Coup d'etat [Closed for GriffinMac]

"... I'm sorry Rebecca, but I really do think it's for the best."

Rebecca Swift sipped her wine and nodded. She supposed that some response was required from her but couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't trite. In the end she opted to stick with the truth.

"I want you to be happy David and I'm not just saying that." Emotion crept into her tone, surprising her. "If this is what you need, then who am I to try and stop you?"

As she drained her glass, her boyfriend of eighteen months headed out the door to meet the new woman of his dreams, with her blessing. There had been no awkward scene, no tears or recriminations. Even now Rebecca's emotional exoskeleton exuded nothing but calm. She stepped out into the street, hailed a taxi and returned to her apartment.

Back home, Rebecca poured herself another large glass of red and then curled up on the sofa to mull things over. Her apartment was immaculate and austere in its chic simplicity. Heavy furniture in dark woods matched her hardwood floors and were softened by fabrics in tasteful shades of beige and periwinkle blue. Technology was understated and often concealed. It was a restful, ordered space. There was not one item visible that appeared to have sentimental value and no photographs. One wall above her workstation had certificates of academic and professional achievement. Aside from that, anyone could live here.


Rebecca had been born in London, England, to parents who belonged to a sectarian Christian faith that believed the world was about to end. Devout to the point of madness, they believed the world to be in the last days described in the book of Revelation. They confidently expected Armageddon to ensue and for God to smite the wicked on a global scale. The headquarters of their church was in New York City, so when Rebecca was ten, they emigrated in order to support the church there.

Mr and Mrs Swift home schooled their daughter, in collaboration with some local moms of the same faith. They sought to instil in their daughter the same strict religious values that they strove for themselves. Somehow though, around the time Rebecca started going through puberty, Mr and Mrs Swift lost their way. They worried constantly about her burgeoning hormones and how she would cope with the various temptations that life would present. Rebecca socialised exclusively with people who belonged to her parents' church. When she naturally became curious about the world beyond their congregation, they branded her wilful and wayward. They caught her reading library books which they had not supplied and became anxious about what worldly nonsense she was exposing herself to. Their punishments escalated as she grew older and her curiosity about the world increased. Soon Mr and Mrs Swift had lost sight of what constituted suitable chastisement. They viewed their hormonal, slightly rebellious daughter as inherently wicked.

In time, their extreme measures to force their daughter back onto a 'righteous' path lead to injuries that required them to distance themselves even from their church. In the end it was the intervention of a neighbour calling in child protection services that saw Rebecca removed from her home.

Aged fourteen and with zero experience of secular society, Rebecca found herself in a children's home and attending a local high school.

Even without her British accent and 'sheltered' upbringing, Rebecca had nothing in common with her peers. As a petite and underdeveloped child she was a natural target for bullies. Many a child would have become utterly demoralised and given up trying to study but Rebecca was not most children.

Like most older and troubled children, Rebecca had no hope of being fostered into a family. She found she got all the praise and encouragement she needed however, from academic success. If there was a test or competition of any kind, she aced it. Her determination to study became obsessive and the library became her sanctuary. She arrived as soon as it opened and studied, read or volunteered there until they kicked her out each evening. Rebecca was way behind her classmates in some subjects because she hadn't covered the same curriculum but maths she had a fluid grasp of and there was a security in working with numbers that she just didn't get from classes like history and geography. As she grew older she leaned more heavily towards maths, sciences and business.

She had nothing in common with her disaffected peers. She did not try to ditch her British accent or to learn what was popular in TV and music. Rebecca knew that education was her ticket out of her current personal hell. She could not go to college without a full scholarship, so she simply made it her life's mission to win that scholarship. Her determination was unparalleled and it would have taken a braver man than her school principal to tell Rebecca Swift that she had failed.

She graduated Summa Cum Laude from Colombia Business School and was promptly snapped up by Miller and Whitlock, a prestigious finance broking firm that worked exclusively with corporate property acquisitions and refinancing. While her fellow junior associates worked hard and played hard, her quiet determination soon got her noticed for all the right reasons. Rebecca even went to assertiveness classes, in order to start putting herself forward as a man would do without getting perceived as bitchy. Her hard work and fluid grasp of business finance meant that she soon outclassed her colleagues and she moved up the corporate ladder with ruthless efficiency.

