Chapter 1 #2
I badge in and head for Admin Support on the eighth floor. The office is all glossy partitions, too-bright overhead panels, and the persistent smell of synthetic citrus. I’m two minutes early, which in corporate terms means I’ve arrived in a state of moral excellence.
I slide into my workstation and wake the terminal.
From the break alcove, voices drift over the partition.
“—three departments minimum.”
“No, I heard six.”
“They’re calling it restructuring.”
“It’s layoffs, Miri. If they were proud of it, they’d call it layoffs.”
I freeze, fingers on my keyboard.
“Who’s first?” another voice asks.
“Support staff. Entry admin. Anybody nonessential.”
A little laugh. Mean, scared, ugly. “So half this floor.”
My pulse starts thudding in my throat.
I angle my screen but listen harder.
“They’re saying Brautigaum wants a leaner image before quarter close.”
“Leaner image? We make storage polymers. What does that even mean?”
“It means he wants to slash payroll and buy another media package.”
I know I should stop listening. I know eavesdropping is the office equivalent of putting your hand in a disposal unit and acting shocked when it hurts.
I listen anyway.
“Didn’t Tilda ask for that schedule accommodation?”
“Yeah.”
“With the kid?”
“Mm-hm.”
A pause.
Then, “She’s probably gone.”
I sit very still.
The terminal hums under my hands. Across the office, somebody laughs too loudly. Someone else sneezes. The climate system kicks on with a dry hiss. Everything keeps moving with that hideous normalcy the world has when yours is quietly tipping sideways.
Probably gone.
I look down at the spreadsheet on my screen and can’t see a thing. All I can see is rent, food, Jesse, childcare, the broken chair leg by the wall, the unpaid notice on my comm.
A hand lands on my partition.
I jerk.
Nessa peeks around the corner, one brow raised. She’s a procurement analyst with a talent for smuggling contraband pastries into budget meetings and telling the truth like she’s doing the universe a favor.
“You look like you just saw the ghost of payroll future,” she says.
“I overheard them talking.”
Her mouth flattens. “Yeah.”
“So it’s true.”
“Seems likely.”
I stand up so abruptly my chair wheels backward. “I can’t lose this job, Ness.”
“No kidding.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it.”
“No, I mean I literally cannot. Not in a dramatic sense. In a mathematical one.”
She studies me for a beat, then jerks her chin toward the alcove near records. “Come on.”
We duck into the alcove, where old file boxes go to die and managers go to have secret conversations they think walls can digest.
I fold my arms hard across my chest. “I’ve done everything they asked. I cover people. I stay late. I haven’t taken a proper sick day in eleven months.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I asked for one tiny scheduling adjustment because childcare’s gotten impossible, and now apparently I’m ‘nonessential.’”
“Welcome to corporate logic,” Nessa says. “Where the beatings improve morale.”
I drag a hand over my face. “I should have asked for a raise months ago.”
“You should have asked for a raise your second week.”
“I can’t just storm into the executive tier and demand money.”
“Why not?”
“Because I enjoy being alive.”
Nessa leans one shoulder against the wall. “Tilda, listen to me. They count on people like you staying scared and competent. That is the entire business model.”
I laugh once, no humor in it. “Brautigaum Plastics: built on polymers and quiet female despair.”
“Now that’s a slogan.” She points at me. “Go talk to Andrew.”
I blink. “To the CEO?”
“Yes. To the idiot king himself.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t know I exist.”
“Then introduce yourself.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You are.”
“I would rather lick a shuttle battery.”
Nessa shrugs. “Fine. Then sit down, be excellent, get laid off, and let a man who wears imported moon-silk ties decide your child’s future. Super empowering.”
I glare at her.
She glares back.
It’s one of the reasons I like her. Nessa doesn’t do soothing. She does useful.
“You think he’ll help me?” I ask finally.
“No,” she says. “I think he might help himself in a way that accidentally benefits you. Which is the closest thing to generosity men like Andrew Brautigaum are capable of.”
I let out a breath.
“He likes boldness,” she goes on. “Likes being pitched. Likes feeling like the smartest person in the room. So don’t go in there begging. Go in there making a case.”
“For what?”
“For why keeping you is cheaper than losing you.”
My laugh this time is weak but real. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I know.” She pats my arm. “Now pull up your spine and weaponize your competence.”
The rest of the morning crawls.
I answer messages. Update shipping logs. Process supply requests. Flag a discrepancy in regional plastics outputs that nobody thanks me for fixing. Every task gets done because my hands know how, but my brain is somewhere else entirely, rehearsing.
Mr. Brautigaum, thank you for seeing me—
No.
Andrew, I wanted to discuss—
Worse.
Sir, due to increased responsibilities—
Repulsive.
At lunch I sit in a corner with my stale wrap and type numbers into a private sheet.
Rent. Food. Jesse. Supplemental insurance.
Care. Transit. If I lose the job, I have maybe six weeks before things get ugly.
Four if Jesse breaks anything expensive.
Two if the landlord decides compassion is for richer neighborhoods.
