Pinky

***Maeve Thorne***

I push through the revolving glass doors, stepping directly into the belly of the Blackwood Group headquarters. The sheer, intimidating scale of the architecture instantly overwhelms my senses. Massive, opulent ceilings stretch so high above me they seem to scrape the sky itself. Everywhere I look, people rush past me in a dizzying blur. They look exactly like tall, intimidating runway models clad in razor-sharp business suits, clutching thick files and barking orders into their phones. Standing near the entrance, I feel exactly like a tiny, lost puppy accidentally wandering amidst a crowd of ruthless corporate titans.

Needing direction, I boldly approach a middle-aged lift operator standing near the elevators. He sports highly distinct, faded red highlights brushed through the front of his brown hair. I square my shoulders and fully lean into my new masculine persona. Projecting a confident, artificially deepened manly tone, I state, "I am here for an interview. I am looking for a reception. Which floor?"

The liftman pauses. He turns slowly, fixing me with a long, highly judgmental stare as if assessing my very existence. After several beats, he silently raises his hand and points directly to my left.

"It’s right there, sir," he replies dryly.

I follow the angle of his finger and suddenly realize my own sheer stupidity. The reception is a massive, highly visible C-shaped desk located directly on the ground floor. It is practically impossible to miss. As I turn on my heel to walk away, I hear his deeply sarcastic, sassy voice call out from behind.

"You are welcome, sir."

Refusing to be out-sassed, I quickly spin back around and flash a brilliant, cocky smile. Pointing directly at his glistening, faded hair, I fire back, "Pink suits you."

I immediately note the murderous, dark glare he shoots me in return. Mentally celebrating my small victory with a triumphant *Hah! You pinky*, I turn and walk away.

Arriving at the colossal C-shaped desk, I am greeted by a female receptionist who sports poorly applied, visibly overdrawn lipstick clearly meant to enhance her mouth. She catches my eye, flashes a bright smile, and asks politely, "How can I help you, sir?"

Leaning against the counter, I smoothly reply, utilizing a silky, intentionally husky masculine voice, "My name is Maddox Thorne. I am here for an interview."

The auditory effect is immediate and powerful. The receptionist physically blushes at the deep vocal tone, a flush rising to her cheeks. Flustered, she quickly instructs 'Maddox' that he needs to verify his physical ID before he can be directed up to the fourth-floor HR department. I casually reach into my pocket and hand over Maddox’s official ID card, a sly smirk playing on my lips as I watch her blush a second time.

However, the flirtatious atmosphere instantly evaporates as the receptionist’s brow furrows in deep, visible confusion. She actively begins comparing the photograph on the male ID to the very distinct face standing right in front of her.

Panic alarms blare loud in my head as I realize my critical oversight. *Shit! That’s Maddox's ID.*

My mind races, and I instantly deploy a highly dramatic lie. Plastering a deeply sad, melancholic, and depressed expression across my face, I drop my gaze and solemnly claim, "I met with an accident last year and had a jaw reconstruction surgery."

The receptionist's demeanor shifts immediately from burning suspicion to immense pity. "Oh! I think you look just fine now. Here is your ID. Good luck," she says, offering a soft, sympathetic smile as she slides the plastic card back across the marble desk.

I reach out to retrieve the card and turn my body to formally thank the woman for her help. As I turn, I catch her eyes explicitly checking out my rear end, tracing my movements with obvious interest.

Amused and fully embracing my 'fuckboy' persona, I completely skip the verbal thanks. Instead, I slowly look back over my shoulder, flash the receptionist a sly, intensely cheeky grin to let her know I caught her staring, and confidently strut away toward the elevators.

Approaching the polished steel doors, I reunite with my pink-haired nemesis. "Fourth floor HR department," I command in a gruff, husky tone, my eyes quickly glancing down to read his official brass name tag, noting his name is 'Simon'.

Simon violently presses the fourth-floor button, and the elevator ascends in a deafening, fiercely thick silence. The tension in the small space is palpable, pressing down on us both. When the metallic doors finally slide open on the fourth floor, I step out. Before completely exiting the cabin, I turn my head slightly, look directly into Simon's eyes, and sneer with maximum arrogance, "Thank you... Pinky."

Simon’s professional facade completely cracks. His voice sounds incredibly stern, and I explicitly notice his fists tightly clenched at his sides as he growls, "It's Simon and you are welcome, sir."

Unbothered by his rising anger, I smirk broadly while leaving the elevator. I snicker one final parting shot over my shoulder just as the doors close, "Simon says... Pinky," and boldly walk onto the HR floor armed with a brilliant, untouchable smile.