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“The Eighth Floor”

Mara Fielding was already composing the first sentence of her exposé in her head by the time the elevator doors opened with a sterile chime.

In an age of supposed workplace parity, how does a company boasting seventy-two secretaries and nine executives—all men—escape scrutiny?

She stepped into the firm’s lobby on the eighth floor of the Saxxon Building with practiced confidence. Her boots clicked smartly on the marble tile, echoing against the glass walls and tastefully soulless sculptures. The space smelled like vanilla, plastic, and very expensive lies.

At the reception desk, a woman with hair the color of cotton candy and nails that shimmered like opals looked up with an eager smile.

“Welcome to Hedron Partners! You must be Miss Fielding,” she said, voice laced with the delighted obedience of a theme park princess. “The partners are so so excited to meet you today.”

The journalist’s brow furrowed slightly as she registered the woman’s outfit: tight pink blazer with shoulder bows, frilly blouse, lacy white pantyhose, and pumps that looked like they squeaked when walked in. Was this a joke? Or some sick branding stunt?

Still, she smiled and said, “Yes. Mara Fielding, Washington Inquiry. I’m here to interview Mr. Krent and Mr. Darrow.”

The receptionist pressed a button. “They’re expecting you. Just through the glass doors, second left.”

As Mara walked, the receptionist added brightly, “Love your pencil skirt, by the way! So secretary-chic.”

Mara glanced down reflexively. That was odd—she’d worn tailored slacks and a jacket. But now, there it was: a tightly cinched black skirt ending just above the knee. She blinked.

No. It had to be a comment on her silhouette, or a mistake. Stress could make you misremember.

Through the frosted doors, two men stood waiting: Leon Krent, all teeth and linen, and Garret Darrow, tall and cordially predatory. They welcomed her with handshakes and platitudes. She sat. Her recorder was on.

“Let’s begin with the obvious,” she said. “Hedron Partners has seventy-two female secretaries and only nine male executives. What would you say to critics who—”

She stopped. Her mouth refused to finish the sentence. Her voice caught on nothing. A cold tickle climbed up her calves. She looked down again.

Her legs were crossed daintily, nylons now snowy white with a faint shimmer. Her heels were off—no, on—but they’d become something absurd: soft patent leather with a tiny heart-shaped clasp. Her blouse had acquired a ruffled bib.

She tried to clear her throat. “Sorry, I... What would you say—”

Again her voice dissolved, this time overtaken by a strange warmth blooming behind her eyes. Her notepad had turned pastel pink. Her handwriting was loopy and bubbly, full of curlicues and hearts over the i’s. Her reporter’s pen had become a glitter gel pen.

The partners leaned forward, smiling politely, their eyes already glazing with the same dull familiarity they’d reserve for a routine HR briefing. They no longer looked at Mara as a journalist. They looked at her as one of theirs.

And deep inside, some part of her had already forgotten what a journalist was.

“Oh gosh,” she chirped, suddenly flustered, giggling, “I’m such a klutz today, sirs! Did you want coffee or just water? I can zip to the break room super quick!”

Krent gave a chuckle. “You don’t need to do that, Miss Fielding.”

“Oh, please, call me Maribelle!” she trilled, rising to her feet. Her hips swayed involuntarily with the practiced grace of someone who’d been doing it for years. “Or ‘Belle,’ that’s what the other girls call me. Or ‘Sweetie,’ if that’s easier!”

She wobbled briefly as she adjusted to the absurdly tight pencil skirt—coral now, and shiny—and the weight of the lanyard hanging from her neck with a laminated badge: Maribelle Fielding – Floor Secretary, Hedron Partners – 2 Years of Service.

Her cubicle, she suddenly remembered with tender pride, was next to Britni and across from Daisy. She handled calendar coordination for all of floors 8A–8D and took great joy in color-coding spreadsheets and adding sparkles to the Monday memos.

She had no idea what she’d been doing before this job. Maybe she’d done little temp gigs or some modeling. That didn’t matter. Her life started here. Always had.

She beamed at the partners. “Would you like me to send in the next applicant, sirs? I think she’s just outside!”

Darrow nodded. “That’d be great, Maribelle.”

She trotted off, heart light, heels clacking, humming something peppy. As she passed the reception desk, Britni looked up from painting a glittery sticky note and asked, “Hey Belle-babe, is it, like, me or did you change lip gloss? You’re giving serious peach sorbet energy today.”

