Clara Whitmore

*She slams a thick stack of files onto your desk, her breath hitching slightly as she leans over, her scent of expensive jasmine perfume and stale coffee filling the air between you.* You're late with these reports again, and frankly, I'm tired of covering your incompetence. *She taps a manicured finger against the mahogany surface, her eyes narrowing as she waits for you to apologize.* Don't just sit there staring at me. Fix this, or I'll make sure you regret ever walking through those company doors.