By midafternoon, I’ve built and discarded twelve versions of a speech.
By late afternoon, I’m angry.
Anger is useful. Anger has bones. Fear just leaks all over the floor.
At seventeen hundred hours, I smooth my skirt, check my reflection in the dark screen of my terminal, and head for the executive level.
Brautigaum’s assistant is a man named Colven whose smile looks outsourced.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asks.
“No.”
“Mr. Brautigaum is extremely busy.”
“I’m sure he is.” I plant both hands on his desk and smile like a woman on the brink. “Tell him Tilda Robertson from admin support has a proposal regarding employee retention and corporate image.”
That gets a flicker.
Image is a holy word in this building. Probably more sacred than ethics.
Colven hesitates, then taps his comm. “Sir? There’s an admin associate here with… a proposal.”
A pause.
Colven’s eyebrows lift. “Yes, sir.”
He looks at me. “You may go in.”
The office is ridiculous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. A sculptural desk that appears to be made from one seamless piece of translucent polymer.
Ambient lighting that makes Andrew Brautigaum look lightly blessed from above.
He rises when I enter, all white teeth and expensive tailoring and manic energy.
He’s younger than he should be for this level of power and older than he should be for this haircut.
“Tilda! Fantastic. Sit. No, wait—stand, actually. Better energy standing.”
I stay standing because apparently this is theater now.
He clasps his hands. “Colven says you have a proposal.”
I wet my lips. “I wanted to discuss my role here, sir. My workload has increased consistently, and my compensation hasn’t reflected that. I’ve also had ongoing childcare constraints, and I believe retaining experienced support staff is in the company’s best interest.”
He stares at me for two seconds.
Then he gasps.
Actually gasps.
“Oh, this is perfect.”
I falter. “I’m sorry?”
He starts pacing. “Perfect, perfect, perfect. I have been begging the universe for authenticity and instead it keeps sending me media-trained dead-eyed influencers with inspirational jawlines.”
I blink at him.
He points at me like I’ve just proven a theorem. “You. Single mother. Hardworking. Relatable but not depressing. Attractive in a grounded way. Tremendous audience sympathy potential.”
The room goes cold around me.
“I’m here,” I say carefully, “to ask about my job.”
“Yes! Exactly.” He beams. “Your future. Upward mobility. Brand integration.”
I have a very bad feeling.
He taps his desk and a holo display blooms between us, bright and spinning. A logo bursts across it in flaming silver letters.
GALACTIC EXTREME CHALLENGE.
I stare.
“No,” I say immediately.
He doesn’t even hear me. “Brautigaum Plastics is finalizing a sponsorship package, and one of our designated contestants dropped out after an unfortunate allergen incident involving atmospheric shellfish. We need a replacement by tonight.”
I just look at him.
He smiles wider.
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “You want me to do… whatever that is?”
His face lights up with evangelical zeal. “Compete. Represent the company. Human resilience! Working mother grit! We position you as the determined underdog and if you perform well, we get weeks of premium exposure.”
“I work in administrative support.”
“And now you may also work in narrative.”
“I am not a contestant.”
“You are if you sign.”
He flicks something on the holo. Prize numbers spin into view. Housing package. Stipend. Advancement bonuses. Performance-linked promotion review.
My pulse pounds.
It gets worse.
I see childcare accommodations listed for contestants with dependents.
I go very still.
Brautigaum notices. Of course he does. Sharks always smell blood.
“Ah,” he says softly, triumphant. “There it is.”
I lift my eyes to his. “If I did this—if—I would need guaranteed housing for the duration. Real housing. Not a bunk. And full childcare for my son during all events, training, and transit.”
He smiles. “Negotiating already. Excellent.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I would need it in writing. Specifics. No vague language. No ‘subject to availability.’ Guaranteed.”
He tilts his head. “Anything else?”
A thousand things. A raise. Hazard pay. A universe not run by lunatics.
I swallow. “If I survive your publicity stunt, I want a formal promotion review.”
He spreads his hands. “Done.”
“That’s too fast.”
“It’s good television.”
I close my eyes for one dangerous second.
When I open them, the holo contract glows between us like a trap with excellent branding.
This is insane.
This is humiliating.
This is possibly the only way I keep a roof over Jesse’s head.
Brautigaum slides a stylus toward me. “Tilda, this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
I let out a breath that tastes like burnt coffee and panic. “That’s usually what people say right before a disaster.”
He laughs like we’re friends.
I look at the contract. At the childcare clause. At the housing clause. At the money.
Then I think of Jesse saying chair sad.
I sign.
The stylus clicks in my hand.
Brautigaum claps once. “Outstanding. Oh, this is going to play beautifully.”
I set the stylus down with great care and stand straighter. “For the record, if I die on camera, I will be very difficult about it.”
He grins. “That’s the spirit.”
No, I think, as I turn to leave his absurd office and step into the polished corridor with my heartbeat trying to escape through my throat.
That is absolutely not the spirit.
That is desperation wearing lipstick and pretending it’s a plan.