The Shot

The first time I met him, I didn’t know he was my boss but I knew I wanted to slap him.

It started in the kind of chaos New York makes look normal: late morning, two taxis double-parked in front of Wolfe Industries, a valet kid sweating bullets as he stared at a long, deep scratch across the passenger door of a matte black Mercedes. People were filming yet pretending not to film.

The driver was a man in a black suit built like arrogance with cheekbones that could cut glass and a voice like calm before a storm.

“You had one job,” he said to the kid, low and lethal. “Open the door. Not redecorate it.”

“I… I think someone else clipped it while I…”The valet’s face burned red. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. I really shouldn’t have opened my mouth but I’d been watching for ten seconds, and I hated men like him for twenty-three years.

“Maybe if you weren’t parked like you owned the sidewalk, this wouldn’t have happened,” I said, stepping between them before I could stop myself. “You don’t intimidate everyone, you know. Some of us just think you’re a dick.” The silence was sharp and instant. His eyes cut to me. They were Ice-gray, focused and like a sniper locking in.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice velvet-lined steel with a slow, condescending and deadly smile, “Communications major. Broke. Daddy issues. Thinks being loud is the same as being powerful.”

“I’m guessing you’re used to people letting you talk just because you wear a suit and look like money.” I blinked and stepped forward, chest to chest now as my hands curled into fists. “But I don’t care what you drive or how expensive your watch is. I’ve seen better men than you choke on their own egos.” He stared at me for one unbearable beat, then let out the kind of laugh that didn’t touch his eyes.

“You’re a walking HR complaint waiting to happen,” he murmured.

“And you’re a grown man fighting a valet in the street.” He leaned in. I caught the scent of his cologne - sharp and peppered with the edge of smoke.

“Sweetheart,” he said, so low I felt it between my ribs, “you don’t know the first thing about fighting.”

Then he turned his back on me. That should’ve been the end but it wasn’t; because thirty minutes later, when I walked into the glass fortress of Wolfe Industries for my internship orientation - my heart still drumming from the adrenaline of that moment - I sat down in a polished boardroom full of strangers. They were passing out name tags and NDAs.

And then the door opened. And he walked in. Same suit. Same face. Same eyes. Only now, someone stood to introduce him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the woman said, beaming, “this is our CEO, Mr. Cazien Wolfe.”

And just like that, the man I called a dick in the street became the man who controlled my future.

************

I tried to act normal. Like I hadn’t just told my CEO he was a dick. Like I wasn’t sitting four chairs down from him, pretending to read the welcome packet while every cell in my body screamed run. I could feel his presence. Not just see him, feel him.

Cazien Wolfe didn’t take up space… he commanded it. He stood at the head of the room now, sleeves rolled, tie gone, like even his dress code didn’t dare tell him what to do. His gaze swept across the interns like we were pieces on a board he already knew how to play. He didn’t look at me. Not directly but I felt it. That weight like he was waiting for me to twitch.

A woman in pearls and power brows - some HR director, I think - started talking about company culture. Words like innovation, team synergy, and corporate identity blurred into background noise. My mind raced. Should I leave? Could I leave?

What if he already recognized me? What if he hadn’t? What if he was waiting to humiliate me in front of everyone? I kept my head down. Read the packet. Or stared at it. Hard to say. Welcome to Wolfe Industries. We believe in performance, precision, and potential.

Translation: Keep your mouth shut and make yourself useful.

Pearl Necklace HR handed out some kind of form to sign… ethics policy or social media guidelines, I think. I signed without reading. My hands were damp. My name, Raina Cole - looked too soft on the page. And then he spoke. That voice again; low, resonant, cruel in how calmly it owned the room.

“Let me be clear,” he said. “You weren’t hired to be liked. You weren’t hired to be comfortable.” Heads lifted and pens stopped.

“You were hired to serve this company,” he continued, “to work until your bones ache and your ideas bleed onto paper. If you’re here for hand-holding, you’re in the wrong building. We don’t coddle. We conquer.” My stomach flipped. Then finally his eyes cut to me and held. The recognition was instant, subtle and calculated.

One eyebrow lifted just a breath. The faintest twitch of his lips. It wasn’t a smile but a challenge. My pulse jackhammered. I fought to keep my face blank. Then he said it.

To the room, but aimed squarely at me.

“And if you’ve already made an impression today…”

A pause. Long enough for everyone to glance around, confused. “…make sure it wasn’t your last.” The room chuckled nervous and fake. My heart dropped into my stomach. He didn’t just recognize me. He was playing me now.

The meeting ended like a polite execution. All folders snapped shut. Chairs scraped against polished concrete floors. Interns whispered to each other with the nervous edge of people trying to bond in a foxhole. Everyone moved, buzzing, shifting and filtering out into the hallway like a school dismissal bell had rung.