Page 18 of Babies for the Big Shot

She doesn’t flinch, but her breath stalls. Not visible, but perceptible.

That’s the opening.

Her voice is quieter when it returns. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I already have to try hard enough to treat you like you’re just my boss.”

That holds. No sarcasm, no escape valve. Just the truth, delivered without ornament or defense.

I step back, barely. Enough to give her space. Enough to restore control.

She doesn’t retreat. Not immediately. Then she flicks her hair over one shoulder, posture adjusting as she redirects herself toward the hallway.

“I have a report to finish,” she says. “And a stapler to re-discipline.”

She turns. I should let her go. Instead:

“Sara.”

She pauses.

“You’re not the only one pretending.”

She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t respond. But I hear the breath she lets out, frustrated, clipped, honest.

“Goddamn it,” she mutters.

And then she walks away.

I remain where I am, holding the mug I no longer want, with my pulse off rhythm and my instincts trying to reconcile how I just lost control of a conversation I didn’t even initiate.

This isn’t mere attraction. That would be manageable.

This is something slower. Quieter. Far more insidious.

And despite knowing better, I find myself wanting it all the same.

“…and if we reallocate five percent from discretionary tech, we can reinforce Q3 margins without drawing from global operations,” the CFO continues, his voice flat with practiced certainty.

I don’t respond.

Not because I disagree, but because I’m no longer listening.

I should be. I called this meeting. I reviewed the deck. Approved the budget summary. Built the framework they’re now dissecting.

And yet my attention remains fixed elsewhere.

Sara.

She’s seated directly across the table, her posture loose, one hand drumming a quiet rhythm against her notebook, the other absently poised near her mouth. Her bottom lip is caught lightly between her teeth, as though she’s suppressing a laugh at someone’s expense… possibly mine.

She’s an ungoverned presence in a room designed for control. Unfiltered, unpredictable, disarming in ways I still haven’t found language for. The sleeve of her blouse has slipped again, exposing the line of her shoulder, and the skirt she’s wearing rides the line between insubordinate and deliberate. It should be irrelevant. Instead, it’s all I can see.

I glance away. Redirect.

Margins. Forecasts. Projections. The language of power.