Rationale:Research has shown brief power naps increase creativity and productivity while also supporting the need for downtime during busy periods of work.
Comments:CEO dismissed outright. Not a single question or request for additional information. Revisit at a later date.
What the fuck?
Was Scarlett the one who put this idea in the virtual suggestion box? She was certainly prepared to back it up with facts when I mentioned it. And like a dumbass, I didn’t even question her apparent expertise on the subject. Just assumed it was something she’d learned about in her studies.
I skim the suggestion column, reading one submission after another. My confusion grows with each line I read. When I get to the recommendation to host a Valentine’s social, my gut hardens, unease taking root.
I quit reading.
Scarlett’s been keeping secrets. A lot of them.
But why? If these were her ideas, why didn’t she tell me?
Because, as she noted, you shot her ideas down every chance you got.
That’s not true. I listened to her ideas. Let her take the lead on the Val social. Let her strong-arm me into an office pet, for chrissakes.
If that’s not open-minded, I don’t know what is.
I grab another handful of pages off the printer. The top one is labeledNotes.
The notes are in outline form, each block of information cataloged by date and time.
I start reading and by the second paragraph, it’s clear the file contains an accounting of every interaction we’ve ever had, complete with Scarlett’s observations. And unlike her typical meeting notes with their snarky, humorous insights, these are cold and clinical.
Research. It’s fucking research.
Sweat beads along my brow, but I force myself to keep reading, each paragraph more heart-wrenching than the last.
The words run together, blurring before my eyes, but there are a few that stand out.
Control. Rigid. Perfection.Memories of Ashley’s tabloid tell-all come rushing back with a vengeance.
Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
Anger surges up to take its place.
I’ve spent the last month laying myself bare before Scarlett, and she’s been manipulating me from day one. All this time, I thought she was open and honest. That she was a straight shooter. That I couldtrusther.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The realization lands like a kick in the balls.
That’s what you get for trusting a woman you barely know.
No. I do know Scarlett. Or, at least, I’d thought I did.
So what’s her endgame? What is the point of all this?
Isn’t it obvious?
Fuck. Triada can’t afford the bad press, not now, but that’s not even the worst of it. The prospect of my childhood trauma being splashed all over the media for public consumption leaves me feeling trapped. Cornered. Ready to lash out.
The press will delight in this story. Delight in exposing the secrets of my past.
Oh, they’ll say it’s awful. Frame it as a tragedy, and maybe even write up a piece on the flaws in the foster care system. But afterward?
