Page 2 of The Puppetmaster

The buttery leather that cradles my skin when I place my elbows on the armrest of the chair is soft and cool, but it doesn’t soothe me in the slightest as unbridled rage inflames every fiber of my being.

“But, Mr. Hammond,” I begin, my voice trembling while I fight to keep it together. “As I said, this would drastically improve—”

“Well, yeah, whatever. Alena, dear,” he cuts me off, once again belittling me with that goddamn pet name as he arches an eyebrow at me.

I helplessly gesture to the screen at the front, where the last slide of my presentation is still displayed. “But I just showed how—”

“Yes, and we all had fun listening to it, didn't we?” he interrupts me once again, nodding enthusiastically as his eyes journey around the table in search for affirmation. Some of my colleagues muster a suggested nod, while others resort to awkwardly shifting in their seats, clearly wishing for nothing other than to be excused from this unpleasant situation.

“It was a good presentation, nicely done, pretty pictures and all that,” Mr. Hammond assures, meeting my furious gaze. “But it's getting late and I think we're all ready for lunch. Besides, I never said I would actuallydowhat you propose.”

“But why not? It's a small investment with the potential to bring great results. I ran the numbers with accounting,” I insist, pointing to the stack of paper in front of him. “We could use part of last year's surplus for this, and it would pay off in the long run for sure!”

“Be that as it may,” Mr. Hammond says, arching an eyebrow at me. “And don't get me wrong, I admire your spirit, young lady. But some things are better left in the hands of professionals, don't you think?”

A murmur travels through the group, followed by uncomfortable silence that weighs on the entire room like a dark cloud carrying a heavy thunderstorm.

“Professionals?” I repeat in a shaky and hoarse voice. “I have been working in this position for three years, Mr. Hammond. I have done my research and I have talked to a lot of—”

“Yes, yes,” he murmurs, waving me off as he once more refuses to let me finish my sentence. “No one's saying you're not trying hard, dear, but—”

“Did you even read my proposal?” I want to know, glaring at the papers in front of him. “I put a lot of work into this, Mr. Hammond, and I did most of it in my free time. You said you'd only give me fifteen minutes for my presentation, so I had to cut some things short to squeeze it all in. But it's all written in there, and if you have read it all, then—”

“Don't worry, I have read it,” he insists rather loudly, narrowing his eyes as he throws me an irritated look. “Or… scanned it rather. Trust me, I get the gist of it.”

“You scanned it?” I repeat, my eyes wide with disbelief. “After I've been telling you about this for weeks and you encouraged me to go through with this proposal—you haven't even read it properly?”

He shrugs, adding an exasperated huff while his eyes dart back and forth between me and the rest of the room.

“Alena, dear,” he begins, lifting his hand as he makes a move to touch me again. But I pin him down with a furious look, my piercing eyes latched onto that hand as my mind runs wild with violent images once again. My inner rage is almost painful, dancing at the tip of my tongue while the knuckles of my hands turn white as my hands clench up.

Vicious heat assumes my entire body, and I'm sure the glowing sensation on my cheeks is accompanied by a treacherous blush of anger spreading across my face.

I used to like this man, because I was grateful to him. He took a risk when hiring me. On paper, I was unqualified for the job and had nothing going for me other than my ambition.

But he believed in me. He saw that I had potential.

At least that’s what he said back then. He said he would help me flourish and that his door was always open.

I felt obligated to work harder than anyone else and I gave a lot of thought to improvements for the benefit of this company and the people working for it. I tried—but he never listened. He never even gave me a chance, often rejecting my suggestions before I had a chance to finalize the proposals.

I thought today would be different. I worked extra hard for this proposal, making sure it could truly hold up before asking for a chance to present it.

He encouraged me along the way, he kept saying yes to everything—up until now.

Did he wait to turn me down in front of the entire department, just to humiliate me? To make sure that I would never bother him again?

Well, don't worry about that, asshole.

For a while, no one speaks and the silence is deafening. My coworkers display their discomfort by shifting in their seats, the expensive leather squeaking under their awkward motions. Someone coughs. Another person clears her throat. There’s the sound of a pen doodling in a notebook somewhere to my left.

No one says a word. No one has my back.

I didn’t want to end it this way, but fuck it.

Fuckhim.

Fuckallof them.

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