"The consequence is that I think he's an idiot, that everyone with half a brain cell in this office knows he's an idiot, and that his ideas get systematically dismantled in every meeting he attends because they're objectively terrible." I cross my arms tighter, as if the gesture alone could reinforce the boundaries I'm trying desperately to maintain. "That should be sufficient consequence for being insufferable."
"That is not enough," Thraka says, and there's steel beneath the words now, something immovable and ancient. His hand is still braced against the shelf beside my head, I notice the residual heat radiating from his skin.
"Well, it has to be enough," I snap back, hearing the edge creep into my voice—the one that makes interns scatter and makes vendors reconsider their markup percentages. "That's how it works here. That's how civilized people handle workplace conflicts."
"Why?" The question is simple, direct, stripped of pretense. He genuinely doesn't understand, I realize. He's not being difficult or obtuse—he actually cannot comprehend why public humiliation via professional incompetence is an acceptable substitute for tangible retribution.
Because that's how the world works. Because professionalism matters. Because I've spent my entire career building a reputation as someone who doesn't lose control, who doesn't let emotions dictate decisions, who doesn't shove VPs into supply closets to threaten them with bodily harm.
Because if I let Thraka fight my battles, if I allow him to be the solution to problems I should be handling with Excel spreadsheets and strategically worded emails, what does that make me?
Weak.
Dependent.
Small.
Unprofessional.
Everything I've systematically trained myself not to be over years of calculated career moves and carefully constructed boundaries.
A woman who needs a man—anorc—to handle her conflicts. A manager who can't control her own department without physical intimidation. Someone who lets emotion override protocol, who abandons the carefully maintained veneer of corporate civility the moment things get uncomfortable.
I've built my entire identity on being the person who doesn't need backup, who doesn't crack under pressure, who handles every situation with cold precision and airtight documentation.
But I don't say any of that.
Instead, I say, "Because you'll get fired. And then I'll have to train someone else. And the last guy we hired for Conflict Resolution cried during his first mediation session and quit via text message."
Something shifts in Thraka's expression.
The anger bleeds out, replaced by something that looks almost like amusement.
"You do not want to train someone new," he says slowly, like he's testing the words.
"Obviously. Do you know how much paperwork is involved in the onboarding process alone? There are seventeen separate forms, three mandatory training modules, background checks that take weeks to process, and that's before we even get to the system access requests and equipment allocation. The administrative burden of replacing you would consume at least forty hours of my time, possibly more if HR decides to get involved with their endless compliance documentation."
"So you are protecting me," he says, and there's a note of satisfaction in his voice that makes my spine stiffen.
"I'm protecting my schedule," I correct sharply. "And my productivity metrics. And my sanity, frankly, because the thought of sitting through another round of interviews with candidates who think 'synergy' is a personality trait makes me want to set myself on fire."
"You dragged me into a closet," Thraka continues, like he's working through a puzzle, "to save my job."
"I dragged you into a closet to save Chad's life and the company's legal budget," I shoot back. "Do you have any idea how expensive wrongful death settlements are? The insurance premiums alone would bankrupt this department for the next fiscal quarter. Not to mention the terrible press, the potential criminal charges, the inevitable internal investigation that would waste everyone's time for months?—"
"But mostly my job," he interrupts, and I can hear the smile in his voice now.
"Don't flatter yourself."
His mouth curves into something that might be a smile, and it transforms his entire face. The sharp angles soften. The intensity shifts into something warm, pleased, almost playful.
"You care about me, Little Manager," he says, and there's something gentle underneath the rough edges of his voice that makes my stomach flip.
"I care about efficiency and avoiding wrongful death lawsuits," I counter, lifting my chin even though the gesture feels hollow when I'm this close to him, when I can feel the heat radiating off his body in waves. "And maintaining departmental productivity. And not having to explain to Legal why I let a valued employee commit homicide in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon."
"You are lying," he says simply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"I'm being practical," I insist, but there's a tremor in my voice that undermines my authority completely. "I'm thinking about risk mitigation and cost-benefit analysis and maintaining operational continuity, which is what any competent manager would do in this situation."
