Page 12 of Marked By Mayhem

He winces here.

“Sometimes that just isn't enough. Tell me about it,” I say. I can practically smell the monotony of it all, the never-ending cycle of these sponsored reviews that have become the bane of my journalistic existence.

"What is your problem, Ella?" he dares to sound annoyed now.

"I can do more, Frank! I really can." I plead, my frustration leaking into my voice.

He looks up at me, a sly grin playing on his lips. "You know how it works, Ella. The sponsors have their preferences, and we have to cater to them. It's business."

I want to punch him. He’s enjoying this.

I clench my fists again, my frustration boiling over. "Business? I could do real journalism, not just these glorified advertisements."

He leans back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head, his gaze lingering on me. "You want a promotion, Ella? Is that it? Maybe you need to be a bit more... accommodating."

His implication hangs in the air, a heavy cloud of discomfort settling over the room.

I've faced this this type of proposition one too many times – the expectation of sexual favors for him in exchange for my professional progress. He doesn’t say it out loud, we dance around the obvious, but I know what he wants from me.

I take a deep breath, suppressing my anger. " I will earn my success through my hard work. Being true to myself."

He chuckles, a condescending smirk on his face. "Suit yourself, Ella."

I get up, anger burning inside me.

“The restaurant is Spago. I forwarded you all the details on your email. Oh, and I gave the owner a heads up that you’d show up later tonight. This one is urgent,” he follows.

“That’s too soon. What about quality?”

“Quality?” Frank scoffs. “Ella, we're not here to win a Pulitzer. We're here to please the sponsors. And trust me, they don't care about your anxieties."

I exit his office, the weight of frustration heavy on my shoulders.

My thoughts churn with self-reproach as I navigate the maze of desks.

"Watch it, Ella," my colleague, Sasha chides as I bump into her.

"Sorry," I mumble, offering a weak smile. I am preoccupied with thoughts of the imminent storm I've unleashed upon myself.

Sasha raises an eyebrow, studying my disheveled appearance. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Everything okay?"

I hesitate, debating whether to confide in her or keep up the facade of composure.

"Frank's office," she points with a knowing smirk. "What did you do now?"

The thinly veiled gossip in her tone irks me, but I decide to let it slide.

Sasha has always been more attuned to the office gossip than I am.

"Just a... slight disagreement," I reply vaguely, avoiding eye contact.

She tilts her head, her curiosity piqued. "Disagreement? With Frank? You've got guts. Most of us just nod and smile."

I force a chuckle, the sound ringing hollow in my ears. "Lucky me."

She studies me for a moment, her expression softening. "Hey, seriously, are you okay? You look like you've been through the wringer."

I debate whether to share the details, the knots tightening in my stomach. But Sasha, with her friendly demeanor, seems genuinely concerned.

---