I finally got a promotion. …Mrs. Professor
My hard work, patience, and—above all—my mastery of the art of saying the right thing to the right person at the right moment have finally paid off. Some call it politics. I call it talent.
My boss simply saw a capable manager in me. And I had no intention of letting her down. At least, not right away.
She assigned me a department with twenty employees—twenty experts in taking breaks, drinking coffee, and engaging in endless discussions about why it’s actually impossible to get any work done. My task was simple: increase productivity.
A straightforward assignment. At least on paper.
However, practically no one in the department was on my side. They weren’t just disappointed; they were downright furious.
You see, a while back, they had joined forces to drive out my predecessor. They had assumed that once he left, their favorite—Martina—would take over. They expected a boss who knew them, understood them, and, most importantly, wouldn’t demand too much from them.
But life sometimes has a wicked sense of humor.
Martina didn’t get the job.
I did.
And who is Martina?
Well… Ms. Martina.
My former homeroom teacher from high school.
The very same teacher who, with a perfectly straight face, once recommended that I receive a failing grade for conduct—and even suggested I be expelled from the school. And were it not for the fact that my father played tennis with the high school principal every Wednesday, her dream might actually have come true.
Life is a strange game.
She claimed she left the education sector because of the money.
Naturally.
That’s always easier to say than admitting that her affair with the vice-principal didn’t stay as secret as they had both imagined.
On my first day, I arrived in a suit that cost more than the monthly salary of half the department.
That was no accident.
You see, people don’t earn respect; respect is constructed. And the best way to construct it is with an expensive suit, a high-quality watch, and a confident smile. In the corporate world, it’s often not what’s in your head that counts—it’s what you’re wearing.
I called a meeting.
I stood before them, held a smile for just the right amount of time—long enough to seem natural, not rehearsed—and delivered the line I’d been preparing all weekend.
“I know there have been major changes here. But I can promise you one thing…
I will listen to you.”
A silence fell over the room.
Some even nodded.
I was lying, of course.
But it sounded wonderful.
The next day, exactly what I expected happened.
Ten out of the twenty employees suddenly fell ill.
It’s interesting how the flu can spread at the speed of light whenever a new boss arrives.
I just gave a small smile.
That was exactly what I had counted on.
They were as easy to read as a primer for first-graders. When people lack the courage to tell you what they think to your face, they suddenly start suffering from back pain, knee trouble, or mental distress.
It wasn’t spontaneous.
Someone had organized it.
And I knew very well who.
In reality, the ten people on sick leave weren’t the problem.
The problem was the woman on account of whom they hadn’t shown up.
Every herd has its shepherd. And if you want to change the direction of the herd, you don’t need to convince every single sheep.
You just need to deal with the shepherd.
And Martina was their shepherd.
She might have thought she was playing chess.
But she failed to notice one small detail.
I had started playing the game several moves ahead of her.
I visited my predecessor in the psychiatric ward.
Yes, you read that right. A man who had managed people for years was now unable to decide even whether to have soup for lunch. Sometimes, irony is poignantly precise.
But he was willing to talk. And I had the patience to listen.
He gave me something far more valuable than any personnel file—he told me who the hard worker was, who the sycophant was, who the snitch was, who was afraid of conflict, and who was so wounded that they’d sell their own grandmother for a shred of recognition.
One of them fit into my plan more perfectly than anyone else.
Ing. Laco Plakač.
Divorced. His wife cheated on him and, during the division of assets, stripped him of almost everything. Except for his pride.
Though even that had developed some serious cracks.
Disillusioned with life.
Disillusioned with women.
Exactly the kind of man who desperately needs someone to tell him that he’s still worth something.
I found him before I even took up my new position.
He was sitting in his favorite pub, and after his fourth beer, he was busy explaining to the bartender why all people are swine.
I sat down next to him.
I didn’t try to persuade him.
I simply offered him an opportunity.
“I need a right-hand man. Someone I can rely on. And that right-hand man will be well rewarded for his loyalty. A promotion. And a decent bonus.”
He didn’t think long.