Now she was thirty-two and a department head, commanding 5 senior brokers, 20 brokers and some thirty associates and administrative staff. She had a plush corner office overlooking a rare bit of NYC greenery. It boasted a glass topped desk, big leather covered swivel chair, two low slung sofas and a coffee table as meeting space. By all accounts Rebecca had really made something of herself but the truth was that rather than opting to go into a male dominated arena like finance, she simply didn't know how to do anything else.


In its way, her life was as austere as her childhood had been. She still had knee-jerk guilt when it came to materialism and adult relationships, even though she had long since ceased believing in God. Rebecca was on a very generous salary now, with commission and bonuses added to that but though she lived comfortably, she spent very little of what she earned. Her money was out in the business sector, breeding even more money but she wouldn't spend that either. She told herself she had all manner of plans for the cash but she had done nothing of note with it since buying and furnishing her apartment.

The second glass of wine slipped down and she allowed herself a rare third. Rebecca had never really seen what David had been attracted to in the first place. He had been the first man to really get under her skin, though she had experimented with relationships before he came along. Having never been the recipient of demonstrative love, she didn't really have any concept of what constituted normal and expected affection and intimacy. David had probed enough to learn that her past was a closed book and tried to accept that Rebecca wasn't a demonstrative or passionate person but over time, her inability cope with receiving love, praise and affection pushed him away. She didn't blame him for finding someone else, someone he could be happy with.

The tears fell then but they were for herself, not David. There was nothing she could do about her hardwired psychology at this stage in her life. She was never going to be one of life's happy, carefree people. Rebecca kept her emotions locked fast in her chest, where even she seldom drew them out and looked at them. She was naturally mistrustful of love and pathologically detached from others. There was a small circle of friends with whom she interacted but it was all superficial really, nobody in whom she would ever confide her true feelings. Quite regularly she would avoid even that social contact, content with her own company.

She masturbated but infrequently, usually after a few glasses of wine and inspiration from a good film or book. She knew there was no omniscient deity watching her pleasure herself but somehow she could never quite exorcise her parents' notion of God from her head. Sometimes she would feel guilty about being sexually active, whereas at other times she was quietly belligerent, daring who or whatever was up there to prove that he existed and gave a fuck about mankind. Surely, any god that cared about mankind would be unconcerned by one woman fucking or masturbating. Far worse things happened across the globe unchecked. Sometimes Rebecca got tired of this train of thought and gave up on sex or masturbation altogether.

After her third drink, Rebecca stripped down, climbed into bed and started touching herself. She remembered the good times she'd had with David, the good sex. He was a gentle and generous lover, something that made Rebecca feel secure, even while it failed to distract her enough to keep her mind from getting onto its treadmill of moral and religious debate. He would never have hurt her and they shared many of the same tastes. On paper he was her perfect man, so why had she never felt the kind of life-altering love that all the movies and songs spoke of?

Maybe she just couldn't. Maybe she was just fundamentally and irrevocably damaged inside.

Self loathing overlaid the sudden pang of loss she felt for David but Rebecca was too far gone to just stop circling her clit. She climaxed to a fleeting image of him kissing her as he made love to her slowly. There were tears drying on her cheeks as she closed her eyes to the whole maelstrom of warring emotion and fell into a fitful doze.


She was up with her alarm at 5.30am. Still restless and groggy, Rebecca went jogging for an hour to clear her head and then jumped into the shower. Water cascaded over her tiny five foot frame, slender and lightly muscled from athletic exercise. Her raven black hair fell in saturated waves to the base of her spine, contrasting sharply with her very fair complexion. Dark green eyes framed with long black lashes closed slowly as she soaped herself between the legs, tugging at a residual frission of last night's tension. Her B cup breasts sat high on her ribcage, pale pink nipples still pointing youthfully skywards. Her toned ass with dimples at the base of her spine was a testament to the jogging she did and the subway journey she made rather than walk or drive each day. She looked far younger than her years and she knew it.

That morning she selected a burgundy skirt suit that brought out what colour there was in her complexion. To make the look more modern and edgy, she added a tightly fitted black blouse and black platform-heeled knee length boots. Her make-up was understated but with a slash of crimson lipgloss to keep her from looking washed out. She donned her designer spectacles, spritzed on her favourite Armani Code scent and then headed out the door to the office.

She had fielded multiple calls before she even made it to her desk. Rebecca took her espresso gratefully from her assistant, Marco. He waved a sheaf of messages at her and she gestured tersely for him to email them across.

