When she stood on the other side of her desk, it intimidated everyone on staff. Mickey worked hard for her position at Graymer Incorporated. It took years of 80-plus hour weeks, countless hours in pointless meetings, and naive supervisors that she knew, without a doubt, that she was above them in intellect. Armed with only a master’s degree in social work, she insisted that her inferiors stand on the other side of the massive oak desk. Mickey knew it created a barrier keeping her safe from her direct reports trying to attack her (that only happened once, but her desk was a lot smaller when it happened). As the Vice President of Human Relations, Mickey had sixteen direct reports. Her direct reports each had a team of thirty people responsible for everything from accounting to creative art direction. The company had reached Fortune 500 status thanks to her direction and her stealing of ideas from lower-level employees, a trick her former supervisor and lover taught her early in her career. She rarely let anyone get close to her and had few relationships with deep emotional connections. Her mother died before her fourteenth birthday. Her grandmother, the only family she had left, died three months before she completed her MSW. Her staff often complained to other teams about her inability to connect with them, frequently calling her calloused and uncaring.

Mickey’s smile brimmed so vast you thought it might crack her face. If not for the layers of makeup she wore, it might have! Makeup wasn’t necessary. Mickey’s beauty was natural, needing minimal accents, something frustrating to other women who felt the need to cake on their makeup. The extra makeup added protection. It was worth the hour of work for Mickey to put it on and twenty minutes to wash it off before bedtime.

“Hi,” she bubbled, smiling, cracking the fresh red lip stain. “How’s it going?” She asked to be polite. She didn’t really want an answer. Her hands stayed on her desk, a journal opened to a blank page with a pen lying between the pages.

“All is right with the world,” Steve managed to eke out. Shifting from foot to foot, he didn’t dare put his hands in his pockets. He heard rumors of one individual who made that mistake. She was fired three days later, the rumor being she slid her hands into her slacks pockets while standing in front of Mickey’s desk. Office rumors being what they are, Steve didn’t pay it much mind, but now that he was in front of Mickey? He didn’t dare do anything that might seem underhanded or sneaky. Sliding his hands in his pockets was a natural reaction, especially when talking to coworkers or his direct reports. Instead, he put his hands at his side, hanging limp like overcooked spaghetti.

Steve was responsible for sales and marketing, two things Mickey knew little about. Mickey knew even less about motivating salespeople.

“Steve. When am I going to see the new marketing plan? I’ve asked you a few times but have not seen your email.”

Steve felt moisture develop in his hands, and his face felt hot. “Well, I was waiting for your approval of our latest budget to develop the strategy. We need an injection of cash because our budget cannot handle it.” His chest tightened when Mickey’s smile widened, crinkling the makeup around her eyes and cheeks.

“How much more are we talking about? It may be something I need to talk to,” she pointed skyward toward the penthouse suite of the CEO and President of Graymer Inc., Dr. Richard Marsdon, “Dr. Marsdon about.” Mickey drummed her fingers on the desk. “Any idea of how much this is going to cost?”

“It’s difficult to quantify, but if you let me talk to my team about it, I’m positive we will have an answer by the end of the day.”

Mickey stood up, making Steve more uncomfortable by the second. Sweat soaked the collar of the pale yellow button shirt, the white t-shirt under it already damp. “Then I guess I will speak to Dr. Marsdon about this increase to your budget before you have a solid number, yes?”

“Yes, Ms. Francelli. I will have something for you before lunch.”

“Good enough then, Steve,” she answered, smiling. “I expect a phone call, text, or email giving me the details you will be bringing me later this afternoon, yes?”

“Yes, Ms. Francelli.”

Mickey came out from behind her desk, frightening Steve more than her standing between the desk and himself. Mickey held out her hand, waiting for Steve to shake it. He grasped it without thinking about his sweaty palm, shaking it like he would Dr. Marsdon, whom he’d only met once. Mickey pulled back, but enough for Steve to notice.

“Good day, Steve.”

“Yes, Ms. Francelli.” Turning around to walk out of her office, he took a deep breath, noting that he and his team better have a solid number in two hours or less.