Office politics 

“Your golden boy is a walking lawsuit.” 

Jules Wexler dropped the thick personnel file onto Landon Shaw’s desk with the dramatic flair of someone who had earned the right to make it land like a gavel. The manila folder splayed open, exposing a collage of typed complaints, red-ink annotations, and HR bleeding red flags. 

Landon didn’t flinch. He glanced down, uninterested. His espresso was still steaming, untouched, beside a single Montblanc pen that cost more than some of his junior associates made in a month. 

“He’s not golden,” he said mildly, “he’s platinum. Best quarter in six years, Jules.” 

Jules folded her arms, jaw locked. Her blouse, black silk with a dagger collar, reflected none of the light in the office. Her eyes, though, were sharp and flaring. “He told an intern that her lips would look better wrapped around his ‘brand strategy.’” 

Landon smiled around his espresso. “That’s… clever, if inappropriate.” 

“He submitted a Q4 presentation entitled Slide into My DMs and did a hip thrust each time he clicked through the metrics.” 

“Creative branding.” 

“Someone filed a report because he put his feet on the conference table during a staff meeting and said, and I quote: ‘This position’s called CEO Facing Up.’” 

Landon snorted. “He’s not wrong.” 

Jules exhaled through her nose. “I’m not laughing, Mr. Shaw.“ 

“No,” Landon said, finally looking at you. “But you’re smiling.” 

“Barely.” 

He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his thousand-dollar shirt, the glint in his eyes telling her he thought the whole conversation was foreplay. It wasn’t. 

“I’m not firing him, Jules. Don’t waste your breath. You think I don’t know he’s a dick? He’s a high-performing dick. Every time he opens his mouth, someone wants to sue us, but he closes deals with those same lips. The board loves him. Our competitors hate him. That’s ROI I can’t afford to lose.” 

“Then don’t fire him,” Jules said coolly. “Let me fix him.” 

Landon paused at the door, then looked back, amused. “Fix him, reassign him, neuter him. I don’t care. Just keep the lawyers off my back.” His smirk curled. “Make him palatable.” 

The door clicked shut behind him. 

Silence. 

Jules stared at the abandoned folder for a long beat, then sat down. Her fingers hesitated over the tab before flipping it open again and perusing page after page of HR disaster. Quotes, screenshots, and annotated chat logs that read like a frat boy’s last day at a hedge fund. 

She turned to the final page. His photo. 

Michael “Mick” Carrington. 

Dark hair. Ice blue eyes. Five o’clock shadow sculpted to perfection. Smirk calibrated for maximum charm-to-sleaze ratio. Mick had the kind of face that made you want to slap it and kiss it. 

He was objectively hot. Disgustingly so. 

Jules’ jaw ticked. She clicked open a new email window on her screen, fingers gliding over the keys with growing resolve. 

To: Mick Carrington 

Subj: Mandatory: Executive Conduct Re-Education 

Mr. Carrington, 

Because of continued conduct violations and formal complaints, your immediate participation in the Executive Conduct Re-Education Program is required. Failure to complete the assigned behavioral remediation modules will result in potential suspension of privileges and disciplinary escalation up to and including termination. Please find attached the first module. Compliance is expected within 48 hours. 

– Jules Wexler, Director of People & Culture 

She hovered over the Send button. Then her gaze flicked to the photo again. That smirk. That self-satisfied, punchable smirk. 

She clicked. 

The message whooshed into cyberspace like a bullet. 

“Let’s see how you like being turned into eye candy,” she murmured. 

Then, just for herself, she smiled. 

Beginning of the end 

Mick Carrington’s penthouse was all glass, steel, and curated chaos, exactly like him. Minimalist furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a skyline that blinked with empty promises. His kitchen counter bore the wreckage of last night: two tumblers, a half-finished bottle of Booker’s bourbon, and a single cufflink like a lost artifact from his tailored warpath. 

He paced shirtless and barefoot, wearing only gym shorts that clung to his thighs like an afterthought. On speakerphone, Landon’s voice oozed corporate patience and just enough threat to sting. 

“You’re telling me this HR bitch is sending me training modules now?” 

“She’s doing her job,” Landon said, bone dry. 

“I’m not some hourly warehouse guy who grabbed ass in the break room. I close deals no one else can touch.” 

“And you open your mouth like it’s a loaded weapon,” Landon said. “You’re the reason half of Legal are day drinking behind closed doors.” 

“Yeah, well, I bring in numbers that let them afford the top-shelf gin.” 

Landon exhaled. The line went silent as he considered how to respond. “Look, man. Real talk. I’ve stuck my neck out for you again and again. The board and HR wanted to make an example of someone. You were this close.” A pause. “Do the damn trainings. Be glad you’re not benched.” 

