CHAPTER FOUR — OFFICE POLITICS AND OTHER DISASTERS
1149 Words
By the third day, Yoko Tran-Siripong had learned three important truths about Faye Malhotra:
She hated inefficiency.
She hated excuses.
She seemed to hate Yoko most of all.
It was almost impressive.
Every morning began the same way: Yoko arrived early, organized everything perfectly, and somehow still managed to irritate her boss before 10 a.m.
Today was no exception.
“Why is my 2:00 meeting now at 2:15?” Faye demanded the moment Yoko walked in with her coffee.
“Because you specifically asked for breathing space between appointments,” Yoko replied, placing the cup on the desk.
“I don’t need breathing space.”
“Everyone needs breathing space.”
Faye shot her a look. “I don’t pay you for opinions.”
Yoko smiled tightly. “Noted.”
She turned to leave.
“Yoko.”
“Yes, Madam Malhotra?”
“The coffee is too sweet.”
Yoko closed her eyes for a second. “It’s black.”
“Exactly.”
Of course.
The morning only got worse.
There was a last-minute change to a major presentation, a printer that decided to die dramatically, and a client who insisted on calling every five minutes like a needy ex.
By noon, Yoko felt like she had aged ten years.
At 12:30, Faye called her in.
“We have a problem.”
Yoko nearly laughed. “Of course we do.”
Faye slid a folder across the desk. “Tonight’s charity gala. My original escort canceled.”
Yoko blinked. “Escort?”
“My plus-one. Business optics matter.”
“Right. Optics.”
Faye leaned back. “You’ll come with me.”
The words hung in the air.
Yoko stared. “I’m sorry—what?”
“You heard me.”
“To a gala?”
“Yes.”
“With… fancy people?”
“Yes.”
“As in… me?”
Faye sighed. “You are my assistant, are you not?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then it’s settled. Be ready by seven.”
Yoko opened and closed her mouth like a confused fish.
“I don’t even own gala clothes.”
“Buy some.”
“On what salary?”
Faye gave her an unreadable look. “Send the receipt to accounting.”
Yoko froze.
“You’re serious.”
“I rarely joke.”
This was getting ridiculous.
“With respect,” Yoko said carefully, “isn’t this outside my job description?”
Faye raised an eyebrow. “Your job description is to make my life easier.”
Yoko muttered under her breath, “More like make my life miserable.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Madam Malhotra.”
“Good. Now go find something appropriate to wear. Preferably something that doesn’t look like it survived a flood.”
Yoko clenched her jaw.
“Yes. Madam. Malhotra.”
She left the office fuming.
An hour later, Yoko stood inside a high-end boutique near Siam Paragon, staring at price tags that looked like phone numbers.
“This is insane,” she whispered.
She tried on dresses that made her look like:
A glittering disco ball
An overgrown bridesmaid
A very confused flamingo
Finally, a soft emerald-green gown caught her eye.
Simple. Elegant. Classy.
She checked the price and nearly fainted.
“I officially work for a crazy woman,” she muttered.
Still, she bought it.
Because apparently her job now included pretending to be part of Bangkok high society.
At exactly 6:45 p.m., Yoko arrived at Malhotra Tower feeling nervous and slightly ridiculous.
The lobby lights reflected off the smooth silk of her dress. She had even managed to tame her hair into something elegant.
“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Just don’t embarrass yourself.”
The elevator doors opened.
Faye Malhotra stepped out.
And for a moment, Yoko forgot how to breathe.
If Faye was intimidating in business suits, she was devastating in evening wear.
A sleek black gown hugged her figure perfectly. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder, softer than Yoko had ever seen it. Diamonds glittered at her ears.
She looked less like a terrifying CEO and more like the star of a glamorous movie Yoko definitely couldn’t afford tickets to.
Faye’s eyes traveled over her.
“That will do,” she said.
Yoko blinked. “That’s… your version of a compliment, isn’t it?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
They rode to the car in tense silence.
The gala was everything Yoko expected and worse.
Crystal chandeliers.
Expensive perfume.
People who smiled like sharks.
Yoko stayed close to Faye, playing the role of perfect assistant.
She fetched drinks.
Remembered names.
Smiled politely.
And tried very hard not to feel out of place.
At one point, an older businessman looked at her and asked, “And who are you, dear?”
Before Yoko could answer, Faye spoke.
“She’s with me.”
Three simple words.
Yet somehow they made Yoko’s chest feel warm.
The evening continued smoothly — until disaster arrived in the form of a very glamorous woman in a red dress.
“Faye,” the woman purred, touching her arm. “It’s been ages.”
Yoko noticed the way Faye stiffened.
“Anika. Hello.”
The air changed instantly.
“Oh, is this your new assistant?” Anika asked, eyeing Yoko like she was a decorative plant.
“Yes,” Faye said curtly.
Anika smiled sweetly. “You go through them so quickly.”
Yoko felt the insult like a pinch.
Before she could stop herself, she smiled back.
“Well, some of us are harder to get rid of.”
Anika blinked, surprised.
Faye turned her head sharply.
Yoko held her ground.
The woman laughed lightly. “How… spirited.”
“Very,” Faye replied, eyes still on Yoko.
When Anika finally walked away, Faye leaned closer.
“Do you enjoy provoking people?”
“Only the rude ones.”
“That was unnecessary.”
“So was she.”
For a moment, Faye looked like she might actually smile.
Instead she said, “Careful, Yoko. You work for me.”
Yoko lifted her chin. “And you need me.”
Their eyes locked.
Something unfamiliar passed between them — not anger, not quite.
Tension. Bright and electric.
Later, as they waited for the car outside, Bangkok alive around them, Faye spoke quietly.
“You handled yourself well tonight.”
Yoko blinked. “Another compliment?
Should I call an ambulance?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Yoko smiled.
For the first time, the silence between them wasn’t entirely hostile.
It was… complicated.
As the car pulled up, Faye glanced at her.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Madam Malhotra.”
But as they drove through the glowing city, Yoko realized something unsettling.
She didn’t just hate her boss anymore.
And that was far more dangerous.
- Writer
