Chapter 8: Walk of shame
The fluorescent hum of the main office felt alien after the green-tinged drone of IT. Stacy clutched the crumpled peach silk blouse tightly against her chest, the thin fabric a flimsy shield. Her bare skin prickled in the air-conditioned chill. The sticky trails on her neck, cheek, collarbone had dried tacky, pulling unpleasantly with every hesitant step. She kept her eyes glued to the industrial grey carpet tiles, focusing on their repeating pattern. Left foot. Right foot. The phantom taste of salt and bitterness lingered at the back of her throat. Swallowed. Necessary. Part of the transaction.
The walk felt endless. Past endless rows of identical cubicles, the low murmur of phone calls, the clack of keyboards. She flinched as a printer whirred to life nearby. Sweat beaded at her temples despite the cold. Did they see? Could they smell it? Her nipples, hard and exposed beneath the silk, scraped against the fabric with each movement. The absence of her bra was a raw vulnerability, a constant, humiliating reminder. Where was it? Carl? Dave? A sickening trophy.
She rounded a corner towards her own isolated cubicle, tucked near a fire exit. Sanctuary. Almost there. Just past the water cooler cluster.
"Stacy?"
She froze. The voice was smooth, male. Familiar. Mr. Peterson from Finance. Early fifties. Impeccable suit. He stood near the cooler, holding a paper cup, his gaze sweeping over her with unnerving focus. His eyes lingered on the way the silk strained against her tightly crossed arms, on the exposed curve of her shoulder, on the faint, sticky sheen visible on her neck under the harsh lights.
"Mr. Peterson." Her voice sounded brittle, too high. She forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster.
He took a slow sip of water. "You look... flushed, Stacy. Busy morning?" A faint, knowing curve touched his lips. "Heard you were getting some hands-on training down in IT."
Her cheeks burned. Hands-on. The word echoed with ugly implications. She tightened her grip on the blouse. "Y-yes, sir. Mr. Harding arranged it. Practical application."
"Application. Indeed." Peterson’s gaze drifted lower, lingering blatantly on the swell of her breasts barely contained by the silk and her desperate grip. "Veronica Hayes module, I assume? Acquisition?" He paused, letting the word hang. "Demanding work. Requires resilience. Stamina." He stepped closer. The scent of expensive cologne couldn’t mask the predatory curiosity in his eyes. "Impressive initiative, securing that opportunity. Shows dedication."
Pride flickered, weak and confused, deep beneath the shame and revulsion. Impressive? Dedication? Was that what they saw? Not the trembling mess kneeling on the linoleum? "Th-thank you, sir. I'm... eager to learn."
He nodded slowly, deliberately. "That eagerness is noted, Stacy. Truly." He glanced towards her cubicle. "When you've... finished processing that experience," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "come see me. We have some high-value projects brewing in Finance. Opportunities requiring... close supervision. A keen learner like you could benefit immensely. Get noticed." His eyes met hers. "Properly noticed."
"Projects?" Her mind raced. Finance? Real work? Not sucking… Acquisition. Different kind. "I... I'd be honored, Mr. Peterson. Thank you."
"Good girl." He smiled thinly, draining his cup. "Don't dawdle too long. Opportunities wait for no one." He crumpled the cup, tossed it neatly into the bin, and walked away, his polished shoes clicking on the tiles.
Stacy swayed slightly. Good girl. The same words the older IT guy had used. Yet Mr. Peterson made it sound... professional. Promising. Her heart hammered against her ribs. High-value projects. Get noticed. Was this the payoff? The reason for the degradation? She took a shaky step towards her cubicle, the silk slipping slightly. She yanked it back up.
She hadn't taken two more steps when another voice stopped her. "Miller!"
The sharp bark froze her mid-step. Silk bunched in her fist.
It was Reynolds from Procurement. Young, sharp-suited, always leaning too close.
He blocked the path to her cubicle, arms crossed, eyes scanning her from tangled hair to bare feet shoved into uncomfortable heels. "Miller. Heard you were busy downstairs." He smirked. "Hands full?"
Stacy forced air into her lungs. The fluorescent buzz seemed louder. "Just... training, Mr. Reynolds." She kept her arms locked over her chest. The blouse felt damp where sweat met silk.
"Training." He chuckled, low and humorless. His gaze landed on her collarbone, the sticky sheen Peterson had noted. "Looks intensive. Harding’s orders?" He took a step closer. His cologne was citrus, cloying. "Heard you impressed. Real 'go-getter'."
She flinched. Go-getter. Like Peterson's 'good girl'. Was that her name now? "Trying my best, sir." Her voice barely rose above the office hum. The phantom taste of salt was back. Swallow. Nod. Smile.
"Best is good." Reynolds tilted his head, studying her like a specimen. "We need 'best' in Procurement. Fast-track projects. High stakes." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur thick with implication. "Got one kicking off next week. Requires someone… dedicated. Someone willing to work hard." His eyes lingered on her lips, then lower. "Beneath me. Long hours."
Stacy’s breath hitched. Beneath me. The words weren't ambiguous. Her skin prickled hot and cold simultaneously. The cubicle walls seemed to press in. Long hours. Like IT. But different? Finance. Procurement. Real work? Her throat tightened. Pride warred with a sickening lurch in her gut. The blouse slipped another fraction. She didn't move to pull it up.
"Well?" Reynolds prompted, impatient. His knuckle brushed her bare forearm. A jolt. "You game, Miller? Need someone who understands… submission. To the task."