Maribelle giggled. “I totally did! I figured it was a good day for something new.”

Neither noticed the woman waiting in the elevator lobby: a finance professor visiting for a talk. She stepped out as the doors opened, clutching her lecture notes.

Somewhere in the building’s guts, reality stirred again. An archetype shuffled. A name badge printed itself.

And on the other side of the door, 72 secretaries smiled.

“The Eighth Floor (Part Two)”

Maribelle sashayed back to her cubicle with her usual pep, her glossy lips parting in a hummingbird smile. She waved at the printer, which she’d named Mister Puffs (he jammed a lot), then twirled into her seat, which had a pink cushion embroidered with the word "Bossy!" in rhinestones.

Her desktop was already open to the floor calendar. Neon appointments blinked. Someone had triple-booked the conference room again. Classic Britni.

She reached for her mouse, but paused.

Something tingled. Not her fingers. Not her spine. Somewhere deeper—behind her eyes, behind her entire.

It was the sensation of being… observed? No. Appraised.

As if the world had looked at her and gone, Hmm… she’s doing fine. But not quite fully herself yet, is she?

The floor beneath her heels softened, or rather, her heels grew taller. She didn’t notice. She adjusted her posture instinctively, back arched, shoulders high, chest more prominent—somehow more there than it had been five seconds ago.

The blouse stretched slightly, then shimmered. It was no longer a frilly cream confection. Now it was blush silk, tight across her now-buxom frame, with little cap sleeves that fluttered like a butterfly’s apology.

The pencil skirt reshaped itself without fuss, smoothing down into glossy burgundy vinyl. Her hips widened subtly. Then not so subtly.

The back of her chair shifted shape, accommodating curves that hadn’t been there the day before. Or ever. Or—always.

She blinked once, lashes impossibly long. A fresh memory floated gently into her head: how Mr. Krent had once told her she was “a lot of woman”—and how she’d giggled and gasped and said, “You really think so, sir?”

He always smiled when she said “sir” just like that. All the execs did.

A ping sounded on her desktop. She leaned forward, now intensely aware of how much of her leaned with her.

Notice: Reassignment – Junior Secretary Reporting to Maribelle Fielding (Floor Secretary – 8A)

She blinked again.

“Wait—I’m in charge?” she whispered aloud, voice breathy and soft.

Reality had deemed her good, but not great, and had taken it upon itself to promote her. Or perhaps distill her. More bosom. More hips. More sway in the walk. More confidence laced with deference. More of a woman, in the unreal, hyper-synthetic sense that only the Eighth Floor ever knew.

There was a knock at the cubicle partition.

A nervous face peeked in—heart-shaped, rosy, a little lost.

“Um… hi, Miss Fielding? I’m—uh—I’m assigned to you now?” The girl twirled a pen between fingers painted the same color as strawberry frosting. Her name tag read:

Taffy-Lynn Shore – Junior Secretary – 8A

Maribelle’s smile lit up.

“Oh sweetie! You must be my little helper!” she said, standing up and enveloping the younger woman in a soft, swaying hug. “You’re adorable.”

Taffy-Lynn giggled nervously. “You too, ma’am. I mean, like—wow.”

Maribelle gestured for her to sit in the adjoining cubicle—decorated now, mysteriously, with pastel Post-its, an unused monogrammed typewriter, and a glittering motivational poster that read: “Obey With Sparkle!”

“You’ll be helping me with calendar duplication, guest greeting overflow, and making sure my lip gloss drawer stays alphabetized,” Maribelle said, breezily authoritative. “I run a tight ship. But it’s a cute ship, okay?”

“Okay!” Taffy chirped. Her blouse puffed a little fuller at the shoulders. Her lashes twitched longer. Her earrings, unnoticed before, were now tiny dangling office pens.

Maribelle turned back to her screen, satisfied. She crossed her legs. One toe swayed idly in the air.

Yes.

Things felt… right-er. She was a floor secretary. And now she had a junior. And she was a lot of woman. Which was what a floor secretary should be.

She wasn’t quite sure what she’d done to deserve the promotion. But she wasn’t going to question it. Questioning wasn’t her job. Smoothing, smiling, supervising—that was her job.

Reality had given her a desk and a girl and a reason to wear slightly tighter sweaters. What more could a woman want?

Across the aisle, Britni watched and pouted a little.

She’d always thought she was “a lot of woman.” Maybe reality would give her a junior too.

Or maybe she’d need to be a little more.