The Subordinate

She's so tall. She's so much taller than me.

It's difficult to keep that thought from filling my gaze with unwelcome awe as I stare across at her. My bully. No, my former bully. I need to remind myself of that. It's been years. Still, I have to fight to keep my eyes narrowed with disinterested contempt, and my voice nothing more than businesslike.

"Ms. Robinson," I say, straightening my back, "what makes you think you'd be suitable for this position?"

Ivy smiles, and her smile goes right through me. I have too many memories of being victim to that smile.

"Ms. Robinson?" she drawls. "C'mon, Olive. Is that really necessary?"

I twitch. "This is a job interview. Let's keep things professional."

Ivy shrugs. "Sure."

I pause, waiting for her to answer. My patience breaks first. "Well? What makes you think you'd be suitable?"

"I think you'll find I'm more than qualified," comes her smooth reply.

She's not wrong. It's all on her résumé. For an entry-level position like this, she's an outstanding candidate. When I was scanning through the stack of applications, that jumped out to me almost as much as her name did. Once I double-checked that it was actually her, I considered throwing her application straight into the trash. But I didn't. I had to see her. Didn't I?

She's in really good shape. Way better shape than me. I bet she works out a lot.

"It's about more than just educational background," I retort, pushing down on that thought. "We take our work ethic very seriously here. You might be expected to work some long hours."

Long, long hours. I can feel the heavy, gray bags hanging under my eyes. None of those on Ivy. She's immaculate, as ever. Tonight will be another late one. I'll have to tell Luna I won't be home for dinner. She won't like that, although I'm sure she's getting used to it.

Maybe I should try harder to work less overtime. But...

"No problem," Ivy assures me. "I work hard. You have my references?"

I do, and they're all utterly hagiographic. Frankly, looking at it on paper, I have no reason to pass Ivy over. Looking at it otherwise, I have every reason. Christ, it'd be an HR disaster waiting to happen.

Her breasts. She's so busty. So much bustier than me. How's that fair? How does that even make sense? Isn't she trans?

I push out my chest. "Well, you'd need to be a team player too. You'd be-" I hesitate. "Ivy, you'd be working under me. For me. You get that, right?"

"Of course." She's unruffled.

"You understand that you'll be my subordinate?"

For the briefest of moments, something glints in her eye. Something that frightens me. It passes. "Oh, yes. I understand perfectly."

"And you're... really OK with that?" I ask.

It's difficult to believe. All through college, she took vindictive pride in having me wrapped around her little finger. I still remember how easily I fell for her. She offered me her hand in friendship whilst the clique of hyenas she kept around her barely hid their snickers. I was too stupid to realize what was going on. Too socially inept, as always, and too lonely. Too desperate for company.

Before I knew it, I was writing her assignments for her. She didn't need that - she's smart - but she loved that I would. When she was tired after a soccer match, she'd make me rub her feet. And most of all, she'd make me buy things for her. All her meals, drinks at the bar, new clothes... whatever she wanted. Even drugs, I think. She's always been into that scene.

I could have stopped whenever I wanted, I guess. But not really. I wasn't strong enough, and we both knew it. She was in my head, completely and utterly. All my buttons were hers to push. I was intoxicated with Ivy Robinson. Probably, if you'd asked, I would have called her my best friend. Even as she took me to the brink of ruin.

God, I still remember that phone call I made back home, to my parents, asking for a little more allowance. Trying to laugh, trying to play off all my spending casually. Telling them I'd been going out a lot. Socializing. Enjoying myself. Overdoing it a bit. My folks didn't question it too much. If I had to guess, I'd say they were just grateful their quiet, sheltered, weird, nerdy little girl was having a good time in college, not keeping herself cooped up alone like I always had in high school. They were inclined to be indulgent, but that didn't mean my heart wasn't pounding like crazy for the entire call.

Then, after our class graduated from college, it was all just over. Like it was a nightmare I was waking up from. I don't think my heart has ever pounded like that since. Not even with my girlfriend.

Until here. Until now.

What do I look like, to her? I'm still so small everywhere. So mousy. I'm not athletic like her. Do I look just like I used to? Can she see how much I've grown? Can she?

"Why wouldn't I be OK with that?" she's asking me. She's smiling.

What am I supposed to say? "We have some... personal history," I settle on eventually.

She knew she was taking advantage of me. She always knew. I have no doubt about that.

