Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 79: Miss Miller vs. Mr. Walton: Round Three

The meeting ran longer than necessary. It always did when Jenkins decided to open his mouth. I kept my expression neutral, my comments surgical and my attention razor-sharp—outwardly.

But inside? I was counting down the seconds until I could return to my office. My sanctuary. My controlled environment.

The moment I stepped back into the hallway, I exhaled quietly.

Then I opened the door.

And stopped.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. My brain short-circuited so violently I was convinced for a second I had entered the wrong office.

There, dead center on my desk like some annoying, chlorophyll-sodden insult, was a plant.

Hideous.

It sat there, defiant in its utter lack of metabolism. Its leaves were a uniform, waxy green, each vein perfectly etched, each edge unnaturally sharp.

It was a ugly mimicry of life, devoid of the subtle imperfections, the gentle wilting, the dust anticipation that characterized anything organic. It was too green, too perfect, utterly fake.

I blinked twice

It didn’t disappear.

"What... the hell."

The temperature hit me next. A slow, creeping wave of warmth that creeped across my skin like betrayal. My shirt was definitely sticking to my back.

The crisp air I relied on—needed—was gone, replaced with something heavy. Wet. Tropical, even.

I stared at the thing again. Aloe vera, by the look of it. The kind of cheerful thingy garbage that belonged in a spa... or a kindergarten. Not in my office. Not in this temple of order and professionalism.

I took one step forward, then another, each footfall slow and deliberate as if approaching a crime scene.

And this was a crime scene. Someone had murdered my office’s dignity. Slain it. Set it on fire and possibly danced on the ashes.

My gaze swept the rest of the office. Was anything else disturbed? My desk was flawless, save for the green intruder. Papers stacked precisely, pens aligned, monitors dark and clean.

Everything else was as I had left it. Which only made the plant’s presence more shocking, more criminal. It was a single, screaming act of vandalism in a cathedral of calm.

I leaned forward, inspecting the thing like it might sprout legs and run. Dusty. Crooked. Artificial. It looked like it had been rejected by three clearance racks and a garage sale before landing here. A cosmic joke.

The thermostat caught my eye next.

I walked to the panel.

86 degrees Fahrenheit.

Eighty. Six.

What am I, a reptile?

My vision blurred for a moment. My thumb twitched violently by my side.

I closed my eyes, slowly, like that would stop the rising tide of disbelief. Then I opened them again. It was still there. The plant. The heat. The violation.

My jaw locked so tight it sent a pulse through my temple. I pressed the button, dialing the temperature back to its rightful arctic territory, each beep like a gunshot.

Then I walked to the door, opened it and called out with far more calm than I felt.

"Miss Miller."

Her name tasted like heatstroke and audacity.

She appeared at the end of the hallway. So... composed. Like she hadn’t just committed thermostatic treason.

"Yes, Mr. Walton?" she said, bright as a bell, as if nothing in the universe was wrong.

I didn’t answer. I turned and walked back into the room. I knew she’d follow. I could feel her amusement trailing behind her like perfume.

She stopped and I stared at the green offense on my desk.

"What," I said slowly, deliberately, "is that?"

She blinked at me, innocent as sin. "A plant. Office greenery. Studies show it boosts productivity and reduces stress."

I wanted to ask whose studies. Where. When. Under what kind of circumstances.

"It’s fake," I snapped.

"Exactly. Zero maintenance. Just like me."

She smiled.

When she called herself "zero maintenance," I briefly considered launching the plant out the window just to see if she’d dive after it.

Instead I sai: "Remove it."

"Of course," she chirped. "Right after your 3 PM."

She was enjoying this.

I rubbed a finger between my brows, already feeling the beginnings of a headache blooming like that cursed green impostor.

Then, quietly: "Why is it hot in here?"

She blinked again. "Hot? I don’t feel hot."

I closed my eyes. Counted to five.

"I’m not asking if you feel hot, Miss Miller. I’m asking why the temperature in my office has been unilaterally raised by fifteen degrees in direct contravention of companywide specifications."

"Oh, you noticed? I thought it felt much better. More... vibrant."

She actually tilted her head. Like she was talking about feng shui. Like this was some damn wellness seminar and not a calculated thermodynamic assault.

"You changed the thermostat," I said.

She gave me a smile that should’ve come with a safety warning. "Optimizing your workspace. A crucial part of modern office management."

She had the audacity to tell me she was "optimizing my workspace."

Do I look like someone whose brain needs coddling with tropical humidity and a plastic fern?

I walked to the panel, tapped the numbers down with an authority that brooked no discussion. I could already feel the blessed cold starting to return, like sanity reasserting itself.

"Do not," I said, still facing the wall, "touch that again."

"Noted, Mr. Walton. But just so you know, extreme cold can stress even the hardiest of... desk accessories. You wouldn’t want your new friend to feel lonely, would you?"

