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"Miss Blanshard," crackled the intercom. "Would you come to my office please."

Sarah groaned inwardly. What did that old prick want now? She was getting just a little tired of his micromanagement. Here she was, a Harvard-trained MBA, one of the top financial analysts at Goldman Sachs' San Francisco office, and she was constantly having to check in with a seemingly senile old man about every little thing.

She pressed a button on the antiquated intercom. "Yes, Mr. Meister. I'll be right there."

And where did he get off calling her "Miss Blanshard" anyway? In this day and age she expected to be called "Ms." Hell, it would be better if he called her Sarah. Anything but "Miss," which somehow felt so demeaning.

Sarah stood up and smoothed the wrinkles in her grey skirt suit. That was yet another thing that annoyed her, Meister's insistence that women shouldn't wear pants in the office. What year did this relic think it was?

She allowed herself a little smile as she left her desk and padded down the carpeted hallway towards his office. After all, as much as he might micromanage her, she had some secrets that she felt sure he would never find out.

Ellen, Mr. Meister's administrative assistant (or secretary, as he insisted upon calling her), looked up coldly as Sarah approached.

"He buzzed for me," said Sarah, as evenly as she could. She hated Ellen, and she knew the feeling was reciprocated, but it was important to remain professional.

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