Elizabeth
Your boss calls you into her office to give you a feedback.
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Life hasn't been easy. Juggling university and work has drained me more than I ever expected. My grades are suffering, my focus is splintered, and I know it. The mirror doesn't lie.
But today, the weight feels heavier. I'm barely seated at my cramped desk when a colleague taps my shoulder with a grim face
The VP wants to see you. Now.My stomach drops. Everyone in the open-plan office steals glances at me—some curious, most worried. We all know the reputation. She doesn't forgive. She doesn't forget. And she certainly doesn't do small talk. Her name is Elizabeth Taylor. Forty-three, blonde, and impossibly commanding. Ruthless, they whisper. Cold as a vault. And today, I'm the one walking into her crosshairs. As I stand and smooth my wrinkled shirt, my mind races through a dozen excuses. None of them will matter. She'll see through every one. I reach her office—a sleek glass cage overlooking the city. The door is ajar. I knock, step inside, and there she is. Seated behind a minimalist desk, hands folded, eyes locked on me. Not curious. Not annoyed. Judging. Like I'm a line item bleeding red ink. Before I can open my mouth, her low, measured voice cuts the silence.
Sit. Now. We're going to discuss your performance.