Page 53 of Mister St. James

Catalina

Monday morning at Precision is always a recalibration. A diagnostic sweep of everything that matters and nothing that doesn’t. I step into the lobby with a red coil of cord looped around my left wrist, a little louder than jewelry, and if you know what it means, you know what it means. No one here does, not really. They read “statement” and process it as “accessory.” That’s what I’m banking on.

My heels click in triplets, a ta-ta-tum that punches a hole through the hushed hum of overpriced carpets and conversations at half-mast. The dress code here is business formal with an elective curve, so I take liberties—high-waisted black skirt, button-up in blue silk, the top two undone because I like watching the junior devs get flustered. They’re new enough to think my tits are an HR trap and not a warning. If I have to cut through another week of old-guard tech culture and its new-flavored misogyny, I’ll at least make them sweat.

Molly at reception tracks my approach with the same predator-prey flicker she’s had since I started. There’s a fresh set of fake lashes on her, and I consider a compliment, but she’s already turning away to whisper at her phone. The next person in the queue is an intern in ill-fitting khakis. He tries to look at my face and fails, panics, and looks at the floor instead. I let him marinate.

On the way to the main elevator bay, I pass three nodes of male management, all in the standard-issue uniform, tailored suits, visible panic at the prospect of eye contact, passive-aggressive banter about “overachieving.” I flash a closed-mouth smile and they shuffle their formation like birds on a wire, a little too ready to go extinct.

The elevator ride up is a thirty-second meditation on breathing and how little people in this building actually do it. I check my reflection in the chrome paneling, hair tight, curls tamed but not conquered, red lip a little too dark for daylight, but fuck them. The cord on my wrist draws my gaze, and I thumb it out of habit. When I close my hand, I swear I can feel Aiden’s voice vibrating in my palm: “You know you don’t have to—”

But of course I do. I do everything on purpose.

The doors open and I cross the open floor, glancing over the cubicle sea. People look up, register me, and look away again, like they’re afraid I might ask them to prove their worth. I spot the cluster around the coffee station: two women from legal, one overcompensating team lead, and the new hire with the unpronounceable name. They’re whispering, but the way their eyes flick to my wrist and then to each other is so obvious it could be a goddamn billboard.

I slow as I pass them, just long enough to pick up:

“…not even hiding it…”

“…says she’s overqualified, but now she’s his…”

“…my cousin said they’re living together. Or she spends the night, at least…”

“—or maybe she’s just trying to get ahead, you know?”

I turn, smile at them, and hold out my arm. “Need a tie for the Thursday diversity meeting? I’m thinking red is the new neutral.”

They flush, scattering like I’m radioactive. The new hire looks up, meets my gaze, and holds it for a second. I tip an invisible hat. If she lasts more than a month, I’ll remember her name.

I make coffee for Aiden and for myself before making my way back to the elevators and past the sea of chismosa. My head held high and a smile on my face, which I’m sure fuels them and I could not care any less.

I enter Aiden’s office without knocking. He hates interruptions, which is why I always bring coffee first, black, one teaspoon of sugar, exact as a confession. I set the mug on his desk and stand there, waiting.

He doesn’t look up, not at first. His eyes dart once to the cord on my wrist, then to the window, then back to his screen. “You’re late,” he says, but it’s the ritual kind of late, the kind that doesn’t matter.

“It’s 7:34,” I reply.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. He types two more lines, hits return, and finally gives me his full attention.

“How are you?” he says, and it’s not small talk. It’s the litmus test for whether I’m going to quit, break down, or set fire to the break room.

“Good. You?”

“I was up at five,” he says, “but it’s under control.” He glances at the coffee, then at my face, measuring some invisible variable. “You wore the cord.”

“You noticed.” I lean against the edge of his desk, folding my arms.

“I always notice,” he says.

The silence goes from neutral to loaded in three seconds. I fill it by scanning the paperwork on his desk, a messy sprawl compared to his usual meticulous stacking. The sight almost makes me smile. He’s only this off-balance after we’ve had a night, and last night was a goddamn seismic event.

“You know you don’t have to,” he repeats, softer this time.

I tap the red loop, and it thrums under my fingertip. “I like the reminder.”

He nods, the corners of his mouth flickering. For a man whose emotional range is famously sub-zero, he’s practically beaming.

I drop my voice to a hush, “Do you want to see what’s under the sleeve?”