Her mind raced. Peterson’s offer. Reynolds now. Notice. Advancement. Words from the 'Female Executives' video module blurred with the smell of sweat and cologne and the ache in her knees. She looked at his expectant face, the predatory glint under the professional veneer. Beneath him. Her fingers clenched tighter in the silk. A strange, heavy warmth pooled low in her belly, confusing, insistent.
She forced her chin up, meeting his gaze. "Yes, sir." The words tasted like dust. "I'm… willing."
The word hung in the air, thick as the citrus stench clinging to Reynolds. "Willing." He gave a curt nod, satisfaction tightening his features. "Good. My assistant, Brenda. Schedule something before Friday." He didn't wait for confirmation, turning sharply back towards the bustle of the main floor. His polished shoes clicked a fading rhythm on the tiles.
Stacy stood rooted, the crumpled silk blouse damp against her knuckles. Her chest heaved. Bare skin prickled where his knuckle had brushed her arm. Beneath me. Integration. The words rattled inside her skull, sharp fragments mixing with the phantom ache in her jaw. The fluorescent lights buzzed aggressively overhead. She forced her legs to move.
Her cubicle felt miles away. Every glance from a passing colleague felt like a spotlight. She kept her gaze lowered, focusing on the grey carpet blurring beneath her shuffling feet. Left. Right. The taste of salt and something metallic lingered. Her throat burned. She clutched the blouse tighter, knuckles white. Sanctuary. Almost.
Finally reaching the familiar grey fabric partition, she slipped behind it like a ghost. The small potted plant on her desk seemed impossibly green, vibrant against the drab surroundings. A framed photo of her father smiled back at her, steady and kind. She sank heavily into her stiff office chair, the plastic groaning in protest.
Relief washed over her, a physical release of tension she hadn't fully acknowledged. She let go of the blouse, letting it pool loosely in her lap. Cool air-conditioned air hit the damp patches beneath her arms, across her collarbone. She leaned back, closing her eyes for a second. Just a second. Needed this. Needed quiet.
Her desk phone flashed a red voicemail light. Unopened reports sat stacked neatly beside her keyboard. Normalcy. Or its hollow shell. She reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and jiggled the mouse. The computer screen flickered to life, bathing her face in its cold glow. Emails flooded the inbox. Routine notifications. Meeting invites. Finance updates.
One subject line, halfway down, stopped her breath.
The subject line burned into her retinas: Harding | Training Follow-Up & Executive Session. Her mouse pointer hovered, trembling. One click. A sterile corporate template appeared.
“Ms. Miller,” it began, “Your proactive engagement with Module 3: Acquisition Techniques is acknowledged.” The words felt cold, detached. “Should you require further practical reinforcement of the demonstrated skills prior to your final assessment, locate a colleague willing to assist you. Ensure proficiency.” Her stomach clenched. Practical reinforcement. Willing to assist. The ghostly taste flooded back, thick and sour. She swallowed hard, the action scraping her dry throat.
“Additionally,” the email continued, “report to the Executive Conference Room (West Wing, 15th Floor) promptly at 8:00 AM tomorrow. Your final instructional video awaits viewing. Attendance is mandatory for internship progression.” Mandatory. Progression. The air conditioning vent above hissed like static. The green plant on her desk seemed unnaturally bright.
She stared at the screen, the glow casting harsh shadows on her face. Willing to assist. The phrase echoed. Dave’s thick fingers gripping her hair. Carl’s low grunt. The sticky residue on her skin felt suddenly colder. Proficiency. Was she proficient? Her knees still ached faintly.
The framed photo of her father gazed steadily from the desk corner. His kind eyes, so unlike the assessing stares of Peterson, Reynolds, Harding. A wave of nausea rolled through her, sharp and sudden. She pressed a hand flat against her sternum, feeling the frantic flutter beneath silk and bare skin. Shame. And beneath it, that treacherous, unwelcome warmth low in her belly. Had she been… proficient?
Her gaze flicked back to the email. ‘Locate a colleague willing to assist.’ It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an expectation. A test. Today. Before tomorrow's final video. Panic tightened her chest. Who? Peterson’s offer of "close supervision"? Reynolds’s “beneath me”? The men in IT, satisfied and dismissive? Sweat beaded along her hairline.
Her fingers fumbled for the mouse, clicking Print. The printer nearby whirred to life. Proof. Instruction. She pushed back her chair abruptly; the plastic legs scraped loudly on the thin carpet. She needed air. Needed to think. Needed to find someone… willing. The silk blouse gaped slightly as she stood; she didn’t pull it closed.
She walked towards the printer, each step deliberate. Eyes watched. She felt them. Peterson observing from his glass office down the hall? Reynolds lingering near the coffee station? She kept her chin up, focusing on the rhythmic whir and churn of the machine retrieving her shameful directive. Her bare feet in the heels felt unsteady.
The printed page slid into the tray. White. Crisp. Condemning. She picked it up. The words felt heavy. Locate a colleague willing to assist. Her thumb brushed over the dried, flaky residue on her collarbone. A decision hardened, brittle and fragile. She turned, clutching the paper, scanning the fluorescent-lit expanse of cubicles and offices. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Who, in this humming, indifferent hive, was willing? Tomorrow loomed. Eight AM. The Executive Conference Room. The final video. But first… practice. Proficiency. Her knuckles whitened around the paper. The hunt began.