Chapter Two: Boardroom Bloodbath

The elevator ride to the executive floor of TasteWaves Global Headquarters felt like a funeral procession in a rocket ship. The walls were covered in sleek mahogany. Smooth jazz played softly in the background, the kind that sounded expensive and vaguely French. Butera stood stiffly in her custom-tailored suit jacket, which she wore over a vintage Care Bears T-shirt because she hadn’t yet figured out "CEO fashion." Her tie was clipped on crooked. Her socks didn’t match.

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” she murmured to no one in particular.

Standing beside her, Barrister Lawrence didn’t blink. “Please do so discretely. The elevator carpet is antique yak wool.”

She considered that for a moment, then silently offered the legal adviser one of the gummy worms from the tiny pink ziplock bag in her blazer pocket.

He stared. “Miss Perez Diaz, are you... attempting to bribe me?”

“No.” Beat. “Maybe.”

He refused the candy. He also refused to show emotion. Classic Lawrence.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to reveal the 34th floor, a gleaming stretch of industrial luxury with floor-to-ceiling windows, abstract art installations, and an espresso machine so complicated it required a barista with an engineering degree.

Butera was immediately hit by the scent of roasted hazelnut, citrus toner, and passive-aggression.

“This is the Shark Tank,” Barrister Lawrence muttered as they passed the glass walls of the main boardroom. Inside, eleven figures sat around a glossy obsidian table, arranged like they were awaiting either a blood sacrifice or a quarterly report—whichever came first.

“These,” Barrister Lawrence said with the enthusiasm of a man about to read tax law out loud, “are your executives.”

She gulped.

“Should I... say something?”

“Yes. Something confident. Something that says ‘I am your leader and not a child who still calls her cat her emotional support manager.’”

Butera nodded, smoothed her frizzy ponytail, and walked into the boardroom.

The silence was immediate and heavy.

She cleared her throat. “Hi. I’m Butera Perez Diaz. I’m nineteen. I don’t know how to do taxes or make a PowerPoint. I have memorized all the words to the 2006 TasteWaves jingle, though.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“What the hell,” someone muttered.

Another executive—an older woman with hair like cotton candy dipped in sarcasm—spoke first. “You’re the... child?”

“Teenager,” Butera corrected meekly. “Technically an adult.”

“Technically a disaster,” another snorted.

A third sighed. “We’re doomed.”

Butera smiled nervously and reached into her blazer pocket. “Would anyone like a gummy worm?”

Nobody accepted. One man swatted his away like she was offering him a live scorpion.

A voice at the far end of the table rose—smooth, deliberate, dripping with strategic venom.

“I think we should let her speak,” said Janet Harrow, Head of International Logistics, who wore a red pantsuit and looked like she’d once fought off a hostile takeover with a stapler. “Let’s hear what the new CEO has planned for TasteWaves.”

Butera tried to think. Think like a leader. What would her dad say?

Actually, no—he’d probably have yelled “synergy!” and thrown a vitamin drink at the wall.

“I, um...” she started. “I have...plans. Big ones. We’re gonna make TasteWaves cool again. Less... corporate. More... bubbly. Like sparkling water. But... less tasteless.”

No one spoke.

So she panicked. “Also, I was thinking we could release a new product line: caffeinated jelly cubes for students. Working title: BrainBoing.”

Total silence.

Then—

“I love it,” Janet said, sipping espresso like it was wine. “BrainBoing. Chaotic. Illegal in some countries. We’ll sell out in a week.”

“But—she’s a child!” barked another exec.

“She’s the boss,” Lawrence reminded them, stepping into the room. “Her name is on every company document. Every contract. Every billboard. If you have a problem, you may take it up with her... and the ghost of her father.”

Someone coughed uncomfortably.

Butera sat down in the CEO chair. It was three inches taller than all the others. That helped.

She smiled. Slightly. “I’d like weekly updates. Preferably in bullet points. Or memes. Or both. Memes are powerful.”

A knock at the door interrupted the tension.

The janitor stepped in.

He had freckles, dark curls, and blue coveralls that smelled faintly of lavender bleach. His badge read Jamie Gallagher.

He wheeled in a mop bucket, nodded at the executives, and smiled directly at Butera.

“Just mopping up the mess,” he said casually.

It was unclear whether he meant the floor or the entire company.

Butera blushed.

The executives groaned in unison.

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