Page 8 of #Bossholes

“Yes. I believe I was quite clear.” Her tone is clipped, almost as sharp as her heels. “It’s all in the paperwork.”

“So, I’m not fired?”

“Not yet; however, the day is just getting started.” She turns to face me, her smile tight, pointing to the folder clutched in my hand. “The paperwork, Miss Rhodes.”

She doesn’t give me more than a second to look at her precious papers before giving me another frown, turning on her heel, and stomping the rest of the way to the elevators. She stabs the button several times, blowing out a breath, her irritation rivaling my confusion.

Why the heck would I be getting a promotion after telling one of the three big bosses he’s a soul-sucking Dementor. If that doesn’t warrant a pink slip, I don’t know what does. Best case scenario, I’d have gotten a simple slap on the wrist, but never had I imagined this. A promotion. Yet here we are, waiting for the elevators instead of escorting me right out the front door.

Unless this is all one big hallucination. I didn’t sleep at all last night. Maybe I’m asleep at the wheel and this is all one big dream.

But if it’s not, I better open this folder before Mrs. Monroe has a coronary and—holy fucking shit. I know, language, but holy fucking shit. Not only do I get an extra week of vacation, but my salary has almost doubled. I’m talking mid six figures, and if I’m not dreaming and this is actually happening, I may be the one having a heart attack.

I clear my throat, hugging the papers to my chest, my voice tentative as I ask, “Why me? There are other legal secretaries here with more experience and seniority.”

She glances at me for a quick second, her frown deepening. “I suggest you drink some coffee before you get to the top floor, Miss Rhodes. Ellis, Ellis, and Wallace will not tolerate so many questions.”

My breath stutters, and the full gravity of my situation crashes down on me. The three partners who are supposed to be absolutely terrible are going to be my bosses.

This isn’t a promotion; it’s a death sentence.

The managing partners are supposed to be ruthless. Men with no hearts. Men who eat secretaries like me for breakfast and no, I don’t mean in the sexy way.

Margo said they can’t keep someone for more than two weeks. They’re overworked, unappreciated and, well, the girl crying into her bag of chips yesterday isn’t exactly a good omen of what’s to come.

Everyone treated her like a pariah. No one bothered to keep her company or even ask her name. And why? Because it wouldn’t matter. She’d be replaced with a new face, another person whose name wasn’t important, who didn’t matter beyond a few days.

And now that person is me.

This has to be a cruel joke.

Maybe getting fired wouldn’t be so bad.

“I thought the senior partners had a secretary.” I force myself to sound casual despite my heart thudding in my ears and the sweat trickling down my back. “I saw her at lunch yesterday.”

She scoffs, giving her head a slight shake and adjusting her glasses. “Ran out of here crying an hour later. Some people can’t handle the stress of the top floor. They lack a backbone and a work ethic.”

The look she gives me says she doesn’t think I can handle it, and right now, I’m more than ready to agree. But I won’t. I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

She has no idea I’m gripping this folder, hoping to quell the tremble in my fingers. That I’m desperately trying to ignore the dread snaking through me and twisting me into knots.

They’re going to be terrible. Not because of a vendetta or retaliation against what I said, although I’m sure that didn’t help, but because it’s who they are.

I need a spine of steel. Skin so thick nothing will bother me. I need my inner bad ass bitch.

“Regardless of your inexperience and inefficiencies, the managing partners asked for you specifically, and they get what, or in this case, who they want. Take whatever brief reprieve you need. I’d hate to have to find another replacement before lunch.”

Inefficiencies? Well, excuse me. Someone found their inner bitch but forgot the badass part.

This lady doesn’t know me from any other employee in the place. I may not be as experienced as some of the others here, but I do a damn good job. I don’t shy away from hard work like some—looking at you, Linda, the receptionist on the nineteenth floor.

I’ve done nothing to offend this woman, and she’s acting like I’m the Antichrist of the lawyering world.

You know what, Mrs. Monroe and her entire resting bitch-face can suck a dick. A small, sad, floppy dick.

I hope she gets man juice in her eye, but just the one. I’m not a monster.

The elevator door opens, and I dutifully shuffle inside, careful not to take any extra time. God forbid I hold us up for another freaking second. Wouldn’t want to highlight any more of myinefficiencies.

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