Gunboat Diplomacy

“Well, this is it, I suppose,” you say to yourself in the mirror after checking your outfit for the nth time. As your family business is quite relaxed with dress codes, you seldom have to look sharp. So long as one does good work, they could crossdress all day for all you care. The only times it really matters is when you meet with big corporate suits; an event not highly desired by anyone, be it your employees or the top management, including yourself.

This meeting is no more so, if anything it's the most dreaded of all. A large conglomerate called Vulpes Group had been hard at work acquiring various businesses like yours in this region, and in the process stripping them of any true independence, all in the name of profits. It's reflected online as well. Previously decent and even high customer reception had declined noticeably, frustrated with their apathetic, sleazy approach to customer service. 

It's really befuddling to you because you personally know several of those companies’ owners, and know their stance against such tactics. They would fiercely defend the healthy competition you all practiced. Now they're rarely heard from, and when you do meet up, they seem…off, somehow. Like a chunk of themselves had been ripped away. 

Now the hammer's fallen on your company, and you're the one bearing the burden of negotiating terms with Vulpes’ representative. Your father is usually the one tackling this stuff, with you taking care of day-to-day running. However, he got into an accident not two days after Vulpes sent out the letter. Some of your relatives insist Vulpes themselves were behind the accident, but you try your best to reserve judgment.

Despite turning a significant profit, you never bothered splurging on fancy cars, something which instills a hovering hesitation around the Vulpes HQ security guard even as you present your company card and ID. The basement parking lot singles you out even more, your old Outback wagon sticking out like a sore, weathered thumb amongst Vulpes’ VIP cars; S500s, 750Lis, Alphards, the lot.

Gleaming real marble floors greet you in the lobby, contrasting your hardened, unpolished boots. The receptionist’s kindness is surprisingly genuine as she confirms your arrival, though a suffocating air of apprehension persists all throughout the elevator ride up to the top.

The doors open with an elegant ding, revealing a hallway which almost whiplashes you with how different it is to the lobby. Various priceless tapestries line the walls, hanging above the lush carpet covering the floors. Altogether, they work as impeccable sound deadening, your tense heartbeats seemingly amplified by the suffocating quiet.

At long last, you arrive at the office doors, marked above it “Chief Operating Officer”. “Huh, we’re technically the same position, then,” you murmur, raising a brow. “Good. Perhaps we can understand each other better,” you nod, taking a few deep breaths before the staff opens the doors.

You’re immediately hit with a burst of perfume, making you slightly dizzy. The office interior is an interesting contemporary interpretation of the lobby’s rather regal overall theme. If not for the prejudices you hold against this company, you might actually enjoy the design.

“Miss Zhou, Mingzhi Electrics’ representative is here,” the staff beside you declares, giving a bow. “Mhm! Gotcha! You may leave us now. Oh, and…” a singsong voice answers from the far end of the room. You turn your head to see the source, your eyes landing on a woman behind her desk peeking around her screen. “...do keep the fort down, as usual, okay?” she ends with a giggle. 

Already, what little of her you can witness is nothing short of breathtaking. The smile decorating her face is entrancing, pulling your attention between the luscious jet black hair flowing from her head to her blouse. One side is tucked behind her ear, adorned with a single, sparkling pendant earring, topping off the look.

“Understood, ma’am. I’ll make my exit,” the staff replies beside you, but you barely registered her. You’re too transfixed on the woman standing up behind her desk, rising to a height very similar to if not greater than yours. That transfixation is rattled as your eyes drift down, finding a skirt that ends a mere couple inches below her crotch, wrapping her body too tightly to be professional.

Your previous prejudices return in full swing, your dropped jaw closing itself back up as your face sours. What on earth is that? Is this really how corporate people dress in their own offices? The thigh high stockings don’t really help, if anything they just highlight that area more with the contrast against her skin.

“Is there something wrong, sir?” she asks, snapping you out of it. “Huh? What do you mean?” 

“You look…disturbed,” she points to her own face, coyly twirling her finger around her polished smirk. 

“Oh, ah. That…I, uh—was, um…” Your hands shuffle uncomfortably around your body. You’re not used to the diplomatic language these meetings require, so you wonder how blunt you can be. “I was a bit…taken aback by your…appearance, ma’am. My apologies.” 

The woman giggles, a saccharine sound that tickles your eardrums. She looks over at herself, taking it as an opportunity to twist the ring on her right middle finger, one probably worth more than your car. “It’s alright, sir. I take it these meetings aren’t your forte, am I right?”

“Uh…right. I, um, do more hands-on operations, usually,” you answer nervously. She walks forward a few steps, and you swear you can feel the viscosity of the air she’s displacing as she does. “Please, have a seat.” She extends her palm towards a little meeting area. 

You nod, sitting down gingerly as if your beat up trousers will tear through the velour upon contact. The woman’s already short miniskirt rides up even higher as she sits down, and you breathe an internal sigh of relief that she isn’t sitting right across you.

“Let me pour you some tea. Hope it hasn’t gone too cold,” she says, leaning forward to grab the teapot on the coffee table. “Oh, you don’t have to—well okay then.” You hurriedly grab one of the cups and raise it. She pours your tea gracefully, doing the same for her cup after. 

“Now, to my understanding, Mr. Nhiều was to be the one coming here, was he not?” she asks as she sets down the teapot. “Correct. He, er…got into an accident, unfortunately.”

“I saw the news. How unfortunate,” she says with a pout. “Hm, at the very least, we should be able to communicate very well, perhaps even better, wouldn’t you say? Since we play similar roles?”

“Sure…I was thinking that too,” you reply, but her tone causes more discomfort you can’t quite point to. The cup in your hand begins to shake slightly, and she hums upon noticing it. “Well then, to our health, and our future partnership. Cheers!” She raises her own cup and you mirror her, somewhat hurriedly.