But Ivy just shrugs. "Water under the bridge," she replies easily. "I mean, unless you're not OK with it."

My heartbeat quickens even more. It's an offhand comment, but I hear in it something more. A challenge: can I handle her?

Of course I can. All of that was ten years ago now. I'm a grown woman. I have a senior position here. I'm in charge.

"Don't be silly," I tell her, and smile. I feel good about being able to say it like that.

"Great!" Ivy beams back at me. "Do you have any more questions for me?"

"I don't think so," I reply, checking my notes. "Do you have any questions for us?"

She dials the job-winning smile up another notch. "Just one: when can I start?"

She's so pretty. God, she's so pretty. So much prettier than me.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I say stiffly. "There are many other candidates under consideration."

But none of them are going to stick in my mind like Ivy does. I definitely shouldn't hire her; that goes without saying. It's just that there's genuinely nobody more qualified, and that means if I don't, I won't be able to shake the feeling that it was because I'm afraid of her.

I'm not, I tell myself. That would be ridiculous. I know that, but I need to make sure Ivy knows it too.

Anyway, maybe I can take pleasure in it. In having her under my thumb for a change. Bossing her around. Treating her like shit. Making her fetch me coffee. Making her days long and miserable.

Yeah. That doesn't sound too bad at all. It's kind of embarrassing how good it sounds, actually. The thought fills me with a girlish thrill I haven't known since college.

I stand up and offer Ivy my hand. "Well, in any case, you'll hear from us soon."

She nods, rises, smiles politely, and takes my hand. And as we shake, she has this look in her eyes like she already knows what I've decided.

***

It's little surprise to me when, after just a few weeks, Ivy is the office darling. The queen bee. She's still an assistant, nominally, but you wouldn't think it from the way they all treat her. None of it challenges professional boundaries, of course. It's simply that they like her, and they want her to like them.

How could they not? Ivy's so striking. She's tall, and the contrast between her dark skin and her platinum-bleached hair makes a statement of her confidence. And she dresses so well - never flashy, just magnificently stylish, in clothes that make little secret of her perfectly-maintained body. It makes me embarrassed of the way I dress each morning, grabbing one of my rote outfits from the closet as I hastily brush my mid-length, plain, brown hair into some semblance of neatness.

Her presence and her popularity itch at me. I was never outgoing in the first place, but now, more and more, I find myself retreating to my little corner office. When the door's shut, nobody disturbs me. One of the privileges of being a manager. It's like my little fortress. While I'm in here, I don't have to think about Ivy. I don't have to think about the contrast between us; about how damn boring my life is, while she's chattering about weekend plans, or about how nobody looks adoringly at me the way they do at her. All I have to do in here is work.

And work. And work, and work, and work. More than ever. The company keeps asking for overtime - it's a crunch period - and I say 'yes' more often than 'no', even though Luna wishes I wouldn't. I've always been like this, a little. Working is one of the few things in life I'm truly good at. It's nice to feel like I have a place. A purpose. An identity. Finding the right balance with that has always been a struggle, but Ivy being here has made it worse. I'm not exactly sure why. It's not career ambition. I think maybe I'm trying to show her up, in a way. Prove I'm more hard-working. Come in earlier, stay later. Impress her with my dedication.

Not a good way to try and show her up, obviously. Out of sight in my office, behind a door. Just the only way I've got.

Anyway, it's not all bad. There are small pleasures to having Ivy Robinson working as an assistant in my office. She's polite. Deferential, even. She has to be. When I ask her to do things, I get to hear her say 'Yes, Ms. Barnes' in that coffee-smooth voice of hers, and it sends shivers down my spine. It makes me fantasize. And there's such a thrill to the little ritual that plays out each morning, when she knocks at my door and waits to be told to enter so she can set down my coffee on my desk. That's always the moment I'm glad I hired her. Ivy Robinson, my subordinate.

There's that HR disaster waiting to happen.

We don't talk much, outside of functional little work exchanges. It makes sense; I'm no conversationalist. Not until one evening, when she cracks open my door to tell me she's going home. She catches me at the worst time, mid-phone call to my girlfriend.

"Again? Olive, you said you were almost done with this..."

"I know, I know. We were... are. Just... not quite yet."

"They work you too hard, I swear." A little laugh, mostly to conceal the fact that it's not 'them' she's unhappy with.

"Sorry, Luna," I offer eventually.

