**A Promotion**
It’s no secret that promotions come in different ways. Some earn them through hard work, others by stepping over their superiors, and a few by taking a business trip with the boss.
The news that the new director—replacing the retired Peter Edwards—wasn’t one of the company’s own but an outsider, threw everyone off balance. Hopes that Simon Carter, who’d been acting as interim director, would take the role were dashed. The gossip grew juicier with each retelling: she was young, glamorous, a proper ice queen, rumoured to be the mistress of someone high up—though no names were mentioned. Best not to poke the bear.
At ten sharp, the staff gathered in the conference room to meet the new director. Daniel was the last to enter. As if on cue, every head turned his way.
A young woman stood at the front, her hair slicked back into a severe bun. Her tailored suit clung to her like a second skin—slender legs, sharp heels, bold lipstick, and a gaze colder than a winter’s night completed the picture.
“Your name?” Her voice cut through the silence like steel.
“Daniel Whitmore,” he answered, steady but with just a hint of defiance, dipping his head slightly as if he might—but didn’t—click his heels.
“You’re late, Mr. Whitmore. I was just emphasising punctuality. First and last warning. Sit.” The edge in her voice made half the room wince.
Daniel dropped into the chair beside his mate and colleague, Ethan.
“Bit of a dragon, eh?” he muttered.
“Worse,” Ethan whispered back. “Not a woman—a bloody machine. And she wants to turn us into the same.”
They introduced themselves one by one, rattling off roles and responsibilities. Her pointed remarks made it clear she knew the business inside out. But when it was Daniel’s turn, she dismissed the room with a curt thank-you.
“Well, well,” Ethan smirked. “Good luck with that.”
“Right. Back to work before she sacks the lot of us,” Daniel said, though the murmurs about impending changes followed them out.
For two weeks, no one dared be late. Coffee breaks were strictly at lunch, and fag breaks were swift and joyless. But old habits die hard. Soon, everyone slipped back—late arrivals, smoke breaks, endless coffee runs. But no one pushed their luck.
At the end of the third week, the secretary tapped Daniel’s desk. “Miss Harrington wants to see you.”
“Sit,” she commanded when he entered. “I like how you work. Efficient, no fuss. So why are you still a junior? Did my predecessor have it in for you?”
“No.” Daniel wasn’t sure where this was going.
“Your department head retires next year. Time to groom a successor.” She studied him. He met her eyes without flinching.
“You could do the job as well as she does,” she continued, twirling a pen between slender fingers. “There’s an exhibition in London this Friday—next-gen equipment. You’ll go, assess it, report back. Expenses and tickets are with accounts.”
“But Friday’s tomorrow,” Daniel frowned.
“I’m aware. You’ll be back Sunday. Any objections?”
He shrugged. Couldn’t very well say he’d promised his lad, Alfie, a trip to Blackpool Pleasure Beach—something the boy had been counting down for weeks. Or that his wife, Sarah, would probably assume he was sneaking off for a lark, not work. And yet…
***
“You *promised*,” Alfie whined, lip trembling.
“Don’t think I *want* to go, do I? Work’s work. We’ll go next weekend. I’ll bring you back… What do you want, anyway?”
“A RoboRex!” Alfie perked up instantly.
“Done.” Daniel ruffled his hair.
“Couldn’t they send someone else? Odd timing, a weekend trip,” Sarah said flatly, folding shirts into his suitcase.
“More people can go without disrupting work. The new boss asked why I’m still a junior. Maybe a promotion’s coming.” He couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice.
“About time. Is she pretty?” Sarah’s tone was too casual.
Daniel didn’t buy the feigned indifference. “Who?”
“Your new boss.” The suitcase zipper snapped shut.
“Pretty, yeah. And cold as a statue. They call her the Ice Queen.” He almost laughed—packing like this, it *did* look dodgy. Toothbrush, shirts, razor… like he was off for a rendezvous.
On the plane, passengers shuffled jackets and bags into overhead bins. Daniel turned to the window, thinking of that old song—how planes really did look like sleeping birds.