Mick opened the freezer, chipped a couple of ice cubes into a lowball glass, and poured three fingers of bourbon over them. “This fucking sucks. I could’ve spent the evening with Miss Norway 2017. Instead, I’m going to be watching low-res videos of middle-aged actors pretending to care about boundaries.” The word tasted like bile in his throat. 

“Just keep your slides in your own deck,” Landon muttered with a sarcastic chuckle. 

“Christ.” 

Mick ended the call and padded into his home office. The room smelled faintly of cedar, coffee, and arrogance. His desk was spotless aside from a vintage pen and a brass paperweight shaped like a dumbbell. An ironic birthday gift from an ex. He dropped into the leather chair and opened his laptop. 

The modules were already queued. Slick UI. Not some crusty HR training portal, but something custom built. Black background, platinum lettering. Minimalist. Almost hypnotic. 

A single message pulsed in the center of the screen: Welcome to Executive Reconditioning, Tier 1. Compliance is confidence. Confidence is compliance. 

Mick snorted. “Whatever.” 

He clicked play. The screen flickered once, then bathed the room in soft, pulsing light. A tone hammered through the speakers, just below hearing but felt in the bones. Mick frowned. 

A voice slipped through. Smooth and neutral, neither male nor female. Its absence of humanity was almost seductive. 

“You are valued. You are successful. But success is service. Success is simplicity.” 

Mick blinked. 

“You are too complicated. Too difficult. Let go. Let it all fade away.” 

The rhythmic lights slowed down and stretched out. His fingertips tingled. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier… to be happy? To be helpful? To be wanted… for how good you make others feel?” 

Something warm flushed through him. He shifted in his seat. 

“Smile more. Speak less. Flex. Serve. Be seen. Be adored.” 

A soft sound played beneath the voice. Applause. Whispers. A low chorus of good boy, good boy, good boy. 

Mick’s pupils dilated. He leaned forward as if drawn closer by a string connecting the computer screen and his sternum. The screen went dark, and he caught his reflection. Chiseled jaw, cocky smirk, eyes cold like steel. Still him, but not. 

“You’re not in charge. You’re the help. And you love to help…” 

His jaw slackened slightly. He let Module 1 continue into Module 2. 

And Module 3. 

The secretary 

Mick walked into the office the next day like he’d never seen it before. And in a way, he hadn’t. His eyes sparkled with the kind of innocent wonder most executives couldn’t even fake. He paused in front of the reception desk, a broad smile curling across his face like the first day of school. 

“Hey there, beautiful,” he said, leaning on the counter. His biceps flexed unintentionally, and his pecs flexed entirely on purpose. 

Amanda blinked up from her monitor. “Uh. Hi, Mick.” 

He pointed at the multi-function printer behind her. “What is that sexy beast?” 

She frowned. “The… printer?” 

“Right,” he whispered. “So sleek. So… papery.” He sauntered over it, ran a hand reverently over the tray, and made a pleased little hum. “These little guys are just the coolest, huh?” 

Amanda didn’t know what to say. She nodded slowly. 

Distracted on the way to his office by the break room coffee machine, Mick brought coffee to someone two cubicles down. Then another. Then five more. He learned how each person took their coffee—cream, oat milk, two sugars—and beamed with unholy pride when he got it right. Every “thank you” made him light up like he’d just won Employee of the Month and Prom King in the same award. 

In the break room, he clapped a heavy palm onto Tyler’s shoulder, startling the young intern into dropping a plastic fork. 

“Bro,” Mick said, voice low and reverent, “that spreadsheet you color coded? Genius. You’re like… the Einstein of fonts.” 

Tyler blinked. “Uh, thanks, Mr. Carrington.” 

Mick giggled. Giggled. “Call me Mickey,” he said. “Mr. Carrington wears ties. I wear—” 

He trailed off, looked down at his plain button up, and made a face. “Ugh, boring. BRB.” 

He bolted. No one was quite sure what happened, only that he was gone in a gust of cologne and perfectly tousled hair. An hour later, he returned, and the office noticed. 

His shirt was lavender and tight, clinging to the swell of his pecs like it had been airbrushed on. The top three buttons were undone, revealing a deep V of tanned chest and a gold chain that glittered like a wink. His slacks were painted on, tailored within an inch of indecency. They clung to his powerful thighs and left nothing to the imagination from behind. Or from the front. 

He glided through the open door like a runway model in business drag, stopping occasionally to ‘accidentally’ drop things. A pencil. A pen. A paperclip. The same paperclip. Every time, he bent down with a slow, sinuous motion, back arched and one leg slightly extended for balance, not because he needed to, but because he knew it made the view behind him utterly obscene. 

People stared. Whispered. Gawked. 

He blushed every time. He bit his lip and preened like he couldn’t help it. 

He lived for it. 