"It's OK. You... gotta do what you gotta do, right?"

"Yeah."

"We should really do something romantic soon. Something intimate. It's... it's been a while." It sounds like more of an ultimatum than she means it to. "I miss you."

"We will," I offer quickly. "Promise. I miss you too. All this will be over soon. I'm just... well, it's a busy time of year."

"Right." Another pause. "Well, take care, OK?"

"You too." I hesitate. "Bye."

"Bye."

She hangs up. I sigh - and then see who's standing in my doorway. I freeze. I wonder how much she overheard.

"I was just about to head home," Ivy says, entirely professionally. "Working late again, Ms. Barnes?"

"Yeah," I reply, and end up yawning my way through the word, embarrassingly.

"Oh no." Ivy frowns. "You work too hard, Olive."

I'm instantly suspicious, but she sounds so genuine in her sympathy. It seduces me. "I know, I know. I really do."

"Everyone's always talking about it." Now it's more than an exchange. It's a conversation. Ivy takes a step into my office. Into my territory. "You're the most dedicated worker here!"

My heart skips a beat. Is that respect I hear in her voice? Is Ivy Robinson impressed with me? I dare to hope. "Well, I... the higher-ups are depending on me. You know how it is."

"Of course." Ivy carefully closes the door behind her. "It's what I expected, when I started working here! I remember you telling me about that. I was pretty surprised when it turned out to be just another email job."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I just mean... sure, they always put out those calls for overtime," Ivy says casually, stepping over toward my desk. "But it's not like they're compulsory. Hardly anyone takes them up, except you."

"Maybe everybody else should start considering it," I tell her tersely.

"Point taken," she admits with a laugh. "It just makes me wonder why, you know?"

"I'm a team player, Ivy. A hard worker." I fold my arms. I can't resist taking a jab. "Maybe that's why you're out there on the floor, and I'm in here with the nice office."

It doesn't seem to land. Ivy ignores it. "A hard worker," she mulls. "A team player. Yeah. Absolutely. Takes me back to college. All those long nights you spent out in the library."

Doing Ivy's assignments. That part remains unsaid. I start trembling. It's been ten years, but suddenly it doesn't feel like it at all.

"Is this import-"

I start to rebuke her, but then she perches on the edge of my desk, and in doing so, knocks over my stationary. Shifts a few papers, too. She lets out a little 'oops', but the look on her face says it's no big deal.

But it is. At once, it starts to itch at me. My desk is painstakingly arranged. Every paper, every pen, every computer peripheral in its place. It's how I like it. How I need it. And now it's all wrong. Everything scattered and strewn. Pencils rolling haphazardly around.

It's no big deal - not to her, and I wish it wasn't to me either. I'm instantly upset by the unfairness of it. Why does it have to throw me off this bad?

"Honestly," Ivy drawls, "it's like you can't help yourself! You're not saving up for something big, are you?"

"No," I blurt out in reply, before I can stop myself indulging her. Her presence is overbearing. Perched on my desk, she looms over me.

An apology is on the tip of my tongue. Why? Why do I want to say sorry? What would I even be apologizing for? For... myself?

"Didn't think so," she says. Her amusement is plain. "Wild. It made sense back then. I mean, it's not like you had anything else to make time for, right? But now you have a girlfriend waiting for you at home. That's a little sad, Olive."

"This... this is inappropriate," I tell her quietly, just barely managing to keep my voice measured. Even saying that is a gargantuan effort. Ivy's attention is so potent. I can't quite hate it, even when it's too much, and her slight but palpable mockery is all it takes to make my head spin.

"I didn't mean it like that!" Ivy laughs and holds up her hands. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful! Thanks to you pulling these crazy hours, the rest of us get to go home nice and early. You're doing me a favor."

"I am?" I squeak. "R-right."

I didn't think about it like that. But now I certainly am, and I know instantly I won't be able to think of it any other way. Why did she have to put it like that? Why did she have to ruin it all for me?

Oh no. It's happening again, isn't it? It's just like before. Nothing's changed.

"Which, I mean, again, just like college," Ivy remarks. She smiles. I twitch. I'm trying to marshal my thoughts, but it's so hard. "Hey, why don't we go out again sometime? It'll be like old times. You clearly need to blow off some steam. Maybe spend some of all this overtime pay on some drinks and-"

"Ms. Robinson!" I yell abruptly, bolting to my feet. Ivy looks startled. I'm startled too; I didn't mean to get angry like this. "This is inappropriate!"