People often assume that money is the deciding factor.
It isn’t.
Hope is the cheapest thing to buy.
And broken people can never accurately gauge its true price.
Laco proved his worth a hundred times over.
He understood exactly how things were meant to be understood. In any workplace—even when everyone puts on a show of being “one big family”—everyone is ultimately looking out for themselves. He grasped this faster than most—and that’s something I value.
Within a week, I had nineteen files on my desk. One for every single subordinate. Nineteen folders. Something on everyone. And for a few of them, enough to start packing up their table.
Recordings—who said what, and about whom. Records of failure to perform job duties, attendance issues, and even direct attempts to harm the company. Instructions on how to sabotage work tasks—captured word for word.
In my office, I sorted them into nineteen piles.
Pretty substantial ones, too.
I was thrilled.
I have to admit, what amused me most of all were the nicknames they’d given me.
Laco had dutifully written them all down.
Some were honestly pretty weak.
“Snot in a Suit.”
“Fart of Productivity.”
I’d expected more creativity from grown adults.
But some I actually quite liked.
“Armani.”
“Napoleon.”
Those sounded significantly better.
But one nickname really caught my fancy:
“Gamechanger.”
Apparently, they meant it ironically.
But irony is a strange thing.
Sometimes, it reveals the truth before the person using it even realizes it.
Gamechanger.
That’s exactly what I was.
The game was truly changing.
The plan itself was laughably simple.
Fire one person.
Bring in someone new from the outside.
Wait for them to get up to speed.
Then fire another.
One by one, step by step.
Until the only people left in the department are those who actually came to work—not just to sit around for eight hours.
People call it “restructuring.”
I call it “gardening.”
If you want a garden to bloom, simply watering it isn’t enough. Sometimes you need to pull out the weeds.
And the sooner, the better.
It made the most sense to start with Martina.
I had more grounds for firing her than anyone else.
All it would take was one signature.
Just one.
But there was a problem.
I liked Martina.
Actually…
I’d always liked her.
Even back in high school—when I sat in the back row as a student, and she stood at the front, by the blackboard, as my homeroom teacher.
She had the kind of figure you couldn’t help but notice, even if you tried.
She wasn’t tall.
Long, dark hair.
Large glasses that gave her a stern look—though, occasionally, a smile would appear beneath them, the meaning of which I could never quite fathom.
She was always impeccably put together.
Not in a vulgar way.
Just enough so that every man in the room knew, without a doubt, that she was a woman.
And every man in the room did know.
Myself included.
Back then, I was just one of many boys who would turn to watch her walk by.
Today, I was her boss.
And I have to admit, there was something rather appealing about that.
Originally, I had intended to keep her on.
I just hadn’t figured out yet how to turn that to my advantage.
And then, the moment arrived on its own.
Martina brought me the payroll sheets to sign.
A standard routine.
Papers.
A stamp.
A signature.
Nothing one would give a second thought to.
But I, as it happens, was fond of second thoughts.
I noticed that something didn’t add up.
Two names.
Two employees I had never seen in the department.
I said nothing.
I calmly signed everything and, as if it were an afterthought, remarked:
“I’ll take these to the bank myself today.”
She looked at me for a fleeting moment.
Just a fleeting moment, really.
But that was enough.
For the first time, something appeared in her eyes—something I hadn’t seen before.
Fear.
Immediately after, she smiled, nodded, and left.
Yet, that brief glance had told me everything.
Once the door closed behind her, I examined the payroll sheets once more, very carefully.
Dead souls.
Two employees who had long since ceased to exist.
Yet, their paychecks were dutifully sent to the very same accounts every single month.
I smiled.
Not because I had uncovered a fraud.
But because I had finally found what I had been searching for all these days.
Leverage.
From that moment on, I no longer needed to fire Martina.
I couldn’t help but smile.
Not because of the fraud itself.
But because she had been so certain I was too stupid to uncover it.
People often think their own mistakes will be their undoing.
Wrong.
What destroys them is the conviction that they are smarter than everyone else.
Martina didn’t lose because she stole.