Mick, the former apex predator of the office, had become a piece of beautiful, smiling, bouncy office decor. And it thrilled him. His hips swayed a little when he walked. He started humming to himself, little peppy tunes whose melodies only he knew. Sometimes he stretched with a casual groan by the copy machine, just to feel his shirt pull across his chest. 

He complimented everyone. He told Debra in Finance that her reading glasses made her look “super sexy-smart.” He told Marcus in IT that he should teach a seminar because, “you’re, like, legit brilliant, bro.” 

He never sat behind a desk the entire day. He perched. On corners, on filing cabinets, on the edge of someone else’s chair if they were mid meeting. Every time he saw himself on a reflective surface, he smiled. No, he beamed. He was proud of what he saw. He was turned on by it. 

He liked being watched, but more than that, he needed it. 

Year-end reflection 

Jules adjusted the blinds in with slow, deliberate fingers. In the outer office, Mickey bent over a desk to hand the receptionist a stapler. He could’ve just placed it down. Instead, he leaned, arms braced wide, glutes high and taut in trousers so tight they might as well have been body paint. The tailored fabric clung to his impossibly wide thighs, his gravity-defying ass, and the ropey bulk of his calves that twitched with unconscious flexes. 

Mickey was a walking sculpture of steroidal masculinity. Obscenely big and unnaturally cut, his chest was so broad now it arched every button of his pastel button down to the brink of surrender. Traps kissed his ears. Veins pulsed beneath his orange-gold skin like vines wrapped around marble. 

He didn’t just look like a pornographic action figure, he was one. And he was thriving. 

He knocked on her office door. 

“Come in.” 

The door creaked open, and Mickey, no longer Mick, entered with the bounce of a golden retriever freshly blow dried for a photo shoot. 

“End of year review time!” he sang, voice an octave too high for his linebacker frame. “I brought coffee. And a fruit tray.” He held both up like an offering to the gods. 

“You… brought a fruit tray,” Jules repeated flatly. 

He beamed. “It’s got pineapple!” 

Of course it did. 

“Have a seat.” 

He folded his massive frame into the chair like it was a game of Tetris, his chest puffing with pride, his thighs spreading wide enough to break social norms. Jules did not look directly at the fabric, pulled tourniquet taut against his groin. 

“I want to commend you,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “Your transition has been… thorough.” 

“Thanks, Jules! I love being helpful.” 

“Morale is through the roof. The quarterly engagement surveys came back unanimously positive.” 

He clapped his meaty hands together. “Yay! Go, team!” 

“You’ve repurposed your skill set beautifully, and Landon tells me you’re a joy in your new role.” 

Mickey blushed. It looked almost ridiculous on that monstrous, veiny slab of a man. “He says I’m the cherry on top of his daily agenda.” 

“You were once a nightmare,” Jules mused. “Now you’re a dream secretary.” 

He gave a little shoulder shimmy, which made his pecs bounce alarmingly. “Guess I just needed a new perspective, huh?” 

The door opened behind him. Landon Shaw entered like the chill that follows a cigar, impeccably dressed, wolf sleek, and coffee in hand. 

“Hey, Jules,” he said, glancing past Mickey like he wasn’t even there. “Good review?” 

“Exemplary,” Jules said. 

Mickey turned, glowing like a lamp in heat. “Hi, baby!” 

Landon didn’t return the gaze. “He’s been useful,” he said offhand. “You know, I thought Mick was irreplaceable.” 

Jules raised an eyebrow. “And now?” 

Landon smirked. “Turns out Mickey just turned the rest of my executive team into Micks. Productivity’s up across the board. They’re all fighting over who gets him in their meetings. Who gets to bend him over the copier. Who he brings protein shakes to.” 

“Seems like everyone’s satisfied, then,” Jules murmured. 

“Oh, they are,” Landon said. “Sexual harassment complaints? Zero. No one complains when the entire office is getting laid before noon. It’s not inappropriate if everyone’s doing it.” 

He finally looked at Mickey, who bounced slightly in his seat from being talked about. 

“I’m proud of you,” Landon said in the tone you’d use to praise an exceptionally well-groomed show dog. 

Mickey wiggled. “Thank you, Sir!” 

Landon snapped his fingers. 

Mickey leapt up. “Back to work!” 

The CEO turned to go but paused at the door. He didn’t look at Mickey as he spoke, but his voice thickened with implication. 

“Those invoices won’t collate themselves,” he said. “But we’ve also got… other tasks for you later.” 

Mickey’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, Sir.” 

He trotted out, fruit tray jiggling in his hands, hips swaying like a stripper working overtime. The HR suite fell quiet again. 

Jules stared at the door for a long time. The personnel file on her desk was still open to Mick’s old headshot. Smug, sharp, and cocksure. 

She turned the page. The training modules were listed in bullets: Tier 1, Tier 2, Tier 3… 

She tapped a fingernail against Tier 4. 

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