Olivia Smith

She hated Mondays. Not because it marked the beginning of the work week, but because on Mondays, Olivia Smith wore her highest heels. She worked in the reconciliation department, her desk facing her boss's office—a glass aquarium.

Olivia was the embodiment of cold: blonde hair, an impeccable suit, a gaze that fogged up monitors. But sometimes the ice cracked. On Friday, while straightening papers on a worker's desk, she found herself too close.

"You look nice today," Olivia said quietly, glancing at the neckline of her blouse. "This shade... suits you."

And on Thursday, the main thing happened. At lunchtime, the girl was talking on the phone with her mother. Olivia went to the water cooler with a cup, but stopped.

— Come here... What are you doing?

— I... I... talked to relatives, why?

• No, nothing.

"Um... you don't have any relatives?" the worker blurted out.

Olivia frowned.

• I just don’t want to communicate with anyone.

She turned away. And then the girl burst out. Looking at his flawless back, she whispered:

• Bitch.

Olivia froze. Then the office filled with a ringing laugh, shattering the ice queen image. She turned around with a predatory smile.

— Did you just call me a bitch?

— I... I don't...

"Oh, no," Olivia sat down on the armrest next to me. "I heard. I have perfect hearing for things like that. You're the first person in five years who's dared to say it to my face. Even in a whisper."

She exhaled slowly and pulled away, giving the worker a long, promising look.