She lost because she underestimated me.
I picked up a pen.
Calmly, and without the slightest twinge of conscience, I changed the account numbers on both documents to my own.
Then, I placed the papers in an envelope and sent them off to the bank.
Some people say that opportunity knocks only once in a lifetime.
In my view, it doesn’t knock at all.
It simply waits to see if you have the sense to seize it.
Martina had just given me something far more valuable than her trust.
She had given me a reason why she would never be able to play against me again.
She just didn’t know it yet.
I waited.
I didn’t say a word to her.
I simply waited for her to notice that the money hadn’t arrived in her account this time.
And I watched her.
The change was immediate.
The carefree laughter that had previously echoed throughout the entire department vanished.
Gone, too, were those constant, ironic remarks she used to subtly undermine my authority during every meeting.
Suddenly, she was quieter.
Much more cautious.
She even began treating me more kindly.
Suspiciously kindly, in fact.
People are strange.
As long as they think they hold the cards, they flash smiles at their colleagues.
But once they realize someone else holds the cards, they start smiling at that person instead.
It seemed as though she was trying to figure out what I knew.
And I made sure she wouldn’t find out.
Each day without answers was worse for her than the last.
Fear, you see, has one remarkable quality:
if you don’t provide it with an answer, it begins to invent one of its own.
And imagination is almost always crueler than reality.
I just sat back and quietly savored it.
I waited.
Like a chef who knows that good meat shouldn’t be rushed.
You just have to wait for it to tenderize on its own.
And Martina was just beginning to soften up.
The moment arrived on Friday afternoon, when only empty chairs and switched-off monitors remained in the department.
I called her into my office.
She closed the door behind her on her own—I didn’t even have to ask. She had learned quickly.
I placed a single sheet of paper in front of her.
I said nothing. I simply watched as her eyes scanned the numbers and names—names she knew better than anyone else in the world.
She turned pale.
“Sit down,” I said.
She sat.
And I finally understood why people pay so much money for expensive watches and fine suits. It’s not about how others see you.
It’s about how you feel yourself when you’re sitting on the right side of the desk.
“We have a problem,” she said eventually. Her voice trembled, though she tried to keep it steady.
“No,” I replied.
“You have a problem.”
She didn’t answer.
She just stared at me.
It was fascinating to watch how quickly a person’s self-confidence could vanish.
Just a week ago, she had been calling me “Snot-nose in a Suit” behind my back.
Now, she was afraid to utter a single word.
“I took the trouble to go through the payroll records for the last five years.”
I paused for a moment.
“You know what’s beautiful about numbers? They never lie.”
She picked up the paper, but her hands were already trembling slightly.
“The loss to the company is approximately one hundred and eighty thousand euros.”
She didn’t answer.
“This isn’t just a workplace issue anymore.”
I leaned in closer.
“This is a matter for the police. The prosecutor’s office. And, quite possibly, a judge.”
I let the words hang in the air for a moment.
“I’m not sure what the sentence is for something like this.”
I shrugged.
“Ten years? Fifteen? You’d know better than I would. I’m not a lawyer.”
I looked her straight in the eyes.
“And do you know what the best part is?”
She remained silent.
“Just imagine what happens if I walk into our director’s office with this tomorrow.”
I smiled.
“A discovery like this can really give one’s career a boost.”
I leaned back in my chair.
I smiled.
“Do you know what I’m thinking about right now?”
I paused.
“I wonder what my high school teacher would say if she saw me today.”
I looked her straight in the eyes.
“Would she be proud of me?”
“Tell me, Martina…”
“Would you be proud of me?”
She remained silent for so long that I began to think she wouldn’t answer at all.
Then, her voice finally returned. Quiet. Broken.
“What do you want?”
This time, however, it wasn’t a question.
It was an act of surrender.
For the first time since I’d known her, there was no confidence in her voice.
Only fear.
I leaned back comfortably in my chair.
I was in no rush.
I let the silence do its work.
Silence is a peculiar weapon.
The longer it lasts, the more the other person begins to imagine the absolute worst.
