“Bangkok Between Us”

CHAPTER TWO — SURVIVAL MODE

By the time the clock struck noon, Yoko had unofficially rebranded her job title. On her contract, it said Executive Assistant. In reality, she was a Professional Punching Bag.

Faye Malhotra didn’t just run an office; she conducted a military campaign where the rules of engagement changed by the minute. The office, a sleek expanse of glass and minimalist marble, felt less like a place of business and more like a high-stakes arena where the oxygen was thin and the stakes were impossibly high.

“Pay attention, Yoko. I won’t repeat myself,” Faye said, her voice like a cool blade. She gestured toward the monitor with a manicured hand. “Red emails are urgent. They require a draft response on my desk within ten minutes of arrival. Blue are important—handle those by EOD. Yellow means someone is wasting my time. Filter them out. I never want to see a yellow name in my primary view.”

Yoko opened the inbox. Her heart sank. It looked like a digital crime scene; every single line was a pulsing, angry red.

“Wonderful,” she muttered under her breath, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

The afternoon was a relentless cycle of scrutiny. Faye seemed to possess a supernatural ability to spot a single misplaced comma from across the room. Every few minutes, the intercom would crackle, or Faye would simply appear in the doorway like a shadow.

“Why is this report formatted with a twelve-point margin? I told you eleven,” Faye would say, dropping a stack of papers on Yoko’s desk without looking at her. Or, “Who approved this wording? It sounds like it was written by a middle-schooler. Do people in this generation simply not proofread anymore?”

Yoko bit her tongue so hard she was certain she’d taste copper. She practiced deep breathing exercises she’d seen on YouTube, trying to remind herself that the paycheck was worth the psychic damage.

At 12:45 p.m., the silence of the office was shattered by a traitorous, loud growl from Yoko’s stomach. The sound echoed off the glass walls. Faye looked up from her tablet, her dark eyes narrowing as she adjusted her glasses.

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine, Madam Malhotra,” Yoko replied, trying to look busy with a spreadsheet that was currently making her eyes cross.

“That wasn’t the question. Have you eaten?”

Yoko sighed, her shoulders slumping. “No. I haven't had a chance.”

“Then eat,” Faye said, returning her gaze to her screen. “I don’t employ martyrs. Low blood sugar leads to mistakes, and I’ve already reached my quota for those today.”

Lunch was delivered—a spread of expensive organic salads that tasted like cardboard and resentment. They ate in a stiff, suffocating silence in Faye’s private glass-walled dining area. Yoko stared out at the Bangkok skyline, fantasizing about throwing her badge off the balcony and walking into the sunset.

The peace didn't last. At 2:50 p.m., the elevator doors chimed, and out stepped Mr. Thanawat, a billionaire real estate mogul known for his volatile temper and his absolute refusal to wait for anything.

“Why is Mr. Thanawat here?” Faye demanded, her voice dropping to a dangerous register.

“He’s your three o’clock,” Yoko said, checking the digital calendar.

“It is two-fifty. He is ten minutes early. I am in the middle of a confidential call with London.”

Yoko inhaled, the scent of Faye’s expensive perfume—something sharp and floral—filling her lungs. “I’ll handle it.”

She stepped into the lobby, deploying every ounce of charm she possessed. She managed to soothe the irritated mogul with a rare blend of Arabica coffee and a flattering conversation about his latest acquisition. By the time Faye was ready, Thanawat was laughing. Yoko returned to Faye’s office feeling a rare spark of triumph.

“Handled,” she announced.

Faye didn’t even look up. “Don’t congratulate yourself for fixing a problem you helped create. You should have sent a reminder to his secretary emphasizing the three o'clock start time.”

That did it. The thread of Yoko’s patience, frayed and thin, finally snapped.

“With respect, Madam Malhotra, I didn't invite him early. I can't control the traffic or his personal whims.”

Faye looked up sharply, her gaze pinning Yoko to the spot. “No, but you are responsible for everything that touches my schedule. If he is early, it is a failure of coordination.”

Yoko forced a tight, artificial smile. “Of course. Because apparently, I control the space-time continuum in addition to your filing.”

Faye’s eyes flashed with something—was it anger, or surprise? “Watch your tone, Yoko.”

“Yes, Madam Malhotra,” Yoko replied, her voice dripping with a sarcasm she couldn't quite hide.

The war had officially begun.

By 6:30 p.m., Yoko felt like she’d been through a centrifuge. Her head throbbed, and her feet ached.

“Go home,” Faye said, closing her laptop with a decisive thud. There was no warmth in her voice, only the flat exhaustion of a woman who lived for the grind.

“Gladly.”

As Yoko reached the door, Faye added, “Tomorrow, try to make fewer mistakes. It’s exhausting for both of us.”

Yoko stopped. She turned back, her hand on the cold metal handle. “Tomorrow, try to be slightly less terrifying. It might help the workflow.”

The words were out before she could filter them. The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush. Faye’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Yoko said, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Goodnight, Madam Malhotra.”

She bolted for the elevator. Outside, the humid Bangkok air hit her like a blanket. “I hate her,” she hissed to the streetlights. “I absolutely, 100% hate her.”

Upstairs, Faye stood by the window, watching the city lights. She thought of her new assistant’s defiant eyes and felt a strange, irritating spark of life in her chest. This assistant is insufferable, she thought. And far too loud.