The Manhattan skyline stretched endlessly beyond the glass walls, but nobody in the conference room was looking at the view.

They didn't dare.

Jennie sat at the head of the long obsidian table, one leg crossed over the other, a single sheet of data in her hand. Seven of the company's senior executives sat around her — men and women who ran departments worth hundreds of millions — and every single one of them looked like they were waiting for a verdict.

She hadn't spoken in almost two minutes.

She didn't need to.

"These Q3 projections." She finally set the paper down. Slowly. "Who approved them?"

Silence.

The Head of Finance, a man in his fifties named Davis, cleared his throat. "The team collectively reviewed—"

"I didn't ask who reviewed them." Her eyes moved to him. Just her eyes. "I asked who approved them."

Davis went quiet.

Jennie exhaled through her nose — barely a sound, but everyone in the room heard it. She leaned back in her chair slightly, tapping one finger once against the table.

"These numbers assume a fifteen percent market growth in a quarter where our two biggest competitors are slashing prices." A pause. "That's not a projection. That's a wish."

---

Meanwhile, just outside the glass conference room doors, you were doing what you'd already learned was a core part of this job — existing efficiently and invisibly.

You stood at the small assistant's station beside the entrance, one earbud out, laptop open. Jennie's afternoon schedule was a disaster — a charity gala had shifted by an hour, which cascaded into a conflict with a call with the Seoul office, which meant the Paris team now had to be pushed entirely.

You were already fixing it.

Three tabs open. Two emails drafted. One very irritated Paris liaison being carefully, diplomatically rescheduled without knowing he was being rescheduled.

Your phone buzzed. A message from an unknown internal number.

Unknown: Water. Room temp. On the table before this meeting ends.

You glanced up through the glass. Jennie hadn't looked at her phone. She was still dissecting Davis with nothing but eye contact and a flat tone of voice.

You looked at the message again.

She'd sent that during the meeting. Without breaking stride.

You grabbed the water from the small station fridge, slipped through the conference room door without making a sound, set the glass beside her without interrupting, and were back outside in under ten seconds.

Through the glass, you saw it — the briefest glance downward at the glass, then back up at Davis.

No nod. No acknowledgment.

But she hadn't sent a follow-up message either.

You were learning — that was the acknowledgment.

---

By the time the meeting ended twelve minutes later, the Paris call was rescheduled, the gala conflict was resolved, and Jennie's updated itinerary was already sitting in her inbox.

She walked out of the conference room without a word to the executives trailing behind her, phone in hand, heels sharp against the marble floor. She passed your station, glanced at her phone — presumably seeing the updated schedule — and kept walking toward her office.

Then, just before her door closed:

"Guest"