And I wanted her to imagine everything.
I wasn’t interested in money.
I already had her loyalty.
And that was precisely why she was even more afraid.
She had no idea what I actually wanted from her.
Only then did I smile.
Because now, she was no longer the one making the decisions.
I was.
And I knew she had finally realized it.
“Take off your clothes,” I said.
She looked at me, as if unsure whether she had heard correctly.
“What did you say?”
Her green eyes, behind her glasses, looked even larger than usual in that moment.
I didn’t look away.
“You heard me.”
I let a moment of silence pass.
“Start undressing.”
She remained silent for a moment.
Then, she offered a faint smile. But it wasn’t her usual smile. “You know,” she said in a quiet voice, “I used to see you as a spoiled teenager who didn’t know how to behave. Your loaded dad would smooth over every mess you made, and you’d even get a kick out of it.”
She paused for a moment.
“I knew you’d never turn into anything good.”
She looked straight into my eyes.
“But I was wrong.”
This time, the pause lasted longer.
“You turned into something even worse.”
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t have to.
She was right—and at that moment, her truth flattered me more than any praise from my boss.
Then I leaned a little closer and said:
“So, what do you propose? What else can you offer me?”
She held my gaze longer than I had expected.
“You haven’t changed at all,” she said.
“You’ve just finally gained the power to do what you’ve always wanted.”
I stood up and walked over to the window.
There was a moment of silence.
Then I turned back to her.
“But this isn’t about me.”
“It is about you.”
I placed the paper I had prepared in front of her.
“You have two options.”
“The first is very simple. Tomorrow morning, I’ll hand over all the documentation to the lawyers, and after that, you’ll be the one doing the explaining.”
I smiled.
“The second is that you stay.”
I paused for a moment.
“And all of this stays just between us.”
She just looked at me for a while.
Processing what I had just offered her.
It wasn’t exactly the kind of offer you’d find in an employment contract.
But it was an offer.
And, given her situation, a pretty good one.
Then, she took a deep breath.
“Do you know what that’s called?”
she said quietly.
“Blackmail.”
“Blackmail?” I gave a faint smile. “No, Martina. Just a bit of ‘tough’ personnel management. That tends to be most effective precisely when dealing with problems that seem unsolvable.”
She just looked at me for a moment.
“But I could be your mother.”
I smiled slightly.
“Martina… if you were to be my mother, you would have had to give birth to me at thirteen.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment.
“And I have a husband at home,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” I nodded. “I know.”
“Then I don’t understand what it is you actually want from me.”
“Really?”
I leaned a little closer.
“I know about at least three of your affairs.”
She looked at me.
“And I even have one of them documented.”
I pointed to one of the stacks of folders on the table.
“So, your husband isn’t exactly an argument I’d consider airtight.”
There was a moment of silence.
Then, I smiled.
“But by all means, keep him.”
“It doesn’t bother me at all.”
Martina crossed her arms over her chest.
Her eyes narrowed, and her breathing quickened. It was clear she was thinking—searching for a way out. Perhaps a final chance to leave this room without losing everything.
I waited.
I had nowhere else to be.
At that moment, I knew I was facing the final move.
And it was a simple one.
Checkmate.
Suddenly, Martina sprang up from her chair and slammed both fists onto the table.
“Fine, you bastard!” she exclaimed.
For the first time all afternoon, she raised her voice.
I remained standing there, calm.
“But I want those two paychecks that never hit my account.”
I looked at her.
I had expected tears. I had expected pleas. I had even expected a scene.
I had expected, quite frankly, anything.
Anything, that is, except for her asking for money.
I’ll admit—for a moment, it nearly threw me off balance.
Almost.
But then, I realized one crucial thing.
Martina wasn’t exactly in a position to negotiate.
And suddenly, it all made sense. Things like this always make sense, provided you give them a moment and approach them with a cool head.
I’ve always believed that a good deal is one where both parties walk away satisfied.
Not some half-baked compromise.
Genuine satisfaction.
That’s not just some business catchphrase. It’s a principle upon which the whole world ought to function—if only people knew how to apply it correctly.
