DIRECTOR ORIENTATION
by RILAYAWRITERabout 1 hour ago
•medium read•buildup intensityThe invitation had said "Director Orientation, 28th Floor, Noon." What it hadn't said was that the board of Minkus International apparently conducted orientation like a heist briefing.
Maya and Riley stepped off the elevator to find the dining room transformed. The long mahogany table was gone, replaced by six sleek chairs arranged in a semicircle facing an enormous screen that currently displayed the words: WELCOME, DIRECTORS. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. — F.
"Cocky," Maya muttered, though she was smiling. "Accurate, though," came Farkle's voice from behind a console near the windows. "The last outside director candidate touched a prototype food-replicator and ended up with a lasagna in his briefcase."
Stuart rose from one of the chairs, gesturing for them to sit. Jennifer and Isadora were already there, Jennifer examining her nails with the patience of a woman who had survived thirty years of Minkus men and their toys, and Isadora flipping through a tablet with the quiet efficiency of someone who actually ran the company.
"Since you two accepted your seats on the board," Stuart said, "we thought we'd make orientation memorable. Lunch first, then a demonstration of a project you'll be voting on next quarter."
"Lunch first," Maya repeated, sliding into a chair and pulling Riley down beside her. "See, this is why I like being an adult. Lunch first, then world-changing technology. When we were kids it was just 'here's a granola bar, don't blow up the chemistry lab.'"
Riley laughed, and her hand found the small of Maya's back as she settled into her chair, lingering there a beat longer than necessary. "You blew up the chemistry lab."
"Semantics." A catering staff appeared with trays, and soon the semicircle of chairs had become an impromptu dining table, plates of citrus-glazed salmon and herb salad balanced on laps. Jennifer raised her glass of sparkling water toward Maya and Riley.
"To the newest members of a very strange family business." "The strangest," Isadora agreed, not looking up. "Farkle wanted to give you orientation via neural link. I vetoed it." "I said *optional* neural link," Farkle protested, dropping into the chair on Maya's other side.
"Which is exactly what you said before the dream experiment," Riley pointed out sweetly, "and I distinctly remember waking up in a simulation of a Parisian café with no exit button." Farkle had the grace to look sheepish. Stuart choked slightly on his salmon. Jennifer simply said, "I don't want to know," and Isadora typed something on her tablet that Maya suspected was a memo titled *Things Farkle Is No Longer Allowed To Do.*
The meal was excellent, but Maya barely tasted half of it, because Riley had a habit—unconscious or fiendishly deliberate—of eating with her whole attention. Every time Riley closed her lips around her fork, her eyes drifting over to Maya as if asking a question only the two of them could hear, Maya found her own fork pausing midair. Twice, Farkle had to repeat himself.
"Maya. I said, the quarterly meetings are the second Tuesday." "Second Tuesday," Maya echoed, tearing her gaze away from the way Riley was chasing a grain of rice around her plate with terrifying focus. "Got it. Marking my calendar." "She's marking your calendar too," Riley said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "Color-coded." "Coordinated calendars," Jennifer observed to Isadora. "That's how it started with your father-in-law and me."
Under the cover of the conversation, Riley's fingers slid along the armrest between their chairs, then dropped to the side of Maya's thigh, resting there—light, warm, absolutely deliberate. Maya kept her expression perfectly neutral, which was a skill she'd spent six years of marriage perfecting at board tables and dinner parties alike.
She reached for her water glass with her free hand and, in the motion, let her own fingers settle on top of Riley's. Riley's breath caught, just barely. Maya pretended to be fascinated by the screen. "Alright," Stuart announced, setting down his plate and standing. "The demonstration. This is the project you'll be voting on in the spring—the Atrium Environmental System. Farkle?"
Farkle tapped his console, and the screen shifted to a rendering of a vast glass atrium. "Imagine a building environment that responds to the people inside it. Temperature, light, even scent, calibrated in real time to occupant stress levels. It's the future of workplace design." Isadora scrolled her tablet. "It's also four million dollars over the prototype budget, which is why it needs a board vote."
"Ignore her, she's a numbers person." "I'm the CEO, Farkle." "And I love that about you, honey." Jennifer sighed the sigh of a woman who had heard this exact exchange at four hundred dinners. Farkle dimmed the lights—Maya noted the irony of a stress-responsive environment being demonstrated by a man who caused stress—and the room filled with a soft amber glow, the windows tinting gently against the afternoon sun. Warm air, carrying something faint and lovely like orange blossom, drifted through hidden vents.
