The CEO Who Knew My Thoughts

ons: an invitation to their "Next Generation Leaders Program." I was supposed to be our savior, a burnt-out junior softwa

one who' d used clichéd motivational posters. My blood ran cold, but my minimalist presentation was safe. Then, a sharp, sarcast

came a bizarre loop of meticulously crafting his Colombian coffee (192 degrees, counter-clockwise stir) and organizing impossibly misfiled archives. Every mental groa

carefully constructed facade, seemed to deliberately play with my thoughts, making me feel like a tra

seemed. When his own stepmother, Eleanor, tried to weaponize me for corporate espionage, her veiled threats echoing his mind game