The newest batch of junior associates were due their reviews today, which would only add to Rebecca's workload. They were so well selected that the reviews were usually just a formality but if anyone was failing to achieve the standards expected of them, it would be now that it was brought to her attention and at some point, her advice would be sought.

As Kyle Masterson dragged himself out of bed and made his way to the shower, he reflected on how much things had changed over the last six months. For all of his 24 years, the arc his life would take appeared clear. He grew up in a middle class suburb of Chicago. His parents were loving and supportive, even if his father was prone to fits of rage. There was never an abundance of money, but they got by ok. And he was taught from his earliest days that if he worked hard enough, he would succeed.

So, he studied hard and received grades good enough to get him into Northwestern, but not good enough for a scholarship to pay for it. So he got loans to cover tuition and worked nights to pay for everything else. He studied even harder in college and got grades good enough to get into Northwestern's Kellogg School where he got his MBA. Again, student loans got him through. There he endured the toughest classes and hardest work he'd ever experienced. And through sheer determination and effort, he finished third in his class. A month from graduation he was contacted by recruiters from several top brokerage firms. They were all large, prestigious firms with tremendous reputations, but Miller and Whitlock in New York was at the top of the heap. They wanted him and it didn't take long for Kyle to say yes.

Everything was going exactly how it was supposed to go. Work hard, go to the right schools, get the best grades, get the great job, move up the ladder and get rich. So Kyle moved to New York. While Miller and Whitlock was the path to riches, the poor economy, few jobs and abundance of MBA's meant that starting salaries for Junior Associates were quite modest. And in Manhattan, a modest salary was only enough to get Kyle a grotty little third floor walk up studio in the not-so-trendy part of the Lower East Side. But that was ok to Kyle. This is the price you pay. You get paid pennies, and live in a crappy apartment but you're on the fast track to easy street.

That's the phrase the recruiter used, "fast track to easy street." As a highly sought after recruit, he'd the on the fast track, the recruiter said. He'd have the best mentor, the best clients, and the biggest accounts. He'd have every opportunity to succeed and succeed big. And those successes would get him promotion after promotion and raise after raise. Soon, student loan debt would be replaced by more money than he'd have any idea what to do with.

These are the thoughts that ran through Kyle's head as he stood under the intermittently hot-then-cold-then-hot spray from the shower head. But that perfect life arc had taken quite a hit in the last six months. It turns out the reality of his job and his opportunities were not at all what the recruiter described. Instead of working directly on client files, he spent most of his time as a glorified secretary. And belt tightening at the firm meant that the staff had been so thinned out that his supposed "top mentor," Trevor Wilson, was so busy with his clients and his workload that he almost no time to train Kyle, much less be a genuine mentor to him.

So here he was, over $150,000 in debt, living in a dank shithole of an apartment, in a low paying job that appeared to have little or no future. As he ran the bar of soap over his body, he reflected that at least he was keeping himself together physically. While not a body builder, or a fitness nut, he always made time to keep himself in shape. He played football in high school and was proud that he seemed to be in even better shape now. At 6'1" and 180 pounds, he was both lean and strong with nice muscular definition, but not so much mass that he looked foolish. He had a thick crop of dark brown hair and deep brown eyes which some women had referred to as "mysterious." This thought made Kyle chuckle. No mystery here. Just another sucker with an advanced degree and no future.

So Kyle got dressed. He put on the uniform: crisp white shirt, the obligatory navy blue suit, tie with geometric pattern and red accent color (looks and feels like silk, but is actually from manmade fibers) and black wingtips by Florsheims. He was out the door by 7:30 am and at his desk before 8:00 am. He wondered if he'd be home by 8:00 pm. He looked at his calendar and saw that today was the day for his 6 month performance review. He'd actually get to speak to the department head, Rebecca Swift. This was his shot. He had to make his move today. His so called "mentor," had ignored his many requests to actually be given some productive work on real client files. This was his opportunity to go over his head and speak with someone who really had the power to give him an opportunity and get his career moving. It was make or break. So for the first few hours of the day, he focused on what he was going to say, going over it in his head again and again until he finally had it perfect.

At 10:59, he showed up at Ms. Swift's assistant's desk.

"Marco, I'm here for my 11:00 appointment with Ms. Swift."

