by Melissa
The scent of stale
coffee and Cecilia's expensive perfume always clung to the air in the executive
suite. It was a perfect reflection of Cecilia Wilson, sharp, successful, and
utterly lacking in warmth. Cecilia didn't have colleagues, she had subordinates,
and at the very bottom of that hierarchy was her secretary, Melissa.
Cecilia treated
the woman less like a human being and more like an extension of the office
furniture - a glorified, low-paid lever to fulfil her every capricious demand.
Melissa's days were a monotonous grind of abuse: fetching black coffee exactly
three minutes after Cecilia arrived, correcting her boss's spelling without
ever pointing out the mistakes, and enduring endless, passive-aggressive
critiques of her wardrobe, hairstyle, and general existence. "Stand up
straight, Melissa, you look like a wilted flower," Cecilia would sigh, or
"Honestly, darling, do try to look a little less present when I have
clients here," as if Melissa's quiet efficiency was an active distraction.
Melissa navigated this environment with the quiet efficiency of a seasoned
ghost, rarely making eye contact, her professionalism a shield against the
constant barrage of slights.
"Melissa, darling, the final check on the Halloween party details," Cecilia purred, not bothering to look away from her reflection in the polished glass of a framed "Woman of the Year" award. "Mine has arrived, of course, and is magnificent. The Evil witch Queen - a truly sophisticated choice, don't you think? It's meant to convey power, not cheap theatrics."
Melissa nodded,
clutching a clipboard. "Yes, Ms. Wilson. And your instruction for my
costume? It arrived this morning."
Cecilia smirked,
her eyes gleaming with malice. "Ah, yes. The little French maid outfit. I
thought it was charming. Demure. And it will really make my regal presence pop,
don't you think? It suits your - how should I put this - service attitude perfectly."
Melissa just
offered a thin, professional smile. "Whatever you think best, Ms.
Wilson."
***
Later, during the
evening, the company's annual Halloween gala was in full swing.
Cecilia, a vision of cold, dark ambition, held court from the elevated VIP section. Her Evil witch Queen costume was an expense account masterpiece: the gown was cut from heavy, crushed black velvet, cinched at the waist with a silver belt that looked forged, not bought. Her collar was high and structured, lined with stiff lace that framed her sharp jawline. On her head sat a delicate yet menacing silver crown, set with blood-red rubies, perfectly complementing the smoky eyeshadow and crimson lipstick that gave her an air of magnificent cruelty. She did not walk, she glided, radiating an arrogance that demanded the room's subservience. Every time a junior employee offered a nervous compliment, Cecilia would simply give a languid tilt of her crowned head, treating their admiration as the bare minimum required. She felt utterly superior, both to the employees and the silly, cheap costumes they wore.
