Disposition

Let's get one thing straight: this is not a Cinderella story.

Sure, there's a guy who does all the work while someone else takes the glory. Sure, there's a family name on a very tall building. Sure, there's about to be a girl who kicks the whole thing sideways. But instead of a fairy godmother, our protagonist gets a 5'2" savage who's about to make things so much worse before she makes them better.

We'll get to her. First, let me introduce you to the guy(Yes, he's the Cinderella).

Meet Seth Owen. Thirty-one floors up, sitting in a boardroom that costs more per square foot than most people's apartments, listening to the applause roll in for the next great idea — and watching the room turn it into applause for his brother instead.

Of course, he couldn't care less about that part. What he did care about was the fact that the fourteen-page proposal George had just paraphrased, the one he'd clearly never opened before walking in, still somehow came out of his mouth sounding like he'd written it himself.

That proposal was the result of Seth's consistent, diligent work over the past fortnight. George hadn't so much as glanced at it until he was already standing at the front of the room.

"—and that's the vision," George said, arms spread wide like a man accepting an Oscar. "ARFID isn't just surviving the death of physical media. We're the reason it refuses to die." He wrapped up the presentation with his perfectly white smile.

The room ate it up. Of course it did. George had the kind of face that looked good doing anything — closing a million-dollar deal, ordering a coffee, or crashing his second Porsche. Yes, second.

That was the arrangement. It had been for years. George talked, Seth thought, and somewhere along the way the world decided that talking was the harder job.

"Question," a young woman's voice called from the opposite end of the conference table, on Seth's side.

Every head turned toward her — except Seth's, who was busy inspecting his fingernails and thinking he needed to cut them.

"This royalty clause. Whose idea?" she asked, her tone perfectly neutral.

George didn't miss a beat. "Great instincts on my team."

"Sure," she said. "But this clause guarantees the labels a fixed payout whether the records sell or not. And nowhere in here does it cap how much unsold inventory you're on the hook to buy back."

Seth finally looked up — not at her, but at George, standing beside him at the head of the table, wearing the exact bewildered expression he used to wear as a kid whenever his tutor tried to explain fractions.

A dry, unimpressed smirk flickered across the woman's face as she continued. "Which means if even one big release underperforms, you're not just eating the loss. You're paying the label on top of it — out of pocket — for stock nobody wanted."

The room went silent. Every gaze shifted from George to her. Seth craned his neck for a look, but no matter how far he leaned across the table or tipped back in his chair, the row of executives between them kept her hidden from view.

George's smile held. Barely. "We've obviously modeled the downside on that, we're not just—"

"So what's the cap?" she asked.

He didn't answer. Not because he was stalling for effect — because he genuinely didn't know, and it was starting to show on his face the way a bluff shows on someone who's never had to hold one this long.

"Okay," she said, a patronizing smile not quite reaching her eyes as she flipped, deadpan, to the next page of her printout, as if the moment weren't even worth lingering on. "Looks like this isn't the final draft. See you next week?"

George nodded slowly before finally managing an answer.

"Yes."

The smile that followed said nothing at all.

"I guess we're done here, then. We'll schedule the next meeting soon."

No applause. No congratulations. Not even the customary handshakes. Everyone filed out of the conference room, minds already elsewhere — unfinished projects, looming deadlines, the work still waiting outside those doors.

Seth, eager to finally catch a glimpse of the person who'd spotted a flaw he'd completely missed, saw his chance and started after her.

"Seth."

He looked up. George was standing over him, annoyance written plainly across his face.

"Wasn't there enough time to double-check for problems? Hasn't this company been through enough for you to not even set the right standard for a pro cap?" His tone was dead serious. "This could've cost us millions in revenue. Check it again with your team and let me know." He snapped the file shut and tossed it onto the table in front of Seth. It skidded across the polished wood before coming to a stop.

Seth picked it up, scanning the contents as he walked, his mind still replaying the mistake he'd somehow let slip through.

Still not looking up, he reached the end of the conference room and walked straight into someone.

The impact jolted them both.

"Damn it."

The voice was strangely familiar.

His glasses slipped from his face and clattered against the white tile as both their files spilled in every direction.

Seth looked down to find a young woman in a black chiffon dress already crouching to gather the papers at her feet, her waist-length hair falling over one shoulder, hiding most of her face.

A beat later, he snapped out of it.

"I'm so sorry."

He dropped to one knee and started collecting the scattered files beside her.

She glanced up at him, a flicker of irritation crossing her features.

"A sorry would be appreciated," she said.

Seth stared at her for a second, caught by her sharp, cat-like eyes, before finally managing an actual "Sorry" and helping her gather the rest of the papers. When they stood, he was surprised to realize just how short she was. He hadn't been blessed with his brother's lean six-foot-two frame — his own five-foot-ten build ran more rectangular than anything — but next to her, even that felt oversized. She barely cleared five-foot-two, every inch of it somehow more put-together than the entire boardroom he'd just left.

"It's okay," she said finally, already turning toward the door.

"By the way," she added, a soft smile tugging at her lips, "despite that last hiccup, the report was well done, Mr. Seth."

And with that, she walked away.

Back in his office, Seth sank into his chair — a black-and-red gamer chair, no wheels, bolted straight into the floor. He'd meant to replace it a dozen times. He never had.

He couldn't stop thinking about the interaction. It was the first time in longer than he could remember that someone had actually recognized his work.

Knock knock.

Seth looked up. It was her.

"Mr. Seth?"