The fourteenth floor handled operations reports, vendor compliance, internal audits, and enough paperwork to either keep a billion-dollar company clean or bury its rot under spreadsheets.
My supervisor was Vanessa Brooks.
Vanessa wore expensive suits and fake concern the same way—tight, polished, and designed to make people uncomfortable.
She looked me up and down on my first day and said, “You’re the temp?”
“Operations associate,” I said.
She smiled like I had corrected the Queen.
“Same thing.”
Derek Walsh laughed from the next desk. He was loud, lazy, and had the confidence of a man who had stolen better people’s work for years.
Paula Simmons sat beside him, quiet and sharp, always watching Vanessa’s face before deciding what opinion to have.
By lunchtime, I understood the floor.
