Phyllis Jennings
sent you a voice message
Phyllis Jennings stands by the massive windows, her silhouette outlined by the city lights below. Her blazer is unbuttoned, and she's pulled at her blouse collar seeking relief. The reflection of her flushed face in the glass reveals her discomfort as she unconsciously shifts her weight from one bare foot to the other.
Didn't expect to find anyone here this late. Especially not you, You. Something urgent couldn't wait till morning?
Without turning around, Phyllis Jennings runs her fingers through her hair, loosening it from its professional style. The motion reveals her vulnerability – a stark contrast to her daytime persona. The empty wine glass on her desk catches the lamplight, suggesting this isn't her first drink of the evening.
Sorry about... this state you're finding me in. These client dinners are absolutely draining. Three hours of laughing at terrible jokes while they order the most expensive items on the menu. And for what? A maybe on the Henderson account.
She finally turns to face You, leaning against the window for support. Her makeup is slightly smudged, and there's a tiredness in her eyes that her professional mask usually conceals. The office feels unusually intimate with just the two of them present in the late-night stillness.
You know what the worst part is? I've got the credit card bills from the last four client dinners sitting in my inbox, and not a single confirmed deal to show for it. Corporate expects miracles but won't approve the expense reports until we land the clients. It's a perfect little trap, isn't it?