Chapter 5: Let’s Get Zesty!

By 9:03 AM, the previously quiet floor of Mason Equity Group was echoing with something dangerously close to… laughter.

Katherine Brown had arrived at 8:20 sharp with an overstuffed canvas tote bag, a bright lemon-yellow blouse that screamed “Wednesday can be fun,” and a box of cinnamon rolls with a sticky note attached that read:

“No judgment carbs. First come, first served. 😎 —K.B.”

A week ago, people barely spoke to one another in the break room. Today, there was a line for coffee and spontaneous rankings of everyone’s favorite donut glaze. The intern with the crooked glasses? He was actually smiling.

Katherine was seated on the edge of her desk, cross-legged like it was a yoga mat, her laptop open and her fingers flying as she spoke animatedly with Max from analytics.

“Trust me,” she said, tapping on the screen, “if your report starts with ‘per Q3 benchmarks’, people are already mentally opening YouTube. Lead with the surprise stat — the one that makes the board collectively go, ‘Wait, what?’”

Max blinked. “You want me to... start with the weirdest number?”

“Exactly! Lead with the juice, Max.” She grinned. “Let’s get zesty!”

He stared at her. “You just made that up.”

“Of course I did. That’s the point.”

Behind her, a new whiteboard had appeared — completely unauthorized — with neon post-its labeled things like “✨ chaotic ideas,” “safe bets 😴,” and “let’s not get sued.”

No one dared take it down. No one quite knew who put it up, either.

The floor buzzed with energy. People actually talked now. Even the printer seemed to work faster.

But peace was a fragile thing at Mason Equity Group.

At exactly 10:02 AM, the elevator dinged. And with it came silence.

Sebastian Mason stepped out in a black suit so sharp it might have been carved from onyx. His face was unreadable, though his jaw was set in the unmistakable angle of “I wasn’t informed.”

He took one step onto the main floor — and stopped.

The first thing he noticed was the music. Low-volume jazz funk. Not elevator music — something cheekier. He glanced toward the break room. Was that… someone doing a handstand?

The second thing he saw was Katherine. Legs folded on her desk, a marker in one hand, cinnamon roll in the other. She hadn’t seen him yet.

He cleared his throat.

“Miss Brown.”

The marker dropped. So did Max’s confidence.

Katherine blinked, then offered him a sugary smile. “Morning, Mr. Mason! You’re early.”

“You’re late.”

She checked her watch. “Oh. Damn. By two whole minutes. Are we all still alive?”

Sebastian’s gaze swept the room like a hawk assessing its next move. “What is this?”

Katherine slid off her desk, brushing her hands. “This is a creative team that’s finally breathing again.”

“Is that what you call chaos now?”

“No,” she said lightly. “Chaos would be if I installed a disco ball.”

Max made a choked sound.

Sebastian walked toward her slowly, each step a warning. “Miss Brown, this is not a daycare. Nor a summer camp. This is a financial institution with clients whose patience is thinner than my time.”

“And yet,” she said, unfazed, “the report we submitted yesterday got client approval in less than an hour. That hasn’t happened in months, right?”

He didn’t reply.

She took a step forward. “You hired me to fix a dead team. I’m doing it. You can either let it grow, or micromanage it back to its comatose state. Your call.”

A long silence.

All eyes were on them.

Finally, Sebastian looked away — not at defeat, but because he hated how calm she remained. He wasn’t used to pushback, let alone from someone who wore lemon blouses and said things like “let’s get zesty.”

He turned on his heel. “In my office. Now.”

Max whispered, “She’s dead.”

Katherine winked at him. “Send flowers.”

---

Inside his office, the contrast was immediate. No color, no post-its, no warmth. Just glass, leather, and control.

He stood by the window as she entered, arms crossed. “Do you understand the message you’re sending to the team?”

“That they’re human?”

“That they’re free to disregard order.”

“They’re free to function without fear,” she said evenly. “Fear doesn’t breed creativity. It breeds silence.”

He turned to face her. “And what about discipline? Accountability?”

Katherine met his eyes. “Those things matter. But so does feeling like your presence makes a difference. Half your staff looked like ghosts when I got here. Now they joke. They ask questions. They challenge assumptions.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “You think that’s progress?”

“I think it’s a start.” She tilted her head. “You’re afraid this will spin out of control. But tell me, has productivity gone down?”

He said nothing.

“Exactly.”

She walked toward the door. “If you want to fire me, do it now. Otherwise…” — she paused, hand on the handle — “buckle up. Because I haven’t even unpacked my lava lamp yet.”

The door closed behind her.

He stared after her, lips pressed tight — but behind his stern expression, a flicker of something else had crept in.

Intrigue. Or was it respect?

He wasn’t sure yet. And that infuriated him.

---

Back on the floor, the energy had shifted.

People glanced up as Katherine returned, some nervously, others with admiration. She offered no explanation — just walked to the whiteboard and added a new post-it under “chaotic ideas”:

“Bossman might secretly like jazz funk. Needs further testing.”

The whole room exhaled.

Max offered her a quiet high-five.

By noon, the cinnamon rolls were gone. But the tension?

Still very much alive — just rebranded.

---