She doesn’t sit. “If I take this promotion, everyone will think it’s because of… us.”
“There is no ‘us’ as far as anyone here knows. You’re Kirsten Berry, a talented analyst who caught the new CEO’s attention through excellent work. Nothing more.”
“And the desk in your office?”
“A practical arrangement. I need someone close at hand to answer questions. You’re the logical choice.”
She eyes me for a long moment, trying to find the trap. I let her look. I have nothing to hide. Not about this, anyway.
“I want it in writing,” she finally states. “The promotion, the salary increase, all of it. Official documentation that proves I earned this based on merit.”
“Done.”
“And I reserve the right to transfer to a different department once the transition is complete.”
“We can discuss that when the time comes.”
“I want that in writing, too.”
I almost smile. “Fine. Anything else?”
“I want a new chair. Not one of those cheap ones from the supply closet.”
“I’ll have facilities order something appropriate.”
“And a plant. I want a plant for my desk.”
Now I do smile, just barely. “A plant.”
“It helps me think.” She lifts her chin. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I’ll have one delivered.” I lean forward on my desk. “Do we have a deal?”
She holds my gaze. Then she sighs, and something in her shoulders loosens. “I suppose we do.”
“Excellent. Your desk will be ready by tomorrow morning. Take the rest of today to wrap up any outstanding work.”
She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “For the record, I’mnotdoing this because of our… arrangement. I’m doing it because it’s a good opportunity and I’d be stupid to turn it down.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
She nods once and walks out. I watch her go—the stiff shoulders, the determined stride. She’s angry, resentful, and suspicious of everything I do and say.
And yet she took the promotion anyway. Smart enough to recognize opportunity, even when it comes from someone she despises.
The next morning, her desk is waiting. Positioned near the windows, angled so she can see both the door and my desk. A small potted fern sits in one corner. The chair is ergonomic, high-backed—definitely not from the supply closet.
Kirsten arrives at 8:15 and stops in the doorway. She takes in the arrangement. The desk, the fern, and the view of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“It’s… actually not terrible,” she admits.
“High praise.”
She drops her bag beside the desk and settles into her chair, running her hands along the armrests. “This is nicer than anything I’ve ever owned.”
“You asked for a good chair. I provided one.”
“I honestly expected you to ignore that request.”