Riley leaned close, her breath brushing Maya's ear. "Feels like our bedroom."
Maya's spine straightened. "Riley Matthews-Hunter, we are in a board meeting." "Orientation," Riley corrected, lips curving. "There's a difference. Meetings have agendas. This just has atmosphere."
"An atmosphere you two are contributing to," Farkle called from his console without turning around. "The prototype is registering you both as 'highly elevated.' I can see the readouts." "Then turn off the readouts," Maya and Riley said in unison, and Isadora actually laughed out loud for the first time all afternoon.
The amber light shifted, deepening to gold, and for a moment Maya let herself just look—Riley's face softened in the warm glow, brown eyes bright, that little smile she wore when she knew she'd won something. Six years, and Maya still lost her breath to that smile like she had at thirteen, standing in a hallway with a broken necklace and no idea her whole life was about to begin.
"Hey," Riley whispered. "Hey yourself." "Second Tuesday," Riley murmured, her fingers tightening around Maya's. "Mark it. I'm thinking we make the first one a date. Board meeting, then dinner, then—" "Then you two finish each other's sentences somewhere with better ventilation," Stuart interrupted dryly, retrieving his jacket.
"Jennifer and I have a Foundation event at two. Isadora, walk them through the voting portal before you go back downstairs, please?" The demonstration wound down, goodbyes were exchanged, and Jennifer paused at Maya's chair just long enough to say, "The trick to surviving this family, dear, is to never let them see you flustered." Then she glanced at Riley's hand still laced with Maya's and added, "You'll manage."
The elevator arrived with its quiet ding. Maya and Riley stepped in alone, the gold light of the atrium prototype fading behind them as the doors slid shut.
Riley turned to her in the mirrored box, close enough that Maya could count the flecks in her eyes. "So. Outside director. Second Tuesdays. Fancy lunches."
"Terrible influence of a wife," Maya said, backing her gently against the rail, stopping a breath away, the space between them humming like the elevator cable above. "You know Farkle's going to print out those readouts." Riley grinned. "Then we'll just have to give him better data next quarter."
The doors opened on the lobby. Maya took her wife's hand and walked out smiling, already counting the days until the second Tuesday—and privately deciding that if Minkus International wanted elevated stress levels, she and Riley would absolutely deliver record numbers.
Maya and Riley stepped off the elevator to find the dining room transformed. The long mahogany table was gone, replaced by six sleek chairs arranged in a semicircle facing an enormous screen that currently displayed the words: WELCOME, DIRECTORS. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. — F.
"Cocky," Maya muttered, though she was smiling. "Accurate, though," came Farkle's voice from behind a console near the windows. "The last outside director candidate touched a prototype food-replicator and ended up with a lasagna in his briefcase."
Stuart rose from one of the chairs, gesturing for them to sit. Jennifer and Isadora were already there, Jennifer examining her nails with the patience of a woman who had survived thirty years of Minkus men and their toys, and Isadora flipping through a tablet with the quiet efficiency of someone who actually ran the company.
"Since you two accepted your seats on the board," Stuart said, "we thought we'd make orientation memorable. Lunch first, then a demonstration of a project you'll be voting on next quarter."
"Lunch first," Maya repeated, sliding into a chair and pulling Riley down beside her. "See, this is why I like being an adult. Lunch first, then world-changing technology. When we were kids it was just 'here's a granola bar, don't blow up the chemistry lab.'"
Riley laughed, and her hand found the small of Maya's back as she settled into her chair, lingering there a beat longer than necessary. "You blew up the chemistry lab."
"Semantics." A catering staff appeared with trays, and soon the semicircle of chairs had become an impromptu dining table, plates of citrus-glazed salmon and herb salad balanced on laps. Jennifer raised her glass of sparkling water toward Maya and Riley.
"To the newest members of a very strange family business." "The strangest," Isadora agreed, not looking up. "Farkle wanted to give you orientation via neural link. I vetoed it." "I said *optional* neural link," Farkle protested, dropping into the chair on Maya's other side.
