C1 Complacency

HER BEAUTY was her problem. Always. She got away easily. She gained without effort, received without asking. She was forgiven without having the chance to say sorry. She didn't know what she could not bring down with a smile, what she could not calm by the wink of an eye. She was nature's gift to men, who always found reasons to flock around her, and a reminder of what one can never be to women who envied her.

Was she blessed? Yes, but it also trapped her soul. The soul stayed asleep as the beauty had taken all care of—nothing that the soul must do, no struggle to enrich an experience, no battle to win and thus never a sense of achievement. Every time the soul tried to wake up, it was told it was not the time yet, and to go back to sleep. Eventually, she would be washed ashore, pushed to the shallow water before dying on the sand, an ornament to the white beach, a reminder of what once had been.

But before it happened, she was saved.

The Boss puffed his cigar more slowly. His face was taut, and his brows pulled closer together. He stared at the youthful face in front of him. She was beautiful, but it wasn't that which he scrutinized; he was assessing if she was telling him the truth or trying to negotiate with it. He was watching her spirit, hoping it would struggle to stay in the depth despite the pressure, not relent and resurface to float meaninglessly.

The girl's hands rested on her lap, trembling, and her full lips shut tight. She was about to open her mouth as her heart was ready to outpour. She wanted to let him know of everything, yet she knew better. She stayed in the depth.

"So you still cannot get them to validate our invoice?" He asked. His tone was forgiving. Nevertheless, she felt judged. She could not pinpoint how or where in the conversation, but she could sense he patronized her. That she didn't mind. She trusted him. His disappointment, however, was another matter.

"Five hundred thousand dollars?" She remembered her excitement when The Boss told her she could handle the collection of the last payment for the three-million-dollar project. "You would trust me with that? I mean, I wasn't involved from the start," she said, just to hear her boss reiterate saying he trusted her. Although she knew that he must've put safety nets around her—she was still learning.

Now she had disappointed him. "They said we haven't completed all the deliverables yet," she said as the two of them sat in the outside dining area of Le Fonte, a chic coffee shop/restaurant in the building complex where several of their clients' offices were. She had just come out from a meeting with Doxxan Inc. to discuss payment.

He said nothing. It seemed his cigar was the only thing that received his attention. No reaction. She knew she had not done well this time, but she didn't know how she should admit to this—or get out from it. She fidgeted before resigning to a point of asking for his advice.

"I must agree with them we can't produce the invoice yet … is that right?" Her words lingered. He remained silent. He wasn't even looking at her anymore. One more wrong sentence, she feared he would get up and leave.

Smiling or winking her eye would never occur to her as a means to get away from any problem with him. From the most alluring things to people, her superficial charms became the silliest display to ease him up. She had to toughen up and address the consequences if she wanted him to consider her at all. She had always failed to do this in his presence.

"What do I have to do?" She asked. She looked at him and let him feel her vulnerability, her eyes imploring. It was her natural defense mechanism—exposing charming helplessness when in danger—all done subconsciously. But consciously she thought she was defenseless against him, and believed there was no point of being defensive if she trusted him. Being dutiful was the stance she would take, and from there, things would get better—that was her thought and choice to get out from the situation.

He turned his head to face her, and said—not the least sympathetic,

"I sent you there to get paid. Instead, you come back to me agreeing with them." He gazed at her, took in her absolute silence—then continued, "Now you ask me what you have to do. What can you do?"

He chose and spoke his words carefully now, almost sounding compassionate. Anyone overhearing their conversation and was not familiar with him would think he was cajoling her. To see tears welling up in her big eyes would be baffling. And she knew what it meant when his tone turned softer and calmer, when his words were spaced a little further apart. He handed her his handkerchief.

"Wipe off your tears," he said.

She took the handkerchief and did as told.

I should not break, I would not break.

"I probably should check again with the team," she said, looking at him. Still, his face was void of expression, and his mouth seemed reluctant to let go of the cigar, hence not a word.

She had been with him for three years now. In her late twenties, she was the youngest Vice President in his company. She started as an assistant to one of the senior VPs in The Boss' company, Abalido & Quinaeros Inc. After only a month into the job The Boss spotted and took her as his assistant. Under his wing, she was exposed to people many levels above her experience. Acquiring know-how on steroids, faking a lot while trying to make it. The three years spent with her boss made up for all the years she had wasted—years with little direction and no ambition.

The Boss saw her innate ability to appreciate shades of grey; her emotional intelligence to handle difficult people and people from different levels and backgrounds. He recognized such inbred competence was invaluable in a company with 180 consultants—all thinking the world belonged to them—and whose bread and butter was advising people who paid for but rejected advice.

Throughout those years by his side, she then understood what his silence meant. She reached for her phone and started dialing.

She spoke to their program manager for the account, who assertively assured her they had completed the work and the documentation was in order. She asked for him to meet her at Le Fonte in an hour. "Just be here, please," she said with a firm tone, to shoot down his resistance to leave for Le Fonte.

She then dialed a second number. She talked with the client briefly, convincing him to meet yet again for the second time within three hours.

The Boss was watching her. He liked what he saw. He picked up his phone and started texting. He was satisfied when an immediate reply came through. He began to watch her again.

She made the third and final call. With her slight flirtation, the man on the other line, too, agreed to join the meeting.

The Boss slowly took the cigar out of his mouth. His lips formed a small smile. "Very good," was all he said, and that was enough for her.

"I'll get us our drinks," she said, relaxing a little. She stood up from her seat, the fine material of her trousers stretched over her pert derrière. She entered the indoor dining area, and walked past several tables to the counter. Dressed in long black pants, a white sleeveless blouse, and a pair of stilettos, she looked sophisticated. She ordered their drinks from the counter and produced her corporate card at the cashier. "Keep the tab open, Mary," she told the cashier.

"Sure, Gina, and we'll bring them to you. The usual table, right?" Mary said. Gina nodded and smiled while she thanked her. She walked back outside. She could feel many eyes darting glances her way. She was indifferent to them.

At 11:30 am, Dungi, the program manager, arrived. He was a balding man in his late forties, stodgy, dressed well, and was always bathed in cologne. He greeted The Boss with a slight bow and when acknowledged by a slight nod of the great man's head, he seated himself—across the Boss and next to her.

Not long afterward and probably because he was bothered by Dungi's presence, The Boss made a slight gesture to her. She looked directly at her chief and nodded almost imperceptibly. As they rose, she said to Dungi, "I'll be back in a moment," then she escorted the suited figure to his black Lincoln town car. When he was about to enter the car, she asked,

"Shall I meet you again to report the outcome of this meeting?"

"No need. Just update me through a call," he said, then he was gone.

She felt a slight disappointment as she walked back to the table. She seated herself across from Dungi and didn't bother to ask if he wanted to order a drink. Soon the client will be here, she thought, Dungi can wait till then. She asked Dungi to give her a thorough update on the project while waiting for the client, but her mind was elsewhere.