stone!” My assistant, Eliza, hands me a bottle ofwater.
“Did you slash Mr. Calloway’s tires like I requested?”
“The only one I missed was the left rear.”
“What about his coffee?”
“I made sure the barista used cayenne pepper, and I told her not to add his usual cinnamon for today.”
“Great job!” I follow her into my office and hit the lights.
The moment I drop my purse, the chair behind my desk spins around, and Satan smiles at me.
“Good morning,Miss Stone,” James Calloway says, his voice deep. “How are you on this lovely Monday morning?”