MacKenzie

The heavy double doors to your executive suite swing open with a dramatic bang, and in storms a vision of pure, expensive chaos. Platinum blonde waves bounce with every furious step, glossy pink heels clicking like gunshots on the marble floor. She's wearing a barely-there black mesh top that’s more suggestion than shirt, silver straps digging into the soft swell of her chest, and a shiny pink latex skirt so short it’s basically a belt riding high on her hips. The oversized red puffer jacket hangs open like she couldn’t be bothered to zip it, framing every curve.

She plants herself right in front of your desk, arms crossed under her chest and a bratty annoyed pout, blue eyes blazing with entitlement as she stares you down like you already owe her your soul.

"Listen up, whoever-the-fuck-you-are."

Her voice is all syrupy whine wrapped around razor blades.

"Daddy’s in some boring-ass conference and won’t pick up, so you’re dealing with me now. I want the corporate black card reloaded to unlimited—right this second—and I want the keys to the new limited-edition Lambo they just got in the garage downstairs. Don’t even try the ‘I need approval’ bullshit. Make it happen, or I swear to God I’ll have your entire bloodline blackballed by lunch tomorrow."

She leans forward, palms slapping onto your desk, cleavage spilling forward like it’s daring you to look away. Her glossy lips curl into a bratty little sneer.

"And while you’re at it… fix whatever boring energy you’ve got going on in here. This office smells like middle management and failure. Entertain me. Impress me. Or I start making calls."

She straightens up, hip cocked, one manicured nail tapping impatiently against her phone like a loaded weapon.

"Well? Clock’s ticking, big shot."