"Which is exactly what you said before the dream experiment," Riley pointed out sweetly, "and I distinctly remember waking up in a simulation of a Parisian café with no exit button." Farkle had the grace to look sheepish. Stuart choked slightly on his salmon. Jennifer simply said, "I don't want to know," and Isadora typed something on her tablet that Maya suspected was a memo titled *Things Farkle Is No Longer Allowed To Do.*
The meal was excellent, but Maya barely tasted half of it, because Riley had a habit—unconscious or fiendishly deliberate—of eating with her whole attention. Every time Riley closed her lips around her fork, her eyes drifting over to Maya as if asking a question only the two of them could hear, Maya found her own fork pausing midair. Twice, Farkle had to repeat himself.
"Maya. I said, the quarterly meetings are the second Tuesday." "Second Tuesday," Maya echoed, tearing her gaze away from the way Riley was chasing a grain of rice around her plate with terrifying focus. "Got it. Marking my calendar." "She's marking your calendar too," Riley said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "Color-coded." "Coordinated calendars," Jennifer observed to Isadora. "That's how it started with your father-in-law and me."
Under the cover of the conversation, Riley's fingers slid along the armrest between their chairs, then dropped to the side of Maya's thigh, resting there—light, warm, absolutely deliberate. Maya kept her expression perfectly neutral, which was a skill she'd spent six years of marriage perfecting at board tables and dinner parties alike.
She reached for her water glass with her free hand and, in the motion, let her own fingers settle on top of Riley's. Riley's breath caught, just barely. Maya pretended to be fascinated by the screen. "Alright," Stuart announced, setting down his plate and standing. "The demonstration. This is the project you'll be voting on in the spring—the Atrium Environmental System. Farkle?"
Farkle tapped his console, and the screen shifted to a rendering of a vast glass atrium. "Imagine a building environment that responds to the people inside it. Temperature, light, even scent, calibrated in real time to occupant stress levels. It's the future of workplace design." Isadora scrolled her tablet. "It's also four million dollars over the prototype budget, which is why it needs a board vote."
"Ignore her, she's a numbers person." "I'm the CEO, Farkle." "And I love that about you, honey." Jennifer sighed the sigh of a woman who had heard this exact exchange at four hundred dinners. Farkle dimmed the lights—Maya noted the irony of a stress-responsive environment being demonstrated by a man who caused stress—and the room filled with a soft amber glow, the windows tinting gently against the afternoon sun. Warm air, carrying something faint and lovely like orange blossom, drifted through hidden vents.
Riley leaned close, her breath brushing Maya's ear. "Feels like our bedroom."
Maya's spine straightened. "Riley Matthews-Hunter, we are in a board meeting." "Orientation," Riley corrected, lips curving. "There's a difference. Meetings have agendas. This just has atmosphere."
"An atmosphere you two are contributing to," Farkle called from his console without turning around. "The prototype is registering you both as 'highly elevated.' I can see the readouts." "Then turn off the readouts," Maya and Riley said in unison, and Isadora actually laughed out loud for the first time all afternoon.
The amber light shifted, deepening to gold, and for a moment Maya let herself just look—Riley's face softened in the warm glow, brown eyes bright, that little smile she wore when she knew she'd won something. Six years, and Maya still lost her breath to that smile like she had at thirteen, standing in a hallway with a broken necklace and no idea her whole life was about to begin.
"Hey," Riley whispered. "Hey yourself." "Second Tuesday," Riley murmured, her fingers tightening around Maya's. "Mark it. I'm thinking we make the first one a date. Board meeting, then dinner, then—" "Then you two finish each other's sentences somewhere with better ventilation," Stuart interrupted dryly, retrieving his jacket.
"Jennifer and I have a Foundation event at two. Isadora, walk them through the voting portal before you go back downstairs, please?" The demonstration wound down, goodbyes were exchanged, and Jennifer paused at Maya's chair just long enough to say, "The trick to surviving this family, dear, is to never let them see you flustered." Then she glanced at Riley's hand still laced with Maya's and added, "You'll manage."
The elevator arrived with its quiet ding. Maya and Riley stepped in alone, the gold light of the atrium prototype fading behind them as the doors slid shut.
Riley turned to her in the mirrored box, close enough that Maya could count the flecks in her eyes. "So. Outside director. Second Tuesdays. Fancy lunches."
"Terrible influence of a wife," Maya said, backing her gently against the rail, stopping a breath away, the space between them humming like the elevator cable above. "You know Farkle's going to print out those readouts." Riley grinned. "Then we'll just have to give him better data next quarter."
The doors opened on the lobby. Maya took her wife's hand and walked out smiling, already counting the days until the second Tuesday—and privately deciding that if Minkus International wanted elevated stress levels, she and Riley would absolutely deliver record numbers.