"Ahem."
Immediately, Natasha froze as a shiver of dread raced down her spine. That was all it took. A distinctive cough. That was all her manager needed to do to let her know that he was standing behind her and that he was displeased. Trying her best to keep her face even, Natasha turned around.
"H-Hi," she said nervously.
"Hi," Brighton Beck, her manager, replied. Somehow, with his face drawn into a vicious sneer, he managed to make even that one, simple greeting sound like a mocking echo. "Do you know what I'm here to talk to you about?"
Natasha's heart sank. She'd been dreading this all morning. "Y-Yes," she said. "The new update build. I-I know it's running a little late. There were just a few issues - I mentioned them in an email? - and so it's going to take a bit longer to-"
"A little late is right," Brighton interrupted, crossing his arms. "At this company we expect results, Miss Walker. Not excuses."
Natasha looked down miserably. She'd heard all this before. "Yes, sir."
Brighton made an ugly noise. "Don't call me 'sir'. That's not how we do things around here. We're a family, Miss Walker. I believe I've told you that before. And in a family like this, it's very important that everyone pulls their weight."
Natasha could barely hear his words over the sound of the nauseating, high-pitched ringing they left in her ears. She just wanted him to leave her alone. The best way to do that was to just look down, say nothing, and endure his abuse, but every time she did that, she was left sickened with herself. Shouldn't she fight back?
"I-it's just not that simple!" Natasha protested shrilly, her composure and restraint cracking for a moment. "Look," she insisted, turning back to her computer monitor and pointing. "See here? This code? The kind of neurological and psychological modeling and modification we're working on is totally unprecedented! It's not-"
"It's not my job to deal with these technicalities, Miss Walker," Brighton interrupted, his arrogant, smarmy voice easily cutting through hers. "It's yours. Weren't you supposed to be some kind of whiz kid?"
That was the moment Natasha gave up. There was no winning. Not for her. Not with Brighton Beck.
She'd spent many long hours wracking her brain to try and figure out why he had such an issue with her. She'd wondered if she'd offended him somehow. She wondered if he didn't like that she was a lesbian. In the end, she'd come to one, simple conclusion: Brighton was a bully, and she was an easy target.
When Natasha had first landed a job at Infostridia, a tech firm, it had seemed ideal. A nice, stable coding position, where she could keep her head down and bury herself in the kind of work she was good at. Natasha had always been shy, and after a difficult time in high school and college, she'd come to the conclusion she was best off working within her own limits. She was better at talking to computers than people; it was just that simple. After getting hired, she'd decided to do everything she could to avoid attracting any kind of unwanted attention. She wore her mousy, brown hair in a neat bun, wore a plain, grey blouse with an innocuous pencil skirt, and tried to keep out of other people's way. She didn't care how much of a stereotypical, nerdy office lady she looked, with her big, round, thick-rimmed glasses. She just wanted to be left alone.
And then she'd been assigned to work under Brighton.
As far as Natasha could tell, he was all middle-manager. Despite not having any background in tech, he seemed to have convinced the bosses that he was somehow indispensable as a project lead, and as such he almost always got his way. Ever since her first day at the job, he'd seemed to be able to sense Natasha's meekness. He'd learned to exploit it ruthlessly, piling an obscene workload on her and taking sadistic pleasure in watching her struggle under its weight.
It wasn't fair! Brighton was every bit as much of an asshole as he looked, so why didn't anyone else seem to see it? About ten or fifteen years Natasha's senior, he always wore jeans and a sweater vest, and had his dirty blonde hair swept over to one side. He liked showing off his expensive watches, expensive shoes, and his expensive wedding ring. And while everyone else fawned over him like he was a prize peacock, Natasha was left to deal with his nasty side and endure whatever unfair treatment he gave her.
It wasn't fair. And it was ruining her life.
"I hope you'll try harder to live up to the company's expectations, Miss Walker," Brighton continued, after Natasha had firmly lapsed into silence. "Naturally, I'll be expecting you to stay late until you've rectified your mistake."
Natasha's heart split in two. She was going to have to miss out on her board game night with her friends - again. "But-"
"Good," Brighton pressed, as if she had agreed. The self-satisfied smirk on his face was growing larger with each passing moment. "Remember, your first employee performance review is coming up soon. I'd hate to have to deliver any bad news. Although perhaps it wouldn't be such a surprise. You know what they say about women in tech. It never works out."
Ah, he was a misogynist after all, then.
After that, Brighton turned on his heels and strutted away from Natasha's desk. He seemed to have taken her stiff pose and down-turned face for submission. In fact, Natasha was merely trying not to shake with barely-contained rage. With that last, sexist comment of his, something inside her had snapped. Her hands were balled into fists so tight it was turning her knuckles white. Enough was enough. Natasha was done taking her manager's abuse.
She was going to do something about it.
In moments, a plan appeared in her head. It was cruel, sadistic and perverse, but Brighton deserved it all, if not worse. Natasha thought about Brighton's most cherished possession, the framed photo of his gorgeous wife he kept on his desk to try and make his employees jealous. Then, she thought about the project she was currently working on at Infostridia. Brighton might not have known or cared about the technology involved, but Natasha certainly did. It was cutting edge stuff, combining the latest in neurological research with new advancements in the field of subliminals and hypnotic imagery.
All she had to do was put those things to an even more unethical use than what Silicon Valley was already planning.
Natasha once again turned back to her desk and started working on her new project. She stayed long into the night, and for once, she was eager to put in the overtime.
Thoughts of the look she was going to put on Brighton's face were all she needed to spur her on.
***
Valentina Beck sighed as she walked down the aisle of the supermarket, hoping that something would catch her eye and give her an idea of what to cook for dinner. That was what the highlight of her day had been reduced to: shopping at Whole Foods. The sheer tedium of her daily life was driving her crazy. It was so, so very tempting to just call it quits and order take-out or something, but she knew what that would mean: another argument with her husband, Brighton.
What had happened to him? Before their wedding, he'd seemed so kind, so charming and so generous. But the moment they'd tied the knot, he'd become a completely different person. One of his new demands was that, as his wife, she'd have a home-made meal prepared for him each day when he returned from work. Valentina didn't mind cooking, but when she'd pointed out that he should do his fair share of the cooking too, he'd flown into a rage. Despite all his old insistences otherwise, he didn't seem to respect her attempts - so far, admittedly, unsuccessful - to make a career for herself in theater. He seemed to view her as nothing more than a housewife, insisting that since he had a regular job and brought home most of their money, she should do all the cooking and all of the housework.
Valentina could have argued, of course. But she didn't like arguing, whereas Brighton seemed to thrive off of it, and that ensured he always got his way. He no longer bothered with any of the sweet, thoughtful little gestures he'd lavished upon her at the beginning of their relationship, either. Not for the first time, Valentina thought about ditching him. But she didn't want a divorce. She was too young to be divorced, wasn't she? Too young or too old; she couldn't figure out which.
At least she looked good for her age. Valentina could flatter herself that. As she'd aged into her late thirties, her figure had truly blossomed. One of the naughty little highlights of her shopping trips were the times she caught one of the retail workers mouthing 'MILF' to one of their colleagues when she was around. Being stared at in public wasn't the most dignified of pleasures, but she'd take what she could get. Looking good was important in theater, and Valentina had made sure to make the most of her new assets. She wore long, flowing dresses that clung a little to her wide hips, and she made sure her long, black hair always fell around her face in perfect, silky waves. Along with a push-up bra, a wide-brimmed hat and some sunglasses, she looked like a beauty right out of old Hollywood.
Now, if only she could have a relationship with someone who actually respected her. Was that too much to ask?