I was this close to saying 'yes' to her. That's what spurred me into action. That old instinct is rusty, perhaps, but it's still there, oh yes, and everything Ivy said was helping to grease it up. I couldn't take another word out of her. I'd break.

But that would be unbearable. It would make me the worst, irrecoverably. I'd never be able to forgive myself, and all the anger I've ever felt toward Ivy Robinson rose like a tide to save me.

Watching Ivy jump up and flinch back is like a red rag to a bull. I have to give everything not to let it all flow out of me. Everything I've been bottling up all these years. That little hint of fear in her face is the ultimate intoxicant. The only way I can keep control is by promising myself that there's still more satisfaction to be found in holding the high ground.

"I am your superior," I tell her sternly. I'll make her listen. "You are my subordinate. I suggest you take that under consideration when you decide how to speak to me."

"Woah." Ivy throws up her hands. There's still a kind of smirk on her face. I want to wipe it off. "It's just a little reminiscing, that's all! I didn't mean anything by-"

"Enough!" I snap. "Yes, Ivy, you did. We both know it. Well, guess what? This isn't college anymore. Grow up. I have."

There's a sudden, terrible darkening of Ivy's face. It cuts through my anger. I've seen that look before. It's the one she gets whenever she hears 'no'.

"Be careful, Olive," Ivy warns, her voice low, silky. "Why don't you lower your voice? You wouldn't want anyone to overhear us, would you?"

She's wrong. I don't care. Let them all hear. I want them to hear this bully getting put in her place. "That's Ms. Barnes to you, Ivy. And if I have to remind you again, you'll be looking for another job."

Ivy stares daggers at me. I'm terrible with eye contact, but just this once, I push myself to my limit. I stare back at her, even though it makes me twitch a little.

When she blinks, I feel like a god.

"Of course." Ivy nods her head submissively. "I'm sorry, Ms. Barnes."

I want to smile and cheer and rub it in her face. Instead, I just keep staring. "Now get out."

With that, I'm treated to the sight of the tall, busty, muscular, beautiful Ivy Robinson turning her back and fleeing out of my office. I can all but see the tail between her legs. Once she closes the door behind her, like she knows I want, the smile comes to my face. No, more than just a smile. A giddy, stupid, girlish grin I don't think I've ever felt before. My hands are shaking up and down, overcome with the energy of the moment. I can't stand still.

I did it. I beat her. I won.

Nothing could be more vindicating. Suddenly every single decision that led me here feels like the thread of destiny. It's perfect. All of it.

And its glow keeps me warm even as I sit back down, fix my desk, and prepare myself for the long, lonely night ahead.

By the next morning, the glow has faded and curdled into trepidation. I have to see Ivy again. My rattled nerves tell me that she'll have found some way to rally herself. To turn the tables once more, in the little psychological war between us. I'm far from best prepared for it. In the end, I crawled home for barely six hours of meager sleep. I barely got to speak to Luna.

When Ivy does make her appearance - not early, but certainly not late - my fears are banished. She's dressed a touch more modestly than usual - black slacks, a plain blouse that buttons up very high - and she knocks on my door so meekly I don't realize it's her at first.

"Good morning, Ms. Barnes," she says politely. "Your morning coffee."

"Thank you."

My eyes widen slightly as she sets it carefully down on the corner of my desk. It's not the usual stuff from the shitty machine in the break room. I don't recognize the cup, but the aroma tells me that it's good. Pricey, I have to imagine.

"I thought you deserved something a bit nicer than instant," Ivy says in answer to my questioning look. "Since you've been working so hard."

Nothing on earth could keep my face from lighting up. At once, I get it: this is a peace offering. No, better. It's tribute. She wants to get on my good side.

And why shouldn't she? I'm Ivy's boss. I gave her this job, and I can take it away. She's in the palm of my hand. My hand. After all this time. Fuck, it feels better than I'd ever imagined.

Ivy's watching me expectantly, and I don't even mind that she's seeing me with such a stupid, goofy grin on my face. Like I'm a kid opening her birthday presents while all her friends have to sit at the table and watch. Her watching is fine by me. I want to savor the moment, and I want her to marinate in it. So, I reach for the cup and drink. I hope Ivy will look relieved when she sees I'm enjoying it.