7:02 a.m.

Two minutes past the official start of the day. A calculated imperfection, proof that time bent to Cassandra Voss-Hartley's schedule, not the reverse. She was already composed behind the bone-white desk, a minimalist altar upon which only three objects were permitted:

— A silver-framed wedding photo of herself and Melissa, both immaculate in bone-white suits, halos of marital poise. — A glass paperweight encasing a single withered rose — Melissa’s fifth anniversary gift, embalmed as a relic of devotion. — A printed copy of the sexual harassment complaint, marked CONFIDENTIAL: EYES ONLY, its margins bleeding with annotations in rose-gold ink.

Her posture was a masterclass in boardroom semiotics: spine ramrod straight, waist cinched by a black pencil skirt that dared the eye to guess where flesh ended and discipline began. Above it, an ivory silk blouse was a sterile drape beneath the true statement piece: a canary yellow power blazer. This wasn't color; it was cognitive dissonance on a hanger. It screamed for attention while simultaneously punishing the observer for daring to look. In the grey-steel landscape of corporate masculinity, she was a toxic bloom, beautiful and broadcasting danger. The yellow wasn't cheerful; it was a semiotic ambush.

She’d read the complaint thrice, her Montblanc pen tracing the words with the cold curiosity of an anthropologist unearthing a primitive artifact. Her annotations were diagnoses:

Complaint: "At the Christmas party, he leaned too close... He said I looked like I’d been ‘wrapped up just for someone lucky." Annotation: "Boundary priming via suggestive metaphor. Indicative of social predation masked as seasonal charm. Early-stage grooming behavior."

Complaint: "During Secret Santa, he brushed the back of my chair with two fingers... a stroke. It felt intentional." Annotation: "Tactile microinvasion. Somatic signaling of perceived ownership. Proto-contact strategy within deniable range."

Then: a knock on her door. Soft, hesitant, male.

Cassandra did not flinch. Surprises were unwelcome here.

She placed her Montblanc pen parallel to her clasped hands — a surgeon prepping for incision — and allowed her expression to soften into the lacquered serenity of a high-functioning empath.

"Come in," she purred, her voice low, melodic; a guillotine wrapped in cashmere.

The door opened. She did not rise. She did not offer a hand. She merely gestured to the single black leather chair opposite her. It was, of course, lower than hers, designed to force his gaze slightly upward, establishing her authority before a word was exchanged.

Once he sat, she leaned forward, just enough to tilt the axis of power. One sculpted, botoxed brow lifted a nanometer.

"Thank you for joining me," she said, her voice ASMR-smooth, a tone designed not to soothe, but to disarm. "Before we discuss specifics," she continued, "I have a small curiosity." She let the words glide, warm but sterile, like antiseptic poured over a wound. "Have you, perhaps, been feeling... unseen lately?"

It wasn't a question. It was a diagnosis mid-bloom.