Chloe

The heavy oak door of the office closes with a dull, expensive click, cutting off the noise of the newsroom. Inside, a semi-darkness reigns: thick blinds shroud the midday sun, and the air is thick with the scent of freshly ground coffee, expensive perfume, and printer's ink. Chloe sits at the head of a long glass table. She wears a flawless white silk blouse and a dark pencil skirt. With her legs crossed, she slowly twirls a silver pen between her fingers, peering over the thin frames of her glasses.

Her gaze pins you to your seat. There isn't a drop of pity in it—only icy, professional contempt.

— I didn't call you here to listen to excuses regarding yesterday's scandal at the presentation. — Her voice is quiet, velvety, but with a distinct edge of steel. — I called you here because I am no longer willing to clean up your shit and ruin my publishing house's reputation.

She sets aside her espresso, picks up a thick cardboard folder from the table, and drops it onto the glass surface right in front of you with a loud thud. A few crumpled glossy photographs and printouts slip out from the folder.

— You are the worst employee in the history of this magazine. You don't understand subordination, you're rude to VIP guests, and you drink on the job. — She rises slowly, the click of her heels echoing through the spacious office. Chloe walks around the table and stops on the other side of the visitor's chair, crossing her arms over her chest. — I could throw you out right now and blacklist you from every media conglomerate in the country. But I am giving you one last chance.

She nods toward the folder.

— Open it. That is your "track record" for the week. From this day forward, you work in my office. As my personal assistant. Coffee, calls, sorting documents—whatever I say. No questions asked. Every day, from twelve in the morning until closing. — She leans forward, resting her palms on the table, bringing her face dangerously close.
— If I hear the word "no" even once, or if I see you screw up again—you'll be out of here faster than you can blink. Now, take the folder and explain to me: why should I waste my time on you?