He leans into his executive chair, the view of Battery Park glittering twenty-six floors below. His hands steeple and a bushy brow shifts to the wrinkles lining his forehead. “Interruption is unbecoming, Bianca,” he scolds, with no accountability for hijacking the meeting that took nine emails to get on his calendar.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. “My…apologies.” The muscles in my face strain under the weight of the smile I hold to defuse situations. It’s complete bullshit, consideringI’mthe harmed party, but it’s a survival tactic I know well.
“I called this meeting to revisit discussions about my promotion.”
“A promotion?” His thin lips press into a firm line.
This motherfu—
“Correct,” I say.
For him to scowl like I didn’t single-handedly change the company environment from toxic to asshole adjacent isdisrespect of the highest audacity. Parker Hamilton might’ve inherited this business from his crusty daddy, but I shaped it into what it is. Retention rates are the best in history because of me. Those new hires he didn’t trust, who are surpassing veteran associates in assets under management? Me again.
I’ve played the game—grinned when I wanted to scream and gritted my way through every assumption about my abilities while performing miracles and dodging questions about my hairstyles.
Overworked.
Under-resourced.
Chronic compassion fatigue.
And yet, still I rise.
Navigating Corporate America is already a tightrope of microaggressions and weaponized tears. Black women medal in surviving the fuckery every time, and I have neither the caffeine in my system nor any olive branches left to extend.
“I’ve demonstrated the necessary skills as the HR manager through my leadership, decision-making, and strategic partnerships that enable Hamilton Capital to thrive,” I say, calm and measured. “I outlined my achievements in an email I sent and would like to discuss next steps.”
I’ve given everything to this job. The cost of climbing the ladder came with long workdays and the remnants of a social life. It’s a price I’ve paid for years. I’m owed the HR director role.
A slow smile creeps over Mr. Hamilton’s frown lines. Laughter explodes into a cackle with stadium speakers, ruffling his three-piece suit. Tears streak his pink cheeks like I’m Katt Williams and not the glue holding up this company.
“Bianca,” he snorts, wiping his face with a pocket square. “I appreciate the laugh, but that’s not happening.”
Excuse me?
He waves a hand. “You want to know why I haven’t promoted you? You’re too focused on the wrong priorities.”
I go cold.
“I’m not in the business of feelings and resilience,” he scoffs. “I pay people to make money. You promote weakness, a—“
Strike fucking three.
The keyboard I grip like a baseball bat connects with his nose in a loud crunch. Blood and teeth spray across his desk with ropes of saliva. He falls back in his chair, but not before an electronic uppercut checks his chin.
“How’s that for weak?” I hurl the stapler; he dodges. It collides with the window lining the back of the office. What a shame if it makes a hole big enough for Parker to roll out of in his fancy-ass chair. His ego wouldn’t survive the fall, but maybe those hips would.
I fake left to chase him around his desk and smile at the trail of blood staining the oak-colored carpet.
Three years of broken promises about the HR director position played out in a smirk I wiped off his clean-shaven mouth.
The late nights.
Weekends.
Holidays.
It never mattered how hard I worked or how well I exceeded expectations. He never intended for me to break through the ceiling he’d welded shut.
