DUMB BLONDE

CHAPTER FOUR - SARAH

I walk into work with my hair tied back in a mousey brown ponytail. Little makeup. The hemline on my skirt is sensible. We have a big deal coming up. My boss, who happens to be quite narcissistic, is in an exceptionally unpleasant mood today. He's asserting his dominance more than usual.

"The boss wants coffee," says Megan as soon as she appears.

"I'll make it," I offer.

As I walk to the break room, the suffocating atmosphere of the office weighs heavily on my shoulders. The scent of stale coffee and copier ink fills the air, adding to the mundane and lifeless ambiance. My footsteps echo in the silence, preparing myself for yet another tedious chore.

I brew the coffee and carry it over to my boss's office, fully aware of his sour mood. My heart races as I knock on the door and enter. His face is etched with frustration, his brow furrowed, and his lips tightly pressed together. Today is not the best day to engage in casual conversation.

"Your coffee, Mr. Stevens," I place the cup on his desk, his eyes barely acknowledging my presence. The usual pleasantries are absent, replaced by an air of intolerance. He sips the coffee without a word of thanks, his focus solely on the tasks at hand. It's disheartening to witness his lack of appreciation for my efforts, but I remind myself to remain professional and composed. "Will that be all, sir?"

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. Leaving his office, I take a deep breath, determined not to let his mood define my day. I remind myself that I am not defined by his treatment but by my professionalism and dedication.

As I sit down at my desk, I resume my mechanical typing, the sound of each key echoing through the dimly lit room. The shadows dance around me, taunting me with their darkness, a constant reminder of the chaos that lurks in my mind.

Megan, with her kind eyes and gentle disposition, glances at me sympathetically. "You didn't have to do that, you know," she whispers, barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning.

"It's okay. I wanted to." I respond softly, my voice barely carrying.

"How was he?"

I lean closer. "He's an obnoxious prick, Megan."

She giggles. Together we exist in this dreary prison, craving freedom from the suffocating grip of our narcissistic oppressor.

"He wants last month's figures," Simon appears.  I quickly bring them up on my screen. "You got them, Sarah?"

"Yup, just printing them off. I'll take them through to him."

"Thanks, Sarah. I hate him!" says Simon.

"Don't we all?" I smile. Taking a deep breath, I gather the printed figures, their numbers a reflection of the countless hours and sleepless nights I sacrificed. Placing them neatly in a folder, I make my way back toward Mr. Stevens' office, my steps deliberate and measured.

As I enter, the room feels smaller, suffocating under the weight of his presence. His gaze, sharp as a knife, pierces through the air, reminding me once again of the power he holds over my life and my sanity. Swallowing my disdain, I hand him the folder with trembling hands, afraid to meet his icy gaze.

"The figures Mr. Stevens," I say. His reply, dripping with arrogance and superiority, is at least fleeting. His condescending tone leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"No. That will be all, Samantha."

"It's..."

"What?"