If the past few years were anything to go by, Angie wouldnotmake Bonnie’s recital. There wasn’t even a slim chance. The factory and office staff always worked until the last shipment had gone out on the eve of every solstice, and that was at ten in the evening—at theearliest.
She turned back to her holo link, letting it scan her retinas before the blue and white screen popped up in front of her.
“I’ll get you a brew from the break room,” I said.
It was the least I could do, but I doubted a simple cup of stimulants would console Angie when she missed her daughter’s recital tonight.
That was the sacrifice one had to make when working for an age-old institution run by a tyrant. It might have been different if Ms. Burnzilla hadn’t brought results, but under herleadership, the company had grown from a struggling family-owned operation on the edge of shutting down to a thriving powerhouse that supplied government-approved potions all across the country.
I’d seen the reports myself. Twenty years ago, we produced five thousand units per year if we were lucky. Now, with Burns’ investment in new technology and holo software, we were up to five thousand aday.
The Distillery had becomethefactory to work for—the gold standard and the envy of countless other businesses in the area. My colleagues walked out each day exhausted and burnt out, but they couldn’t deny that they’d been a part of something powerful.
In return for this success, Burns demandedeverything.Time, energy, sanity—she consumed everything from her employees without batting an eye. Case in point: Burns had launched a county-wide Winter Solstice campaign with a guarantee that we will fulfil all orders before midnight.
Needless to say, it had become a shitshow around here with people scrambling to do twice their job for no difference in pay.
I disagreed with Burnzilla’s employee management skills. Truly, they were piss poor. If she wasn’t barking at one of us, she was stalking the factory floor, frowning as she watched her employees struggle to meet their daily quotas. I was always forced to trail behind her, notepad between my fingers as I offered conciliatory smiles to people who were scorched by her unsatisfied glares.
Despite Burnzilla’s terrifying attitude, Istillwanted to learn from her. It had never been my dream to be someone’sassistant, but I couldn’t deny that watching how she handled shareholders and clients gave me a little thrill. I studied her body language, her words, her negotiation tactics because, one day, I yearned to do the same… Well, the same, butnicer.
Working for a prized institution would definitely be beneficial to my resume.
A hush descended over the factory as I neatened up Burns’ office, arranging her hand-written notes in the order she would need them today. She had several meetings lined up with retail chains that bulk-ordered our potions, and another with a contractor that was trying to squeeze us on the prices of dragon’s breath serum.
I glanced up to find her at the edge of the stairs, her icy blonde hair pushed back into a neat swoop. In the years that I’d worked for her, little had changed about her appearance. She always wore one of many suits she owned—wool in the winter, cotton in the summer. The labels weren’t fancy, but they were well-made by local tailors.
As she approached her office, the heels of her Oxfords were sharp on the tile beneath. I watched as the bullpen released a collective sigh of relief and turned back to their work as per normal.
“Good morning, Ms. Burns.”
All I received in return was a curt nod—typical. Sometimes I wondered if I even registered to her as a human being deserving of common courtesy.
“You have a meeting with Witherspoon’s head of retail in fifteen minutes,” I continued, knowing what was expected ofme. “The notes on the previous meeting are here in case you need a refresher.”
She draped her forest green jacket over the back of her chair and settled into it, rifling through the notes that were probably still warm from the printer.
“Numbers.”
My lips thinned at the command.
She often spoke to me this way with one-word directives like I was nothing more than a well-trained pet. In many ways, I probably was. I spoke only when spoken to. I fetched and carried whatever she wanted. And I stayed by her side until she decided to call it a day. Overall, I considered myself a rather dutiful pet.
I read off the overnight production numbers I’d scribbled onto my notepad, bracing myself for what was to come.
“That’s ten percent short.”
It was. I’d been dreading giving her the news, knowing the consequences.
Something stirred in the air, acrid and sour. My nose wrinkled and I wished to step away, but the truth was that I didn’t want to invite her ire with any semblance of movement.
Instead, I stood very still, trying to fight the Alpha pheromones that sparked with anger and annoyance.
I didn’t dare breathe too loudly as I watched her process the news. Her features were already carved in severe lines—cheekbones cut like stone and a mouth that forever seemed caught in a snarl. Her slate green eyes focused on something in the distance. I never wanted her attention on mewhen her gaze was hard like this. She had a tendency to dissect someone without words, strip them down to their weakest points.
Her anger was never wild—she never shouted or behaved violently, but it was worse this way. Her composed silence cut so much deeper.
She began rolling up her sleeves, the muscles in her forearms like cables pulled too tight. Her fists weren’t clenched, notyet, but they would be soon.