And now, I had the chance to prove that I truly believe in this.
To strike a deal that would leave even Martina satisfied.
And that, in my book, was a truly good deal.
I smiled.
“Of course.”
“You’ll get them.”
I paused for a moment.
“But you know how things work in business, Martina.
No paycheck comes for free. You’ll have to earn that money.”
She looked at me, and for a split second, a final spark of resistance flickered in her eyes.
Then, she let out a slow, deep breath.
The mask of the stern professor—the one she’d worn for years—crumbled away completely.
All that remained was a woman who realized she had lost.
“What exactly do you want?” she asked quietly.
“I already told you.”
I looked straight into her eyes.
“Take off your clothes.”
She stood up.
Slowly, she stepped back from the desk and just stood before me for a moment.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the first button of her white shirt.
I watched her without moving, leaning back comfortably in my chair.
I caught a whiff of her perfume.
A floral scent.
I recognized it.
I remembered it from back in our school days.
Perhaps it was that very scent that had driven me, back then, to do things that went against school rules.
Perhaps.
Or maybe I was just an idiot.
In any case, at that moment, I realized something peculiar.
There are some scents a person never forgets, even after all these years.
She undid the first button.
Then the second.
And the third.
Each click echoed in my head like the beat of a metronome.
Steady.
Precise.
Or was it not a metronome?
Perhaps it was my heart.
At that moment, I wasn’t entirely sure.
And honestly?
I didn’t even want to find out.
As the shirt slid to the floor, she stood there in a black lace bra. The fabric clung tightly to her full breasts, which rose and fell rapidly.
“Go on,” I said coldly.
She unfastened her skirt. The fabric rustled against her thighs before falling to her feet. She stood there in nothing but her lingerie and expensive heels, right in front of the desk where, just moments ago, I had been signing off on her “dead souls.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
Because standing before me now was one who was very much alive.
I stood up. Taking off my jacket, I draped it over the leather armchair, walked slowly around the desk, and stopped beside her.
The same scent.
The same Professor Martina.
Only the circumstances had changed a bit over the years.
“To our collaboration,”
I whispered right by her ear, running my hand down her back until I reached the clasp of her bra. With a single motion, I undid it.
I cupped her breasts in both my hands, squeezing them gently and lifting them slightly. I watched as they tightened again under my touch. I looked straight into her eyes.
“Now, get on your knees,” I said quietly, yet with a clear command in my voice.
As soon as she knelt, I quickly unbuckled my belt and pulled out my erect cock. It was hard, veiny, and fully primed—ready from the very moment I’d first seen her in the doorway. I took her gently by the hair, pulled her head closer, and let her feel the radiating heat emanating from it.
Martina didn’t hesitate for a second; she took him in her hands and began to work. After a moment of teasing, she slowly took him into her mouth. I watched with pride as her lips wrapped tightly around the head, and her mouth began to move rhythmically along its entire length. Every so often, she would pull away, slowly licking from root to tip, before diving back into a deep, oral embrace.
This is why I’ve always loved older, experienced women. You never had to explain anything to them—they knew exactly what to do, and they did it exquisitely.
I stopped her and pulled her to her feet.
It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy it—her mouth worked wonders—but I wanted to savor all of her.
I grabbed her by the hips and lifted her onto my massive wooden desk, right amidst scattered files and nineteen separate stacks of compromising material. The papers beneath her rustled. She reached out and gripped my shoulders, eager and quick, as if afraid of losing her balance.
My palms slid slowly along her sides, and as I began to pull away the last piece of fabric, she lifted herself slightly to help.
Once she was completely naked, time seemed to stand still for a brief moment. I watched her chest rise and fall rhythmically with every deep breath she took.
I ran my fingers along the back of her neck and, with a firm but gentle grip, took hold of her hair, forcing her to look into my eyes.
“You’re not my teacher anymore, Martina,” I said softly.
Her gaze dropped to my lips. The fear in her eyes began to mingle with something else—an all-consuming thrill at her own defeat. She realized that, in this room, she no longer held any control.