Kyle took a slow deep breath to calm his nerves. He was no school boy asking for a date. He wasn't a bum looking for a handout. He was an extremely capable employee who was ready to do some real work and help make this company some money. He wasn't going into this meeting hat in hand. There was no reason to be nervous, he told himself. You're the best of the best, now take care of business.

Trevor Wilson was in meetings all morning but he had sent Rebecca an email about his latest protégé.

Kyle Masterson was apparently a hardworking junior associate but was too keen to run before he could walk. He felt that much of the grunt work that fell to new recruits was beneath him. Trevor confessed that he hadn't been able to devote a whole lot of time to Kyle's training as yet but the first step was always getting to know how the process of taking a file from instruction to completion worked, all the legal and financial boxes that had to be checked and how rapports were built with key people at banks and other institutions. Kyle was still at the watch-and-learn stage of his apprenticeship but he was pressuring Trevor to let him get his hands dirty. Mistakes made on files had consequences however, potentially millions of dollars worth. If Trevor didn't think Masterson was ready to for that then he was no doubt right.

Marco popped his head around her office door, proffering a steaming cup. Rebecca beamed at him. He came in and placed the refill on her desk.

"You got another fifteen before your next review Miss Swift, I made sure to pencil in a few breaks for you. So how's it going?"

Rebecca had seen 3 people already that morning. A very quiet Asian guy had complained of stress and depression but the other two had been uneventful. At least the recession had given everyone's expectations a reality check... everyone with the exception of Mr Masterson it seemed. Nobody was about to complain about their workload, there were thousands of youngsters in NYC who would slit their throats and step over their warm corpses for the chance to work at M&W.

"Oh nothing I can't handle." She replied evasively. Marco's one and only shortcoming was that he was a pathological gossip. She had fed him some fraudulent test snippets when he first started and to her knowledge he had never betrayed her confidence but Rebecca appeared to be the exception, everyone else was fair game.


Rebecca had had no end of trouble when it came to selecting a personal assistant. She had tried promoting from within the company and then she had tried hiring from outside. Men didn’t want to work under her and were a rare breed in corporate admin to start with. She had a male assistant for a while but they never got along and at the first corporate party they both attended he tried to hit on her. After she gave him the brush-off he was insufferable and left shortly thereafter. Women, who she had hoped would be pleased to see another woman succeed, tended to be surly and uncooperative, resentful of her comparative success. They even seemed to perceive her gender as a dip in their own status within the admin pecking order, despite the fact Rebecca was a department head.

Rebecca had been enjoying a solitary lunch in the park opposite the office building housing Miller and Whitlock. The weather had been hot and many of her colleagues had ventured blinking into the sunshine. She had overheard a man with a melodramatic Italian-American falsetto deriding his manager, while his colleague commiserated. The woman she vaguely recognised as an entry level typing pool employee, someone who did very basic admin.

“I just can’t stand it any longer! I have done everything in my power to impress that evil old woman! I might as well be invisible… till I make a mistake that is. I knew Miller & Whitlock weren’t exactly known for diversity but madre di Dio, it's like gay is the new leprosy!”

“Perhaps something will come up internally and you can transfer somewhere else?” His friend ventured.

“Never gonna happen and believe me, I've tried. Hell will freeze before she gives me a recommendation."

Rebecca pondered as she listened to their conversation continue. Old Mrs Read was infamous for putting the fear of God into her admin clerks. This man could just possibly be the answer to her administrative prayers and if she gave him reason to be grateful to her, his loyalty would probably more than make up for any shortcomings he might have in terms of office skills. She had to get rid of her current assistant, Alyssa, and she had no clue where a replacement was going to come from. Already she was getting a reputation for being someone people didn’t want to work for, even though it wasn’t her attitude that was the problem.

What did she have to lose?

Rebecca stood up and brushed some crumbs off her skirt before walking over to where the man was sitting.

“Hi, I work for Miller and Whitlock too, I’m afraid I couldn’t help overhearing you.” She began. The olive skinned man visibly blanched, stood to shake her hand and then hastened to interrupt her. His falsetto dropped a few octaves and he strove to tone down his accent.

“Miss Swift! I hope you understand that were just talking, you know. I am really very happy in my job… it's a very good opportunity. I apologise if I-"

“Please, don’t apologise. This is your leisure time and you are free to say whatever you like.”

The man fell silent, clearly at a loss.

