LAZAREV GLOBAL FACILITIES REQUEST

FROM: L. Lazarev, Office of the Chairman

DATE: November 8, 2025 | 03:11 A.M.

Relocate workstation 50-E-217 (R. Everett) to Floor 40 by 0600 Monday. Remove all evidence of prior occupancy.

Ms. Everett is not to be consulted.

The weekend crawls by in a haze of boiling anxiety and cold pizza.

I rehearse my speech a hundred times, everywhere I go. In the shower. On the subway. Late at night, while staring at the ceiling when I can’t sleep.

Mr. Lazarev, I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to have to decline.

Mr. Lazarev, I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think this is the right fit.

Mr. Lazarev, thanks but no thanks; pretty please don’t murder me and chop me up into little bite-sized pieces.

I practice all the different possible tones, too. Firm. Polite. Professional. Apologetic. Nice Rae. Stern Rae. Hot Rae. Cold Rae. Red Rae. Blue Rae. One Rae. Two Rae.

With every variety, I try to imagine his reaction. Every time, I come up blank.

Truth is, I don’t know Lukas Lazarev. I don’t know the first thing about him. And yet my brain keeps circling back to the brief, hazy outline of what I do know and trying to fill in new details.

Someone once told me that you can fix bad dreams by writing a new ending for yourself. That’s kind of what I end up doing, in a way.

Because even though every dream starts the same way that it did in real life—with Lukas emerging in that hallway like a larger-than-life statue of Zeus climbed down from its pedestal—they each end differently.

Sometimes, he touches me. His hands palm my hip, big enough to snap me in two, and spread me across the conference room table. His beard tickles my inner thigh.

Sometimes, he gives me orders, and I don’t dare disobey. Sit. Stand. Kneel. Beg.

Sometimes, in these fuzzy not-quite-daydreams of mine, he says and does nothing at all. He simply stands, smokes, and stares at me with gray eyes that see far too much.

Stop it, psycho, I snap at myself for the billionth time.

But I can’t. I just cannot.

Case in point: Sunday morning, I wake up from a dream I refuse to dwell on. My sheets are tangled around my legs, my skin is hot, and if that weren’t proof enough that I’m losing my mind, my pajama shorts are damp.

What is wrong with me?

He’s old enough to be my father. He’s literally my boss’s father. He’s probably married, or has a girlfriend, or seventeen of them.

He is worldly. He is powerful. He is the kind of man who’s done everything and seen everything.

Is that why I keep thinking about him? Because I’ve done nothing?

Whenever my thoughts start to stray too far, I focus on the task at hand: telling him no. By Sunday night, I’ve almost convinced myself I can do it.

I can walk into that office on the fabled fiftieth floor, look Lukas Lazarev in the face, and tell him no.

… Can’t I?

Monday morning, I get to the building at 7:45. Fifteen minutes early. That gives me enough time to stop by my old desk on Kir’s floor, grab the things I need, and mentally prepare myself for what’s coming.

The elevator opens on the fortieth floor. I step out, turn the corner toward my desk, and⁠—

My desk is gone.

Not “cleared off” gone.

Not “rearranged” gone.

It is actually, physically, no-longer-there gone. The spot where I’ve sat for eighteen months is now occupied by a potted fern and a decorative end table with a bowl of mints on it. Even the imprints of the desk’s feet on the carpet are completely wiped away. It’s like I never even existed.

I stand there, blinking, stunned.

“Oh, you’re here!” A woman I don’t recognize pops up from out of nowhere. She’s young, blonde, and has a perky, golden retriever energy that makes me want to crawl back into bed. “You must be Rae. I’m Madison. I’m taking over for you.”

“Taking over for me,” I repeat stupidly.

“Yeah! Mr. Lazarev—the younger one, I mean—he said you got promoted. Congrats, by the way! That’s so exciting!”

My mouth falls open soundlessly.

“They moved all your stuff already,” Madison continues. “Saturday, I think? Or maybe Friday night. Anyway, it’s all up on 50 now. HR said to tell you to head straight there when you got in.”

“Saturday.”

“Or Friday night. I’m not totally sure.”

I’m still standing there like a dumbstruck idiot when Madison’s phone rings.

“Oops,” she says, “gotta get that. Good luck with the new gig!”

She answers the call and bounces away. I’m instantly forgotten.

After another minute or two of standing numbly in place, I pivot on my heel and walk back to the elevator in a daze. The speech I practiced all weekend is useless now. There’s nothing to decline. The decision was made for me while I was sitting in my apartment eating cold pepperoni and telling myself I had options.

Everyone has choices, Ms. Everett.

Some are just less pleasant than others.

I hit the button for 50. The elevator ascends.

My reflection in the mirrored walls looks even worse than it did on Friday night. The girl looking back on me now has the fear-soaked eyes of a mouse that just realized the maze only has one exit and it leads directly into the cat’s mouth.

I never had a choice. Not really.

He made sure I had nowhere else to go.

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