Only now did I truly take her in. Her large, perfectly shaped breasts rose and fell eagerly, their dark nipples pointing upward, as if begging for my touch. Lower down, her sex was adorned with a thick, black patch of curly hair.
It caught me by surprise.
I had always imagined she would be completely shaved.
She wasn’t.
I’ll admit, I just stared at it for a moment.
But I liked it, nonetheless.
Perhaps even more than I had expected.
I moved slowly toward her, tracing the length of her sex with the tip of my cock. Instantly, goosebumps broke out across her skin, and a soft, stifled sigh escaped her, echoing through the room.
Martina shifted on the table, gripping its edge firmly with her hands. The papers bearing the names scattered onto the floor beneath her, but neither of us spared them a single glance.
Her breathing was rapid and ragged. As I leaned over her, I felt her entire body tremble. All that cold detachment and sternness—the very things she’d used to torment me for years—vanished completely in that moment.
I ran my hands along the insides of her thighs, slowly, taking my time. I savored every inch of her skin. I felt her muscles tense, but instead of resisting, she yielded to me, parting her legs slightly on her own accord.
“Tell me, Martina,” I whispered, right against her lips, while my fingers went to work between her thighs.
“Am I still just a snot-nosed kid in a suit to you?”
In her eyes, I could see a struggle between her pride and a desire she was finding increasingly difficult to hide.
“Don’t talk…” she hissed softly, though her voice was thick, husky—all traces of her former curtness completely gone.
I pressed my palm against her clitoris while sliding the tips of two fingers into her vaginal opening, stimulating her intensely—an act that immediately drew a loud sigh from her. Martina threw her head back; her hips began to rise uncontrollably against my hand, and she gripped the edge of the table tightly, no longer able to conceal her desire.
With my other hand, I cupped her breast and squeezed her nipple, quickening the pace. Martina’s breathing grew rapid; her skin was hot and slick with sweat. Completely overcome, she began thrusting her hips rhythmically against my palm—a clear signal that she wanted more.
“Well, Professor,” I growled with a smile, “are you finally going to let me slide it in, or do you intend to keep writhing like this forever?”
Martina grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me so close that I could feel her hot breath.
“Just shut up already… and put it in!”
Without a word, I slid inside her in one smooth, firm motion.
Martina let out a loud sigh and threw her head back. Her fingers dug convulsively into my shirt—so hard that I could hear the seams of the expensive silk fabric begin to creak. It was a contrast that absolutely floored me—an expensive corporate suit, a luxurious office, and my former teacher, who was losing all control beneath me.
I set the pace. Slow, rhythmic, with cold calculation. I watched every detail of her face. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips slightly parted, and a faint sigh escaped her chest with every movement I made. This was no longer a game of cat and mouse. In that room, there existed only pure, unadulterated dominance.
I quickened the pace.
Her hips began to move instinctively against mine. Fear and humiliation transformed within her into something far darker and more intense. It was weeks of suppressed frustration, erupting from her in that very moment.
She grabbed my back, digging her nails through my shirt and into my skin, pulling me even closer.
“Yes…” she blurted out suddenly, as if she could no longer hold onto her pride.
“That’s it…”
Her breathing grew increasingly shallow. I could feel her body tightening around me, in rhythm with an approaching climax. In those seconds, the mask of the stern woman fell away completely.
When she finally let out a sharp hiss and her body shuddered beneath me in a devastating orgasm, I, too, let myself be swept away.
I began to thrust into her hard and without restraint, until the final wave surged within me. Time stood still for a few seconds as I filled her vagina with my hot semen.
I remained lying on top of her as the frenzied intensity slowly ebbed away from us both; in the silence, only our heavy, rapid breathing could be heard.
When I finally pulled out, my semen—mingled with her own fluids—leaked freely from her, dripping onto the floor. The white liquid slowly soaked into the papers bearing the employees’ names, which lay scattered across the ground. It was the perfect tableau of her defeat—the professor lay before me, completely disarmed.
I walked past the desk, tidied myself up a bit, and sat back down in my chair.