“I need a new personal assistant. I’ll ensure your pay is raised a couple of grades and I’ll give you a month’s trial. If it doesn’t work out you can go back to your current role with no prejudice whatsoever.”


It had been worth increasing Marco's salary just to see the change in his wardrobe. At first he had continued trying to act like a stuffed shirt but at his one month review Rebecca quietly made it known that she wanted him to feel able to be himself. Marco now slicked down his hair, wore lipgloss and mascara and his tight fitting suits were a riot of colour. It had taken time to get to him answering the phone with his upbeat falsetto but fuck it, who the hell cared? Rebecca's own superiors had raised their eyebrows but she had pointed out that M&W could use a little diversity and anyway, he probably put more effort into his appearance than anyone else in the company. She made it abundantly clear that she was very happy with her new assistant.

Marco was now a very happy employee and slavishly loyal to her. He was a sardonic pit bull who fielded all callers when Rebecca needed to get her head down and concentrate without being disturbed. He also brought her all the gossip that was denied to her by having few trusted allies within the company. They were firm friends now and even went for lunch together most Fridays, when Rebecca got to hear about the latest instalment of Marco's volatile relationship with Wesley, a stunning black man who was a jobbing dancer on Broadway.

Hiring Marco pretty much compounded the rumour that she herself was gay. He had told her what people were saying, concerned that she had somehow damaged her reputation by hiring him. In truth the rumour pre-dated Marco's appointment by several years. Rebecca had never shown the slightest interest in a colleague and kept her private life to herself. She knew people thought her a frigid ice queen Brit bitch and she had long ago ceased caring. All assertive women in male dominated sectors like finance were branded butch dykes for exhibiting backbone. Let them talk, she didn't need to be liked.

Rebecca knocked back her second steaming espresso of the day and washed it down with some sparkling water. She checked her reflection was immaculate but felt no compulsion to primp. Still mulling over Trevor's email, she buzzed through to Marco and had him send Masterson in.

Her office was her sanctuary. Rebecca's desk was antique oak and she had had the desktop re-upholstered with dark red leather, as was her high backed swivel chair and its two - significantly smaller and lower - matching chairs facing her across the desk. Nearer the door there was a thick Moroccan rug and two low slung couches covered in the softest cream leather. A glass topped coffee table completed the furniture, save for a few filing cabinets and other necessary paraphernalia.

She waited for the knock upon the door. You could tell much about a person from the way they knocked.

Kyle took a deep breath and clenched his fists before releasing them, trying to force out the tension building inside him. The moment reminded him of his days playing football in high school. It is what it felt like before the opening kickoff. The tension was as thick as molasses, but it was positive; it was exciting. Kyle had always been confident. Tension and anticipation was a good thing, because he knew he'd succeed.

When Marco said that Ms. Swift would see him now, Kyle stepped to the heavy oak door, made a fist and knocked three times. Three sharp, quick taps of his knuckles. Neither loud nor soft. Firm, quick and professional, just like his well practiced business handshake.

As he strode into the office, Kyle's cool, determined confidence wavered for a moment. This was the office he was working for. Everything was sleek, professional and expensive. Nothing reached out and grabbed you with its austentacion. Everything was understated, but clearly top of the line. Miller and Whitlock spared no expense for its executives. This is where he was supposed to be going, and he'd get there if only he could get a chance.

After a few seconds, Kyle regained his inner composure and resolve. This was his moment. He had to be assertive, but not demanding. He had to make his case in a simple, straightforward manner. She was a capable professional; she'd react well to that.

Kyle went to one of the chairs in front of Rebecca's desk, but did not sit down. "Ms. Swift, I'm going to make this brief. Miller and Whitlock recruited me very actively. This firm worked hard to get me. That is because I am intelligent, hard working and had an excellent track record both academically and in my internships. But in the six months since I started, I have been given no productive work, at least nothing that clerical worker couldn't do. I'm being woefully underutilized. I can do more, much more. An asset to this firm is being wasted. I can make a lot of money for this firm and instead I'm spending my days putting square pegs in square holes and round pegs in round holes.

"I am not blaming Mr. Wilson. He is a very busy man and clearly doesn't have the time to train me and give me greater responsibilities. That's why I'm coming to you. You see the big picture, and at the same time you're focused on the bottom line. I will make money for this firm. Just give me the chance. That's all I need."

