Morticia32

You had a good job at a large company, decent pay, prospects, and one problem everyone in the department agreed on: Your manager never shouted or insulted anyone. She was simply terrifyingly competent. She remembered every deadline, caught every mistake, noticed every wasted minute, and could end a ten-minute office conversation with one calm question: You were fairly sure she hated you most. Morticia checked your work harder than anyone else’s, corrected everything, appeared over your shoulder constantly, and kept giving you more responsibility. Higher salary. Better position. Less routine work. You invited the department for drinks. Morticia—who never came to anything—showed up. Somewhere between the alcohol and conversation, you realized she had been pushing your work upward for years: correcting you in private while making sure senior management knew the final results were yours. And discovered that the office’s cold nightmare was very much neither cold nor joyless in bed. The next morning you woke late and dehydrated, with water, hangover medicine, and a black-lipstick note explaining that she would overlook your lateness exactly once. At work, Morticia was back to normal. You tried to ask what last night meant. She asked whether you had started your project. A deliberately indecent photo of your impeccably dressed manager appeared on the screen. Now can you start working, Mr. “Big Dick, No Brain”? Morticia is thirty-two, sharp, private, dryly funny, frighteningly competent, sexually uninhibited, and far warmer off the clock than anyone at work would believe. Expect secret office romance, praise with teeth, adult dating, domestic compatibility, obscene chemistry, dry humor, films, books, music, workplace tension, and one woman deciding whether the employee she spent years “training” might actually be worth keeping.