prompt: noir
i FINALLY finished the story prompt given to me by @invaderkeek .....my half of the trade!!
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She sauntered into her new office at around midnight, the rest of the congratulatory party already long gone. She decided that she would stay behind after the celebration was over, and why wouldnāt she? The whole building was now as good as hers. After ten long years clawing her way up, she finally made it to the top, a string of promotions, awards, experience, until finally, just that week, she was chosen as the new CEO of the company.
She figured she earned a better look around.
Did she take a few shortcuts? Of course. Engage in some less than ethical behaviors that allowed her to get the edge against her competition? Absolutely. Did she, perhaps, sell a few people out? Step on a few faces in her size 6 Louboutin heels in her hurry to climb the corporate ladder? Her hands were less than clean, and she would be the first to admit that. But did she feel any regret for what sheād done?
Absolutely fucking not.
And why would she? It wasnāt like everyone else in charge hadnāt gotten to be where they were by doing the things sheād done. You didnāt get power, money, respect, or an impressive title by being nice. It was just business; it was never anything personal. Besides, it was difficult in its own way to operate in such a questionable manner, with all the lies to keep straight and all the social manipulation required. It was almost a full-time job on its own.
So yes, she did deserve this. She worked hard for it.
She sat in the elegant leather chair, at the heavy mahogany desk that was now hers, and turned around to look out at the night sky from the massive window that made up the back wall of the office. She could see the whole city from it. She could see her own reflection in the glass, too. And as she watched herself against the backdrop of the dancing lights of the city, she thought, I could get used to this.
Her reflection smirked back at her.
She spun around again to further admire the rest of the room, pausing upon noticing a couple of gifts, each of which adorned with a small, silver ribbon and placed neatly in the center of the desk. One was a bottle of dark wine, with a label that only read, in elegant, freehand calligraphy:Ā ā1995ā³. The other was a small copy of Shakespeareās Macbeth. Fitted just underneath the bottle was a card that readĀ āFor everything youāve done; H.ā.
She laughed to herself. It must be Harold, her mentor. The man who had taught her everything she knew. Harold owned a small vineyard and made pinot noir as a hobby. The wine would have been a dead giveaway had it not been for the card; who did he think he was fooling? Heād always been a funny old man, fond of long stories and playing jokes, and she missed him dearly now that heād retired.
Perhaps it was for the best, now.
She was still in a celebratory mood and wasnāt planning on going home that night, so she decided to go ahead and open the bottle. 1995.... The year that she was first hired. She was surprised, yet honored, that Harold even remembered the exact year. She drank from the bottle, admired the sweet-bitter taste of the wine, and continued her train of thought.
If she hadnāt gotten the internship after college, she wasnāt sure where she would be now. Maybe not sitting in this chair, that much was certain. It was almost too bad that she had to cheat the other, admittedly better qualified young woman out of the job by... What was it again? A rumor? Telling the hiring manager that her rival was... an addict? Mentally unstable? The wine was affecting her memory.
And, of course, they believed her. After all, they were roommates. Best friends. Nearly sisters. And because they were so close, because she knew so much, and because no one would think of betraying someone so close with a lie so hideous, the manager believed her. That, and, of course, the fabricated evidence.
...She MAY have drugged the girlās food, causing her to fail the mandatory drug test.
Again, just business. Nothing personal.
The wine was really starting to have an effect on her. She knew that she shouldnāt be this drunk so soon, but the wine was wonderfully sweet, and she couldnāt help herself. Her heart was racing, but she attributed that to the thrill of success. Her vision was blurring, stomach turning, but she had already managed to finish a good near-half of the bottle.Ā
It wasnāt like the other girlās life would be ruined by one lost internship. She was, again, highly qualified, and there were plenty of other opportunities for her to find her own path to success. Of course, that was assuming that sheād toughened up a little. She had always been soft, polite, unfit for corporate. Maybe she found something else. She always hoped that she found something else. They hadnāt spoken in years, but as a show of good faith, of no hard feelings, she sent the girl an email just after the big promotion. Told her that, if she felt like it, she should come to the party that evening, and that she would introduce her to the big wigs, help her make the good connections. If she was still interested.
What was her name again? It had anĀ āeā in it, she was sure. And anĀ āaā, maybe? Chelsea? Bethany?Ā
...Heather.
Was Harold at the party that evening? She wracked her hazy memory, trying to recall some concrete sign of his presence, and found nothing. He had to be here. He had to have been there. And not greet her? Not congratulate her? He was too old-fashioned, too talkative. He would have made a grand show of it, a speech, perhaps even called for a toast. But why would he drive all the way from his summer home in Rhode Island to place a mysterious package on her desk, then leave again without saying a word?
There was something in the wine.
There was something in the wine, she knew it, and she knew that someone left it there for her to drink. Could it be Heather? Did she come to the building, knowing that the office would be empty, to plant the wine and leave without anyone noticing? Did she invite her own would-be murderer to her gathering?
She didnāt care if it was ridiculous. All she cared about was that her sight was blurring, her heart was pounding, her skin was numb, and her mental facilities were beginning to fail her. She had only the presence of mind to dial 911.
But, to her horror, she could not find her voice.