He relaxed. Not bad, flying to London instead of being stuck in the office. And alone, for once. *Enjoy it,* he told himself, closing his eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Whitmore.” That steely voice again.
Daniel turned. Miss Harrington sat beside him.
*Interesting. Didn’t trust me alone, or planned this all along? Accounting must know she’s on the same flight. The gossip’ll be brutal.*
“Try to look less horrified. You’d think I was your wife,” she said, the ghost of a smile touching her lips.
He didn’t laugh. Noticed she was dressed down—still stunning. They exchanged empty pleasantries until takeoff.
“Rumour is you got your position through… *connections*,” Daniel ventured.
She ignored it, launching into a story about a near-crash last year that left her wary of flying. *Changing the subject. Fine.* Then she pretended to sleep.
Daniel watched clouds through the window. Where was this headed? How was he supposed to act? Would this trip decide his promotion?
After check-in (their rooms *conveniently* adjacent), they headed straight to the exhibition. Everyone knew her—she stopped often to chat. Daniel wandered alone, then returned to the hotel.
Fresh from a shower, he was about to call Sarah when a knock came. He cancelled the call, sighed, and opened the door.
Miss Harrington stood there—wine in one hand, chocolate in the other, dressed in jeans and a soft jumper. Without heels, she seemed small, almost fragile. The transformation was startling.
“May I come in? Am I interrupting?” Her eyes darted away from his half-open robe.
“Course not. Just—give me a sec.” He grabbed shirt and trousers, ducking into the bathroom.
When he emerged, she’d poured wine into hotel glasses. Red as blood in the dim light, she perched on the bed, legs crossed, the chocolate unwrapped beside her. Daniel sat at a safe distance.
“I thought we could both use a drink. Eases conversation.” She handed him a glass. “How long have you been with the firm?”
“Didn’t you already check? You know Margaret’s retiring soon.”
“You’re prickly.” She sipped. “Yes, I looked. Married, six-year-old son—Alfie, was it? Army, university. I, on the other hand, always wanted to run a company *my* way.”
“It’s working. They’re terrified of you.”
She ignored that. “Pour me another.” She held out her glass. “So, the exhibition? Forgot to ask earlier. Ran into too many acquaintances.”
Daniel listed highlights, the wine loosening his tongue. He didn’t notice her watching until she set her glass down—lipstick stain on the rim—and stood before him, hands on his shoulders. Her chest was level with his eyes…
***
Daniel barely set his suitcase down before Alfie barrelled into him.
“Dad’s back!” He swung the boy up.
“Blimey, you’re getting heavy.” He dug out the promised RoboRex.
“YES! Exactly what I wanted!”
Sarah appeared from the kitchen, studying him. Daniel looked away.
After dinner, she unpacked, carrying dirty shirts to the laundry—then returned, holding one up. A red smudge on the collar.
“Daniel, *what is this*? I *knew* this wasn’t just work.”
He fumbled excuses, but Sarah wasn’t having it. The row exploded. Alfie fled to his room.
“Get your promotion, then?” she yelled.
“You’re always on about money! Now there’ll be more,” he shot back.
That night, he slept on the sofa. Next evening, a note waited on the table: Sarah had taken Alfie to her mum’s.
***
“Mr. Whitmore, are you listening?” Miss Harrington’s voice snapped him back.
The mental replay faded. Blimey, all that in seconds.
“What was I saying?” Her glare was iron.
“Sorry. Got distracted. I can’t go. Promised my lad Blackpool this weekend. Two weeks he’s waited. Send Ethan—he’s just as good. Wants that promotion bad.”
“I’ll consider it. You *do* understand the consequences of refusing?” She set her pen down like a full stop. “Leave.”
Daniel turned, a chill down his spine.The next Monday, Ethan strutted into the office, grinning like the cat who got the cream, while Daniel sipped his tea, content with the sound of Alfie’s laughter still fresh in his mind.
