“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. “First thing tomorrow, we’re going to the vet. McLaren can cope without me for an hour; I’m not letting you suffer for his profit margins.”
Winnie pins me with an unimpressed stare from those piercing golden eyes, clearly underwhelmed by my brave stand against corporate tyranny on her behalf.
“Cheers for asking about my day, too,” I grumble, slipping over to the window to light my daily cigarette—my sad, shameful little vice. Yes, I know smoking kills. But so does working for McLaren.
I light up, taking a long, satisfying drag, only to be met with Winnie’s judgy stare. I sigh, stubbing out the cigarette after a few measly puffs. “You happy now?” I ask, flicking the butt into the ashtray with a defeated flourish. In a vain attempt to mask the lingering scent of my shameful indulgence, I strike a match and light one of my overpriced artisanal candles.
While it flickers, I fish out my Jawzercise Pro and chomp down on it. Some Instagram smart-ass swore this device would give me a jaw that could cut glass, just like Henry Cavill’s. I’m meant to use it for ten minutes a day to “activate the muscles.” So far, all it’s done is make my face ache. At least it should make me better at blowjobs, if the opportunity ever arises again.
Exhausted, I collapse onto my sofa, and Winnie hops up beside me, curling into a fat ball of fluff against my thigh.
“All right for some,” I grumble around the jaw exerciser. “Just lounging around all day, licking your own butthole without a care in the world. Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a cat.”
She shoots me a look that’s the feline equivalent ofGo to hell.
“Don’t give me that attitude,” I retort, tossing the jaw exerciser aside. “You’re living the cushy life of a kept woman, and youdamn well know it. No job, no stress, just naps and the occasional disemboweled rodent as a treat. You don’t even need a dating app to find love, you can just stroll outside and pick any stray tom in the neighborhood. Not that I’d ever let you sully yourself like that, of course.”
Exhaling deeply, I close my eyes for a moment on the couch, letting its warmth lull me into a near-comatose state, even though I’ve got work to finish.
I’m insanely envious of these mythical creatures who can switch off work-mode at five o’clock and leave their job at the office. Don’t get me wrong, I do love my job . . . most of the time. I’m used to running on fumes, working under the constant pressure. I get a kick out of being busy and needed. There’s nothing like the rush of people coming to me with their problems.
But lately, there’s a scale, and it’s tipped—I’m drowning under everything being dumped on my plate. McLaren has put more pressure on us than ever before. It’s a lot, even for him, and that’s saying something.
And as much as I enjoy the actual work, I could do without the asshole boss constantly breathing down my neck. I’m sick of jumping to attention every time he barks an order.
One day I’ll be self-employed. Set up my own HR consultancy company and then work for a whole range of different clients onmyterms. I’ll be my own boss, and I’ll never have to deal with another McLaren again.
It’s not even so much about the money for me, although it’s ridiculous to say that doesn’t matter. I’ve got bills to pay and a pantsuit addiction to support. But it’s about more than just the money. It’s about thefreedom.The freedom to work on my own terms, to set my own hours.
One day.
I fire up my laptop, the screen flickering to life. My eyes feel like they’ve been sandpapered, but I have to finish this project. I dive into the document. Okay, Gemma. You’ve got this.
What should’ve taken thirty minutes tops drags on for two excruciating hours because my brain is a useless pile of mush.
And I still haven’t done the homework my therapist keeps nagging about. Dr. Singh—courtesy of our oh-so-generous employee “we care about your mental health” program—insists on journaling as a form of emotional exorcism. He’s tasked me with writing down all the things that piss me off during the day, just to get it out of my head. Then, I’m supposed to scribble out what would supposedly make me feel better.
So for the past week, I’ve been diligently scribbling away each night before bed, spilling my guts onto the page. A letter to myself. Except instead of an actual diary, I need to be efficient and have alotto say so mine is digital.
The idea is that putting it all down helps me process the day’s stresses in a healthier way. And I have to admit, there’s something cathartic about it. It’s like a secret rebellion, a chance to let all the snarky, NSFW thoughts that are constantly bouncing around in my head run wild and free. And surprise, surprise, most of those thoughts revolve around a certain tall, dark, and ruthless CEO.
“Don’t give me that look, Winnie,” I grumble as I pull up my “diary” saved in my private folder. “We’ve all got our questionable coping strategies. Yours just happens to involve rubbing yourself on the carpet while exposing your kitty cooch to everyone in the room.”
Dear Diary, I type, cringing at how lame I sound.
Most people don’t have to purge all the reasons their boss pisses them off. And they certainly don’t rack up new reasons to do so every fucking day. There’s something seriously wrong with this picture.
You know what would make me feel better?
Wrapping McLaren’s stupid tie around his thick, muscular neck and squeezing until that infuriatingly smug mouth of his is begging me for mercy.
Where do I even begin?
Let’s talk about his batshit demands. The man expects miracles to be pulled out of thin air on the daily. And heaven help you if you fall even a centimeter short of his impossible expectations.
My team and I have been busting our asses for months on this new recruitment campaign, all while desperately trying to babysit the pack of rabid hyenas McLaren calls employees.
I pop the jaw exerciser back into my mouth. Now, it’s less a tool for achieving a chiseled jawline and more a glorified adult pacifier.