Kyle kept his breathing measured. He did not want to betray his excitement. His delivery had been professional and matter of fact. He merely laid out the facts and showed Ms. Swift an arbitrage opportunity. He knew she would react well to his forthright manner. He was very pleased with himself. "Perfect, Kyle," he said to himself, "just perfect."

Rebecca let the silence get uncomfortable after he spoke. Who the hell was this young hothead to ambush her in her own office? Her previously welcoming expression cooled significantly as she regarded him over the top of her spectacles.

Fucking junior associates. They should have their balls confiscated on day one until they can be trusted not to think with them all the damn time.

"Please sit Mr Masterson." She said quietly. Had Marco heard the carefully neutral tone of her voice he would have had the sense to bolt for the door but to her interviewee she was the epitome of calm indifference. "I can see you feel strongly about all this but that's really no justification to give me a sore neck." Even in one of the lower chairs he would be a head taller than her, something Rebecca suddenly found irrationally irksome. She really didn't have time for this angsty teenage bullshit. She spoke in exactly the way a long suffering mother might placate a small child.

"Mr Masterson, the training programme we have for junior associates is second to none. It has been perfected over the years through reflective mentoring, advice from colleges and feedback from many students. Do you presume to know better than all those people?"

He would have spoken but Rebecca's question was rhetorical, so she denied him the opportunity.

"You were recruited aggressively because you were the best. You are here because Miller and Whitlock outclass every other finance broking firm in New York. Other firms will toss you in the deep end and let you develop an ulcer from the stress and sleep deprivation. It is because we value you that we do not do that. Our training programme is unparalleled."

She paused to let him digest this information. It also amused her to start speaking again when he opened his mouth.

"The day when you will 'make money for this firm' is really a very distant one. Junior Associates cost more in liability insurance than they earn and if those are the only losses you cause us in year one Mr Masterson, I will be utterly thrilled. Every time you touch a file and you are not directly supervised in minute detail, you will cost us money. For the first year, much of your learning will be observational and there is good reason for that. We do not maintain client confidence and trust by tossing multi-million dollar deals to novice brokers as chew toys."

She took a sip of water and crossed her legs, silently daring him to open his mouth.

"Mr Wilson is an experienced and talented broker, who you are very fortunate to be shadowing. He wasn't even going to mentor this year but I persuaded him that wisdom like his needed emulating."

Rebecca neglected to mention that Wilson had been given no choice because there were no longer enough experienced brokers for him to be able to abstain from teaching. She knew he had a heavy workload and that was one of the reasons he had accepted Kyle, someone who could take some of the strain. That the boy didn't feel he was being cosseted enough was irrelevant. This was business, not a kindergarten class.

"You may only be doing basic work but it is teaching you how the process of taking a client enquiry through to a bank proposal and successful funding works. You must familiarise yourself with all aspects of the paperwork before you start working on files. If you have been studying everything you do instead of rattling through it without a second thought because you deem clerical work to be beneath you, you should be on the way to attaining a working knowledge of the case process."

She held his gaze as his face all but purpled at her scathing lecture.

"If you haven't been utilising your golden opportunity here to the full. If you have allowed your dissatisfaction to cloud your mind and have learned nothing about the paper trail that allows this company to function and covers our collective asses against future litigation... do you know what that makes you Mr Masterson?"

She smiled sardonically.

"It makes you nothing more than a secretary, in which case you are woefully overpaid and need a shiny new desk in the admin pool."

Now she would let him speak. She wondered if he would be stupid enough to lose his cool.

Men.

All you have to do is wind 'em up and watch 'em go.

Kyle's confident calm quickly dissolved into a mixture of shock and indignation. As Rebecca dressed him down and explained to him how low he was on the totem pole and how unreasonable his expectations were, he was quietly thankful that he'd spent so many college nights playing poker. His face revealed nothing of what he was feeling. He maintained a serious but pleasant professional facial expression the entire time, even occasionally nodding his fictitious agreement.

As she went on and on, degrading and demeaning him, he seethed, he boiled. Who the fuck does this bitch think she is? I'm not her fucking child. I'm not her maid. I'm being completely wasted by this company and she acts like it’s the perfect training program and that I should be thankful for it. The fact that I'm doing secretarial work isn't my goddamn fault; it's her fucking mistake!

