Chapter 3: Oops!
1081 Words
The air in the office felt thick—like too much face powder on a secretary’s skin: heavy, suffocating, and far too obvious.
Anastasia stood in the middle of the room, trying not to breathe too loudly.
Alex West didn’t look at her—just kept silently flipping through some papers on his desk. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm.
Suspiciously calm.
"So you think I’m…" He lifted his dark eyes and locked them coldly on hers—murky green and deep enough to drown a man. Any man. Except, of course, a stone statue like her boss.
He continued, "Incompetent? Arrogant? A womanizer… and also gay?!"
He stressed the last word, paused meaningfully, and raised his brows—still not breaking eye contact.
"What?.."
Her brain froze. Hard.
"You know, I value honest feedback… but this..."
"But I… I wrote that in a private chat… I mean, obviously I didn’t mean it like that..."
"A private chat? Are you sure?"
"Yes... almost…" Anastasia felt her face go up in flames.
How could she mess up this badly—and not even notice?! When did it happen?!
Her thoughts scrambled, desperately trying to remember exactly what she’d sent to the group chat…
But the Boss wasn’t feeling merciful.
"Oh, this one’s my favorite," Alex said with fake enthusiasm, then began reading aloud.
"‘Does he even realize how badly he’s trying to be early-2000s Brad Pitt? But… where’s his Jolie then? Or maybe he’s more into George Clooney from the third floor…?’"
He recited it in a flat, measured tone.
"Do you find this amusing?"
This is the end. He’s going to fire me… My internship is over…
The fatal thought flashed through her head like a headline.
Unable to help herself, Anastasia quickly covered her face with her hand in shame—then snapped out of it and yanked it away.
Alex slowly rose from his chair, which gave a soft creak, as if agreeing with his disapproval.
Feeling a desperate need to say something, she blurted out, "I… It was… a metaphorical exaggeration!" She lifted her hands instinctively, as if being arrested. "I mean… you do sort of resemble Pitt. If… you don’t look too closely…"
The girl knew perfectly well she was rambling absolute nonsense, but couldn’t think of anything better to say. Now it wasn’t just her cheeks on fire—her ears were burning too.
More than anything in the world, she wanted to sink through the floor and resurface somewhere on the other side of the planet.
But the executioner wasn’t done yet. He was just getting started.
"Really? So you think I look like Brad Pitt?" he asked, not breaking eye contact.
Anastasia first shook her head, then nodded, unsure which answer would make things worse—and, of course, made it worse.
The Boss didn’t hold back.
"Shame you look nothing like Jolie!" he snapped, his glare nearly drilling a hole through her skull.
She flinched.
Embarrassment and mild shock mixed into a cocktail called Humiliation of the Day, best served with ice—the kind radiating from Alex’s stare.
"I’m sorry… That was… really…" She couldn’t find the word. Eventually, she forced one out. "Inappropriate…"
Alex rolled his eyes so slowly and heavily, it looked like he had to rotate the entire galaxy through his pupil.
"Inappropriate is drinking Starbucks in an office with a twenty-thousand-dollar coffee machine. But calling your boss GAY in a chat he’s in?!"
At that moment, a thought flashed through her head.
Hmm… interesting how he keeps circling back to that. Could it be… I hit a nerve? Is he actually into Dave from the third floor…?
"…is unacceptable!" Alex continued, but Anastasia was way too deep in that suddenly compelling theory.
She only snapped back when he shouted, "HELLO?! Are you even listening?!"
The man in the flawlessly tailored suit stormed out from behind his desk, took several sharp steps, and snapped his fingers right in front of the redheaded receptionist’s face.
"Sorry! I just… got caught up thinking… about how this message could’ve ended up in the wrong chat…"
"The wrong chat?! So, in your mind, the problem is just that you sent it to the wrong thread?"
"Oh no, of course not… I—"
"Don’t. Just don’t."
Silence fell for a moment. Then Alex spoke again, slowly.
"For the record, I’m not gay."
Here we go again… Anastasia thought, barely holding back a smirk. She rushed to say something she thought might help.
"Right… sure. I mean, everyone knows you’re a total womanizer…"
Alex shot her another icy glare, held it for a beat, then let out a long, exhausted breath.
And a second later—burst out laughing.
"Unbelievable…" he muttered under his breath.
Then, louder this time, "I’ll take that as a compliment. Miss Anastasia Smith has now upgraded me from the ‘gay’ category to ‘womanizer.’ Fascinating. Maybe if we keep talking, you’ll eventually decide I’m a decent human being?"
Yeah, not likely, Anastasia thought, barely suppressing a smug little smile.
But out loud, she went right back to saying the wrong thing.
"It’s just… you know… people talk..."
"And you listen to all of it? Wonderful. So, apparently, you have enough free time to collect gossip instead of actually working?"
"I don’t…" Anastasia tried to think of something—anything—but it seemed like the Boss’s patience had just snapped.
"I’ve made a decision..."
At those words, Anastasia tensed, bracing for the axe to fall.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
In a flash, her mind rewound through all the sleepless nights she’d spent over the past five months—not doomscrolling or binge-watching shows, but building something real.
An actual, market-ready concept.
A smart, intuitive beauty app for women.
A personal consultant that would offer tailored skincare, haircare, and nail routines, along with hard-earned, no-nonsense beauty advice.
She had researched the market, interviewed hundreds of women across online forums, dug deep into their frustrations, their routines, their invisible emotional pain points.
Her project was nearly ready.
Just a few more weeks, and she would’ve had everything: a prototype, a pitch, a presentation.
A dream, finally within reach.
And now?
All of it—every plan, every pixel of vision, every late-night burst of hope—was evaporating before her eyes.
But suddenly, the tension in the office was broken—if only slightly—by the ringing of the Boss’s phone.
- Writer
