The entire PR department held its breath. The silence was heavy, thick with anticipation.
Golda stood tall in her Dior suit, basking in the glow of her stolen authority.
Bridget didn't answer right away. She let her eyes travel slowly from the hem of Golda's skirt up to the collar of her jacket. Her gaze was clinical, dissecting Golda like a frog on a lab table.
Bridget stood to her full height. In her heels, she towered over Golda.
"Golda," Bridget said, her voice ringing out crisp and clear across the open floor. "The waistline on that Dior pre-fall jacket is bunching. The tailoring is atrocious."
Golda's smile faltered.
"Which makes sense," Bridget continued, her lips curling into a razor-sharp sneer, "considering I bought that exact suit last week, decided the color made me look washed out, and returned it to the boutique. You're wearing my off-the-rack rejects."
A collective gasp rippled through the cubicles.
Golda's face burned crimson. Her hands flew to her sides, clutching the fabric of the skirt as if trying to hide it.
Tinsley stepped in front of Golda, her face red with anger. "You've been demoted! You don't get to talk to the Director like that! You can't even read a basic spreadsheet!"
Bridget's eyes snapped to Tinsley. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop.
Bridget reached down with her uninjured left hand and grabbed the stack of financial PR reports Tinsley had dumped on her desk. She flipped open the cover, careful not to stretch the stitches hidden beneath the bandage on her right palm. Her eyes scanned the numbers for exactly two seconds.
She slammed the report directly into Tinsley's chest using her left hand, her rigid posture absorbing the violent momentum perfectly. Tinsley stumbled back, clutching the binder.
"Page three, row two," Bridget snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "You proposed a brand partnership with a C-list reality star who was just photographed doing lines in a club bathroom. That association alone would tank our prestige image before the IPO."
Tinsley's mouth fell open.
"Page seven," Bridget stepped forward, backing Tinsley up. "Your venue choice for the launch gala is the Pierre ballroom. How utterly pedestrian. The ceiling height won't accommodate the media lighting, and the guest list you drafted puts our biggest rival's CEO at the same table as our lead investor. That is a social and corporate suicide mission."
Bridget pointed a manicured finger at the final page.
"And your summary sheet," Bridget sneered, her voice echoing off the glass walls. "You approved a visual campaign using a color palette and font that looks like a discount pharmacy ad. You are a tasteless, aesthetically illiterate glorified waitress."
Tinsley was paralyzed. The color drained completely from her face. She couldn't form a single word to defend herself against the barrage of high-level financial terminology.
The elevator doors at the end of the hall pinged open.
Jayson strode out, flanked by two senior executives. He had come down to make sure Bridget wasn't causing a scene.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
He saw Tinsley trembling. He saw Golda humiliated, clutching her ill-fitting suit.
And he saw Bridget. She stood in the center of the room, radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying competence. She didn't look like a spoiled socialite. She looked like an apex predator.
Bridget turned her head and locked eyes with Jayson.
There was no anger in her gaze. No sorrow. Just the cold, calculating stare of an executioner.
She picked up the ruined, coffee-stained report from her desk and tossed it onto the floor at Jayson's feet.
"Leash your dogs, Jayson," Bridget said, her voice dripping with ice. "Before they bankrupt your company before you even ring the bell."
Bridget turned on her heel. The crowd of employees parted instantly, stepping back in awe and fear as she walked perfectly straight down the aisle.
Jayson stared at her retreating back. His heart seized in his chest. A cold, creeping terror crawled up his spine, whispering a question he was suddenly too afraid to answer: Who the hell did I marry?