I turned. My eyes scanned the plant, then her. My expression didn’t change.

But inside?

Oh, I was plotting.

"If this plant is still here after 3 PM," I said, voice smooth as black ice, "you will have to explain why you are disrupting the CEO’s workflow and personal comfort."

She smiled like the devil’s intern. "Consider it a temporary tenant."

And then she waved.

At the plant! like it was some goddamn house guest.

I said nothing. Just stared as she walked out of the room, humming.

The moment the door shut behind her, I breath out.

Then glared at the plant again.

It stared back.

I grabbed the mug from earlier—still sitting on my desk from her first caffeine assault—and set it next to the plant like some kind of exhibit B.

I circled the desk, sizing up the enemy. The plant, not Miss Miller, though she ranked a close second. The plant was the immediate threat. A physical manifestation of chaos in my ordered world.

I could simply throw it away and end the reign of the green terror immediately. But that felt...unsatisfying. Too easy. Too...expected. Miss Miller clearly anticipated that reaction.

This was a declaration of chaos.

And I had no idea if I wanted to strangle her or—

No. No. Just strangle her.

Probably.

******

Once it was three—or, more precisely, two minutes and forty seconds to—I picked up the phone.

"Miss Miller," I said, glancing at the security feed displaying the lobby. "Go down and bring up the package that just arrived. Large, brown box. My name on it."

A pause.

Then, "Of course, Mr. Walton."

She returned twenty minutes later, slightly breathless, dragging the box in like a heroic intern in some terrible office comedy.

I didn’t look up right away. Let her sweat a little. I typed one more line of an entirely unnecessary email, then leaned back in my chair.

"Open it," I said.

She hesitated. "Sorry?"

"The box. Open it."

I gestured lazily to the box she dropped as if I hadn’t signed off on the bulk stationery order with a flick of petty glee.

She crouched, tore through the tape, and flipped the box open.

Her face fell.

A thousand pencils stared up at her like a forest of judgment. Unsharpened, uniform yellow wood, pink erasers like tiny, identical hats. They were the antithesis of vibrant greenery and tropical warmth. They were order. Repetition. Utterly, gloriously ordinary.

She looked at me slowly. "These are... all pencils?"

I nodded once. "Yes."

"And you want me to...?"

"Sharpen them."

She blinked. "All of them?"

"Mm-hmm." I leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "By five."

Her eyes widened. I could almost see the calculations happening behind them – the sheer, hard scale of the task, the inevitable humiliation of her manicure. It was beautiful.

"That’s... a lot of pencils, Mr. Walton."

"Indeed," I said, voice laced with mock sympathy. "But I’m sure you’ll find it... therapeutic. Studies show repetitive tasks are excellent for stress relief." I mirrored her earlier, infuriating cheerfulness. "Perhaps you can listen to some relaxing music while you work. The soft hum of the sharpener, the gentle whittling of wood... it should be quite soothing."

I watched her carefully, waiting for the eruption. It didn’t come. Not immediately, anyway.

Instead, a slow, almost adoring smile spread across her face. It was not the smile of someone who had been defeated. It was the smile of someone who had a plan.

"Of course, Mr. Walton," she said, her voice impossibly sweet. "Consider it done."

She reached for the electric sharpener at the side table—standard procedure. Logical move.

It didn’t respond.

She tapped it. Tilted it. Checked the cord.

"That’s weird, it’s not—"

"Oh," I said flatly knowing I cut it’s wire, "I forgot to mention. The sharpener’s no longer functional."

She froze, her hand still hovering over the unresponsive sharpener.

"No longer functional?" she repeated.

"Precisely," I confirmed, enjoying the moment. "Seems to have... malfunctioned. Quite suddenly."

She looked up. "It was working yesterday."

"Yes. I’m aware."

I stood and opened my drawer. Reached inside. Produced the backup.

A dusty, clunky, borderline antique manual sharpener. The kind that required you to anchor it to the desk and rotate like you were powering a Victorian sewing machine.

I placed it gently on the table.

"A thousand pencils," she murmured, almost to herself. "By five."

"Precisely."

Her eyes widened. "You’ve got to be kidding."

I looked at her.

Deadpan.

"Get to work if you want to finish early."

She gaped for a full three seconds. Then—quietly—sat.

The first pencil broke halfway in.

I didn’t blink.

The second splintered on one side.

I opened a spreadsheet, slid one AirPod in and clicked play on a soundscape titled Deep Focus: Antarctic Winds.

It was perfect.

She muttered something under her breath. I didn’t ask what.

I wasn’t mad anymore.

I was calm.

Balanced. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

I had returned the favor.

Order, restored.

The plant sat quietly in the corner. Still there. But no longer annoying.

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