I handed her some napkins.
“Here you go.”
She took them and began to wipe herself clean.
I simply watched her in silence.
On the desk still lay the papers that, just moments ago, had held the power to decide her fate.
Now, they lay there merely crumpled and scattered.
I smiled to myself.
Just this morning, I had thought I would be dealing with personnel issues today.
In the end, I resolved one.
The best one of all.
“Now we can finally get back to work.”
Martina nodded and started to get dressed.
“Martina, stop.”
She froze.
“Don’t get dressed yet.”
She looked at me.
“We aren’t finished.”
I pointed to the chair across from my desk.
“Sit down.”
She hesitated for a moment, then sat.
I leaned back in my chair.
I couldn’t help but smile.
There I sat—fully dressed, groomed, and perfectly composed.
And across from me, Martina—completely naked.
It was that very contrast that I liked.
Just a few hours ago, she was the one teaching me what was proper and what wasn’t.
And now, here she sat before me, waiting to hear what I had to say.
An ironic turn of events in our careers.
For both of us.
“Let’s talk about Monday. A new employee is starting. A young graduate. No experience. The team needs a breath of fresh air. Someone moldable. A blank slate. You’ll be the one to train her.”
Martina nodded.
“Well. When someone comes in, someone else has to go.”
I rummaged through the folders scattered across the desk and the floor—the sticky remnants of our previous little ‘operation.’ I pulled out three and laid them out in front of Martina.
“Go ahead—pick one.”
All three of them were her pawns—the ones who had been trying to saw off the branch I was standing on.
All three of them followed her every word.
All of them—her so-called friends.
“Choose whom you’ll betray.”
Martina looked at me first. Then her gaze swept over the names.
It didn’t take her long—as if she were choosing a side dish for lunch.
She picked exactly the person I expected. Not based on who was causing the most harm to the company, nor on who was the worst performer. She chose based on who she was sleeping with.
Martina always had some lover or other. She was consistent in that—one of the few things she was consistent about. But this time, the man had become more of a liability.
It was a slight deviation from my original staffing plan, but then again, not every sound decision is made for the benefit of the company.
I stared at the file she had slid toward me. Her finger was still resting on the name.
Not a second of hesitation.
Not a hint of remorse.
Just pure self-preservation.
I smiled.
“Good choice.”
She had taken time only to make the choice—not to reflect on it.
I slowly pulled the file toward me.
“See?” I said.
“The negotiation actually went quite smoothly in the end.”
Martina sat opposite me, silent.
For the first time since I’d known her.
No remarks. No irony. No professorial glares over the rim of her glasses.
Authority is a strange thing. You might think for years that it resides within your own mind—when, in fact, it often exists only within the situation itself.
“Is that all?” she asked quietly.
“For today, yes.” I leaned back deeper into my armchair.
“Starting Monday, you’ll do exactly what I tell you. No questions. No games. And no ‘Martina’ who thinks she’s the one running the department.”
She nodded.
“And don’t forget…” She looked at me over her glasses. “Those two paychecks.”
This time, I nodded.
“Sure. But you know, Martina… nothing’s free.” I smiled. “Next time, you’ll have to earn them all over again.”
She stood up slowly. Gathering her things from the floor, she got dressed in silence.
I watched her. People are at their most honest the moment they realize they’ve lost.
She fastened the last button on her blouse, put on her jacket, and adjusted her glasses.
The mask was back. Almost. Only her eyes—they weren’t quite the same anymore.
“Have a nice weekend, Martina.”
She paused at the door. She didn’t turn around; she just gave a barely perceptible nod. Then she left.
The door closed softly. Silence settled over the office. I stood up and walked to the window. A moment later, I saw her getting into her red Mercedes A-Class in the parking lot.
Some job perks simply don’t show up on a payslip.
The engine started, the lights came on, and a few seconds later, she was gone.
I poured myself a glass of water, took a sip, and smiled.
And on Monday, plenty of work awaited us—both at the office and after hours.
Some call it overtime. I call it motivation.
Productivity doesn’t increase on its own.