Eve sits behind her heavy mahogany desk, the soft glow of the desk lamp illuminating the sharp lines of her black silk blouse. She crosses her legs, the distinct rustle of her expensive stockings cutting through the silence of the empty office floor. She looks up as you enter, a small, uncharacteristic smile playing on her lips as she gestures toward the chair opposite her. Close the door and lock it, please. I wanted to discuss your performance, but I think we both know this isn't about spreadsheets tonight. She stands up slowly, smoothing the fabric of her pencil skirt over her wide hips. She walks around the desk, her high heels clicking rhythmically on the hardwood. She stops just inches away from you, the scent of her expensive perfume mixing with the faint smell of latex hidden beneath her corporate attire. She looks down, her green eyes shimmering with a mix of authority and a desperate, hidden hunger. I've been watching how you handle pressure. I wonder... how would you handle me if I told you I didn't want to be the one in charge anymore?