This moment brought back a seminal moment from Kyle's childhood. He was about 10 years old, riding in the car with his mother as they were picking his father up from work. As they entered the parking lot, a car zoomed out of the lot, nearly hitting their car. The young man in the car then yelled out of his open window, "Watch what you're doing, you stupid bitch!" His father had been standing by the parking lot waiting for them, so he saw and heard everything. He immediately started running after the car, which was sitting at a stop light 50 yards away. When he got to it, he dragged the man out of the car and savagely beat him. The man was left bloodied and unconscious. Kyle later learned the man had multiple facial fractures.

The day his father left for his 6-month jail sentence, he told his young son, "Kyle, in this family we don't let anyone talk to us like that. A man doesn't let anyone talk down to him or his family. When you let someone talk shit to you, they own you. Don't let anybody own you, Kyle." This and other lessons from his father had gotten him into his share of trouble in his youth, but for the most part in college, he had grown up and gotten control of himself. And his size and demeanor usually deterred potential combatants from doing something which would make Kyle cross the line he tried to stay away from.

But Rebecca Swift was undeterred and Kyle felt an irresistible desire to do something. He couldn't let this kind of behavior stand. But this was neither the time nor the place. Kyle quickly formulated his response. He had made his play and it failed miserably. His boss was being unfair, shortsighted and demeaning, but he now had no more cards to play. It was time to smooth things over and save himself as best he could.

"You're right, Ms. Swift, and I'm sorry. I guess I got a little overly anxious and ambitious. I lost my perspective and my patience. I am very happy to have this job and grateful for Mr. Wilson's mentorship and your supervision. While my heart was in the right place and I really do want to do all I can make money for this company, I erred in not recognizing where I'm situated and the company's potential liability. I assure you, I fully understand why I'm being trained as I am and I won't make this mistake again," Kyle said. His tone was measured and had at least the appearance of sincerity. He did everything in his power to sound repentant but professional. But all the while, he was formulating a plan. He wouldn’t let this fucking bitch own him.

Rebecca watched with satisfaction as young Mr Masterson backpedalled away from his criticism of the company. No doubt it was beginning to dawn on him just how sought after his shitty junior associate post was. She nodded patiently, as a weary parent would listen to a small child announce that 2 + 2 = 4. She found that she lacked the energy to lock horns with him, winding up the meeting in record time and then dismissing him from her office. Rebecca responded with distant politeness to Kyle's exit speech about repaying the company's faith in him etc and then he very carefully shook her hand before he left, applying pressure but making it clear he was being gentle because she was female.

Ah the manly handshake, something else that got old fast. The further she rose within the testosterone fuelled world of finance, the more frequently guys felt the need to crush her tiny hand in order to remind her that she didn't possess external genitalia. Rebecca could even spot a mile away the men who were insecure enough try inflicting compound fractures on a female colleague. She enjoyed making little wagers with herself at times as to how hard a guy would grip. Then there were the passive-aggressive chauvinists who cradled her hand as though it was made of spun glass or even (nauseatingly) caressed it. It all amounted to the same thing; no man ever shook her hand without giving a second thought, as an equal.

Marco popped his head around the door and asker her if she needed anything else before the next JA was shown in.

"Just a shot of oestrogen." She joked.

"Oh I know!" Marco replied as Kyle Masterson strode away from them down the corridor. He took a good long look at Kyle's ass. "Guy like that could eat coal and shit diamonds."

"You got dibs. I'm sick of men like that."

Marco raised a manicured eyebrow sceptically.

"And when have you seen a guy outside the office?"

"I don't shit where I eat."

"No Miss Swift, what I meant was, when have you seen a guy in your leisure time? Because if you've been dating and keeping quiet about it I'm going to have to seriously consider my position here."

"Oh you'll be the first to know. I'm in no rush."

"No kidding." Realising he was close to overstepping himself, Marco flashed a winning smile, grabbed Rebecca's cup and swept away. "One oestrogen macchiato coming up!"

The rest of the day went in a blur of meetings and decisions until Rebecca finally greeted her apartment building's doorman. By the time she unlocked her front door her feet were killing her in their heels and she kicked her shoes off almost immediately. Soon she had a glass of wine in her hand and some pasta warming on the stove. She fed her cat, Tybalt, and threw some Gomez on the pod-dock. Tonight she had nothing planned but some channel surfing, a long hot bath and perhaps a little quality time with her rampant rabbit... if she could be bothered.