Mary Sue Opal Bellefemme-Smythe-Starr waltzes into the office on a rainy Monday morning and blows every motherfucking mind.

Except yours.

Your coworkers are, quite seriously, losing their shit: emergency whisper-huddles in the bathrooms, secret rendezvous by the copier, group messages going off like a Gatling gun with the safety turned off. The message app chimes again and again on your computer—you shut it off with a decisive click. This reaction is ridiculous.

Of course, you’re not blind.

Objectively, Mary Sue Opal Bellefeme-Smythe-Starr is a decent-looking gal. You get your fill of her looks—which is what everyone is collectively losing their shit over, you’re pretty sure—because Mary Sue Opal Bellefemme-Smythe-Starr moves into the empty cubicle to your left and asks your name in the brightest, promptest fashion you’ve ever heard.

“Billie.” You don’t look away from this quarter’s sales projections. “Stevenson.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Billie!” Mary Sue Opal Bellefemme-Smythe-Starr chimes. “I’m Mary Sue Opal Bellefemme-Smythe-Starr, but you can call me Mary Sue. It’s kind of a long name!”

A vein in your temple pops. “Pleasure.”

Squeaking, as she sits. No groaning and grinding of plastic. Your coworkers must have given her a better chair before she even got in the elevator, which definitely does not tick you off, given you’ve been asking HR to replace your own piece of crap chair since last office holiday party. Mary Sue says, “So, Billie, how long have you worked here?”

Your chair all but collapses when you stand. She blinks at you, frozen in place. You suck in a breath. “Excuse me, Mary Sue. I need to speak with the superintendent about advertising costs.”

Mary Sue tucks a perfect strand of golden-blonde hair behind a shapely, perfect ear and bats her perfect, black eyelashes over her perfect, azure irises. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she’s disappointed. “Oh, of course! Please, don’t let me keep you. I’m waiting to be assigned to someone to shadow before I’m assigned projects, anyway. We can catch up later!”

A flash drags your gaze to the end of the cubicle row, where the sleazebag womanizer from accounting is stuffing his cell out of sight.

Good god.

You’re pretty sure he took an actual photograph.

It doesn’t sit right in your gut. You twist your jaw as far out as it will go and look him dead in the eye, say, “Actually, Mary Sue, why don’t you come with me to the superintendent’s office? She can assign you to someone to shadow, too.”

Listen; you’re not here to make friends. But you’re sure as hell not going to sit by while any man, woman, or non-binary person such as yourself is creeped on by the gross sleazebag womanizer from accounting.

Mary Sue jumps to her feet, clicks her Louis Vuitton red-and-black heels together, and smiles so bright the glare from her immaculate teeth could start a fire. In one corner of the office, you’re pretty sure there’s an actual fire from someone leaving lit candles unattended on a desk.

“That sounds great! Thank you for letting me tag along, Billie.”

As you pass the nasty gross sleazebag womanizer from accounting you breathe, “Delete that by lunch or I will break you,” and he goes white as a sheet.

Yeah, you’re pretty sure he read that message loud and clear.

The superintendent, a woman with a wicked wing on either eye and a killer shade of lipstick, is not someone you’d describe as a gusher. She does just that, however, when she sees who you’ve brought to her office.

“I’ll be damned” she thunders, pointing a manicured nail toward you both. “Mary Sue, is that you?”

“Mrs. Ortega!” Mary Sue cries, creamy cheeks flushing rose-petal pink.

Confused, you say, “You two know each other?”

“Mrs. Ortega recommended me to the board of supervisors for Market Lead! I had no idea you would be in the office today!”

Your spine stiffens, ribs tightening. “Market Lead?”

“And you’ll make a damn good one once you’ve acclimated to our office environment,” Mrs. Ortega says. “I believe a talented, hard-working woman such as yourself is what this company needs to—”

“Excuse me, Alejandra, Market Lead?” This better be some elaborate joke.

Mrs. Ortega stares at you like you’re a person made of nothing but balloon animals. “Yes, Billie, Market Lead. Mary Sue’s resume is outstanding, she’s more than qualified.”

Your face is hot. Stinging. “That position was open internally. You know I’ve been training for it.”

“Yes, the position was open internally, but when I saw Mary Sue’s credentials I knew we had to have her. I mean, I’d be crazy not to hire this woman! She received her doctorate in business last spring while building schools for the less-fortunate and pioneering a new work-life balance proposal for non-violent offenders. And her work with endangered species? Genius.”

You can’t even swallow because your throat is filled with knives. Jerkily, you nod.

“Right. Sure. Well, here she is. I’ll just go back to my desk.” To burn it and all the work I’ve done for the last three months.

Mrs. Ortega holds up a finger. “Hold on, Billie, it’s perfect you’re here. No one knows the ins and outs of the Market Lead better than you do, and Mary Sue needs to shadow someone for a week before she begins official duties. What better person to show her around than you?”

God no, you’re not sure you say aloud.

“That’s an amazing idea,” Mary Sue gasps. “Billie’s been so nice to me.” She beams at you, and you die inside. “This is going to be a blast!”