The boss. The one I read about in her employee file last night, the mediocre parasite who has been systematically stealing her ideas and threatening her job security while she works herself into exhaustion trying to meet impossible standards.
The one I fully intend to financially destroy the second this retreat ends and I have access to my legal team, along with every petty advantage my considerable resources can provide. I've already made notes.
"Answer it," I tell her. It's a command, plain and simple, delivered in the measured tone I use when I expect absolute compliance. The temperature in the room seems to drop perceptibly.
She stares at me, clearly torn between her ingrained professionalism and the very reasonable desire to throw her phone into the nearest body of water. I can see the conflict playing out across her face—the corporate conditioning warring with genuine exasperation.
"Thrall, I'm not going to take a personal call during your presentation," she protests, her voice taking on that clipped, defensive edge that means she's bracing for impact. "That's completely unprofessional. Your team deserves?—"
"Answer it," I repeat, leaning forward slightly, and this time there's enough of a deliberate edge in my tone that the other Orcs shift uncomfortably in their seats, suddenly very interested in their notepads. They know that particular rumble in my voice. They know what it means when I've made a decision. "Speaker. Now."
She opens her mouth, probably to argue, then seems to think better of it. Her finger hovers over the screen for a moment before she taps it, and a nasally, deeply unpleasant voice fills the room.
"Romee, finally. Do you have any idea how many times I've called you today? This is completely unacceptable. I've been trying to reach you for the better part of an hour, and you haven't answered once."
Her shoulders tighten visibly, the muscles in her neck going rigid as she processes the accusation in his tone. It'sa masterclass in corporate guilt-tripping, and I find myself cataloging every manipulation tactic with cold appreciation. She slips seamlessly back into that over-polite, professionally detached tone that she reserves for people she's forced to tolerate, the vocal equivalent of hiding behind reinforced glass. It makes something primal in me want to break something, preferably whatever is causing her to withdraw like this.
"Richard, I'm facilitating the executive retreat right now," she says, her words measured and carefully constructed, each one placed with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. "I told you during our last conversation that I would send you comprehensive updates at the end of each day, once the team-building activities have concluded. That way, I can provide you with thorough information rather than fragmented updates throughout the sessions."
Her jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle working beneath her skin, and her fingers have gone white-knuckled around her tablet.
"I don't pay you to send updates when it's convenient for you," Richard interrupts, his voice rising. "I pay you to be available when I need you. Now, I've been reviewing your proposal for the investor gala, and frankly, it's subpar. I'm going to need you to scrap it and start over using the framework I sent you last week."
The framework he sent. The one that is, word for word, Romee's original concept, the very ideas she'd brainstormed through three late nights and two rounds of revisions, that he's now claiming as his own intellectual property like it materialized from his own mediocre mind.
Romee closes her eyes briefly, as she takes a slow breath, the kind of deliberate, measured inhale that someone uses when they're trying very hard not to say something they'll regret. Her shoulders rise and fall with the effort of visibly steadying herself,of wrestling her frustration back into submission and locking it behind her professional facade.
"Richard, that framework is my proposal," she says, her voice carefully controlled but carrying an edge of steel underneath the politeness. "You asked me to send you my ideas for review, and I did exactly that. What you're describing as your framework is the concept I created and submitted to you for feedback, and I?—"
"Are you arguing with me?" Richard's tone shifts into something uglier, something that makes every Orc in the room go very, very still. "Because if you can't handle constructive feedback, Romee, maybe you're not the right fit for this position. There are plenty of competent planners who would be grateful for this opportunity."
The threat is implicit and cruel and exactly the kind of manipulation I've watched destroy talented employees at other companies. Romee's face drains of color, but her voice stays steady.
"I understand. I'll revise the proposal tonight and send it by?—"
"You'll send it in two hours," Richard snaps. "And if it's not perfect, we're going to have a serious conversation about your future with this company when you get back."
The line goes dead.
The silence in the room is absolute and dangerous.
Romee sits frozen, staring at her phone, as her fingers tremble slightly before she forces them still, her professional armor slamming back into place as she looks up and meets my eyes.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly, her voice stripped of its usual commanding edge, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable. "That was inappropriate of me. I shouldn't have, I'll step out and handle this professionally, away from everyone. Just give me a moment to?—"
"No," I say, breaking the silence like a stone into still water.
She blinks at me, her dark eyes widening slightly with confusion. Her fingers flex against her tablet, that nervous tell she thinks nobody notices. I notice everything about her.
"No," I repeat, setting down the presentation remote with deliberate care. "You're not sending him anything. You're not revising anything. And in approximately six hours, you're going to formally resign and accept my offer for Director of Corporate Operations at Horde Tech, which comes with a salary triple what that parasite pays you, full benefits, and a legally binding contract that prevents me from stealing your ideas or threatening your employment."
Her mouth falls open in genuine shock, her carefully maintained composure cracking visibly for the first time all week. Several of my executives seated around the conference table exchange stunned glances, their massive forms shifting uncomfortably as they process what I've just said. One of them actually sets down his drink, recognizing that something significant is happening.
"Thrall, I can't just—" Romee starts, her voice taking on that frantic edge it gets when she's trying to regain control of a spiraling situation. Her fingers flutter against her tablet, searching for purchase, for the familiar structure of her itineraries and schedules.
"You can," I say while leaning back slightly in my chair. "You will. And before you start citing contractual obligations or professional ethics or whatever other corporate nonsense your mind is already cataloging, understand this clearly: this is not a negotiation, Romee. This is me telling you what's going to happen. The only choice you have left is whether you walk out of here with your dignity intact or whether I have to come over there and carry you out myself."
Before she can respond, before I can cross the room and make my point more physically, the main doors to the lodge slam open and rattle the windows.
