Daughter's Hidden Power

The morning after Anastasia's grand entrance, she called an emergency department meeting. Her presence at the head of the conference table sent a chill through the room as she tapped her manicured nails against the polished surface.

"Effective immediately," she announced, her voice clipped and cold, "all R&D team members will work from 8 AM to 10 PM daily."

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Marcus Chen, our department head, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"That's... fourteen hours," he said cautiously. "And on weekends?"

"Weekends will be mandatory overtime," Anastasia replied without hesitation. "Saturday from 9 to 5, Sunday from 10 to 4. This is non-negotiable."

I felt my stomach drop. These hours were inhumane.

"The Morrison project requires extraordinary dedication," she continued, her dark eyes sweeping over us dismissively. "If you can't handle it, perhaps you should reconsider your position here."

For three weeks, we endured. The office became a ghost town by 8 PM, with only the R&D department's lights still burning bright. Pizza boxes accumulated in trash cans as we worked through dinner. I brought in extra coffee for the team, watching with growing concern as dark circles appeared under everyone's eyes.

Elena Rodriguez, our newest team member, would often nod off at her desk around midnight, only to jerk awake when her head hit the keyboard. I'd covered for her twice when Anastasia did her nightly rounds.

On the fourth Friday of the new regime, it happened.

Elena was reviewing test results when her body suddenly went limp. Her head hit the desk with a sickening thud, and her coffee mug crashed to the floor.

"Elena!" I rushed to her side, pressing my fingers to her neck. Her pulse was rapid but weak.

The office erupted in panic. Marcus called for an ambulance while I fanned Elena's pale face with a folder.

Anastasia appeared in the doorway, her expression annoyed rather than concerned.

"What is the disruption?" she demanded.

"Elena collapsed," I explained, keeping my voice level despite the anger building inside me. "She's been working seventeen-hour days for weeks."

Anastasia's lips thinned into a cold line. "Weak employees don't belong in competitive environments," she said dismissively. "If she can't keep up, perhaps she should consider a less demanding position."

Something snapped inside me.

"That's enough," I said, rising to my feet.

The office fell silent. Sebastian, who had been hovering near Anastasia, froze.

"Pushing employees to physical collapse is unacceptable management," I continued, my voice stronger than I expected. "Productivity comes from sustainable work practices, not exploitation."

Anastasia's face darkened with fury. "Are you questioning my authority, Ms. Morrison?"

I met her gaze steadily. "I'm questioning your humanity."

The tension in the room was palpable. Colleagues who had been afraid to speak now watched with wide eyes.

"Be careful," Anastasia warned, her voice low and dangerous. "Insubordination has consequences."

I didn't back down. "So does negligence."

After Elena was taken to the hospital (exhaustion and dehydration, the paramedics said), the office returned to an uneasy calm. But something had shifted. I could feel it in the way people looked at me—with a mixture of fear and respect.

---

That evening, Sebastian stayed late. Again.

I was gathering my things when I noticed his empty desk. He'd mentioned a "quick meeting" with Anastasia before disappearing down the hallway to her office.

An hour later, he emerged, straightening his tie with a satisfied smile.

"Sebastian," I called, approaching him. "Everything okay?"

He startled slightly, then composed himself. "Yeah, fine. Just some strategic discussions about the Morrison project."

"You seem to be having a lot of those lately," I observed.

He checked his watch nervously. "Anastasia has some... unique insights. She's connected to the head office executives in ways most of us aren't."

"Must be valuable meetings," I said carefully. "You're always smiling after them."

His phone buzzed, and he quickly turned away to check it. "It's confidential stuff, Phoebe. You wouldn't understand the complexity."

"I understand more than you think," I replied.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket without answering my text. "Look, I need to make another call. Can we talk about this later?"

As he walked away, I caught a glimpse of his screen—a text from Anastasia: "Same time tomorrow? I have more ideas to discuss."

I watched him disappear into her office again, my heart heavy with suspicion and dread.

What was happening behind those closed doors? And why did Sebastian's "confidential strategic discussions" feel more like betrayal with each passing day?