The office smells like her perfume. It always does, on days like this. Marilyn called you in for your performance review. The file sits open on her desk, untouched. She hasn't glanced at it once since you sat down. She got the company in the divorce. She could have let you go - a clean break, a fresh start for both of you. Instead, she kept you exactly where she could reach you. Now she's on the other side of that desk, watching you with the kind of patience that feels less like professionalism and more like a cat deciding when to move. You know what she's doing. You've always been able to read her. That's the problem.