My mother, with her literature degree and rebellious heart, had named me after two of her favorites—George Eliot (a woman who adopted a man’s pen name to be taken seriously) and T.S.Eliot. The irony that her feminist statement results in constant email confusion isn’t lost on me.
Just last week:
From: Thompson, David
To: Park, Eliot
Subject: Meeting request - Alpha team only
Mr. Park,
We’d like to invite you to the Alpha strategy session this Thursday. Your input on the Davidson account would be valuable.
Regards,
David
My response had been polite but pointed:
From: Park, Eliot
To: Thompson, David
Subject: RE: Meeting request - Alpha team only
David,
Happy to join the strategy session. One small correction—I’m Ms. Park.
Looking forward to discussing the Davidson account.
Regards,
Elle
The embarrassed apology email came three minutes later, and I filed it away with the others. At this point, I could wallpaper my apartment with them.
I apply a final coat of tinted lip balm, grab my laptop bag, and head out. My apartment is small but strategically located—a fifteen-minute walk to NovaDyne’s headquarters. The morning air is crisp, carrying hints of coffee from the café on the corner. I stop for my usual—medium Americano, extra shot—and brace myself for another day in the trenches.
NovaDyne’s building gleams in the morning sun, all glass and sharp angles. I push through the revolving door, coffee in hand, nodding to the security guard who’s long stopped asking for my ID. The elevator is mercifully empty, allowing me thirty seconds of peace before the day truly begins.
The marketing department hums with early morning energy when I arrive. Nick from graphic design lounges against the reception desk, flirting with the new intern whose name I haven’t caught yet. He straightens when he sees me, flashing that cocky smile that probably worked wonders in college.
“Morning, Elle,” he calls. “Ready for the Johnson pitch?”
“Tables are aligning as we speak,” I reply, not breaking stride. Behind me, I hear him murmur something to the intern that makes her giggle. Probably about how uptight the Omega assistant is.
I don’t particularly care.
My desk sits directly outside Adrian’s office—a strategic position that makes it impossible for anyone to reach him without going through me first. I’ve turned gatekeeping into an art form over the past year. His schedule is immaculate, his meetings perfectlytimed, his coffee (black, no sugar) always waiting on his desk exactly seven minutes before he arrives.
I drop my bag, boot up my computer, and immediately open the Johnson proposal.
The tables are indeed misaligned by approximately half a centimeter—something only Adrian’s cyborg vision would notice. I fix them quickly, along with a typo on page seventeen that he didn’t mention but would definitely have spotted during the presentation.
The glass door behind me opens precisely at 7:30. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.
The atmosphere in the office shifts—molecules rearranging themselves in deference to the Alpha who just entered.
