MOOD

TAYLOR'S POV

I was at my desk, taking my much needed break, the soft murmur of my colleagues and the distant hum of office machines, created a soothing background noise.

Then the sound of a screeching voice calling my name.

I jolted upright, nearly spilling my coffee. My heart skipped a beat, and I quickly turned towards the direction of the voice. There, a few feet away, was Mrs. Thatcher, storming towards me. Her face was twisted in anger, her usually composed expression replaced with one of intense fury. Her glasses sat precariously on the bridge of her nose, a sure sign of her agitation.

My mind raced as I tried to recall if I had missed something important or made a serious mistake. But nothing came to mind. I felt a cold sweat forming at the back of my neck as Mrs. Thatcher’s heels clicked sharply against the polished office floor, each step echoing ominously in the suddenly quiet room.

Seeing Mrs. Thatcher in such a state was unsettling. She was known for her meticulous standards and unyielding professionalism. Her tailored suit, which usually symbolized her authority, now seemed to amplify her anger. As she got closer, I noticed the fine lines etched into her face, deepened by her current expression of ire.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. I set my coffee cup down with deliberate care and straightened my posture, determined to meet whatever was coming with as much composure as possible. Glancing around briefly, I saw my colleagues' curious and concerned looks, their conversations having dwindled to whispers. The office felt like it was holding its breath.

Mrs. Thatcher's eyes were locked onto mine, her gaze intense and unwavering. The anger in her eyes was clear, but there was something else too—perhaps disappointment or urgency. Whatever it was, it only added to my anxiety.

As she closed the final few feet between us, the tension in the room became almost unbearable. I swallowed hard, bracing myself for the confrontation. I knew I had to handle this with professionalism and calm, no matter what. Mrs. Thatcher’s opinion of me could significantly impact my career, and I needed to show her that I was capable and resilient.

Taking one last calming breath, I pushed my chair back slightly, ready to stand and face her head-on. Despite the knot of anxiety in my stomach, I was determined to address whatever issue had provoked such a fierce reaction. And as Mrs. Thatcher’s shadow loomed over my desk, I knew I would find out soon enough what had caused her to screech my name with such intensity.

Then, without a word, Mrs. Thatcher slammed a file report down on my table. The impact reverberated through the desk, and the papers inside the file fluttered slightly from the force. The room seemed to freeze, and I could feel the eyes of my colleagues burning into me, their curiosity now mingled with a palpable tension.The sudden, loud noise of the file hitting the desk made me jump slightly, and I looked up at Mrs. Thatcher, her eyes blazing with intensity. My stomach churned as I reached out for the file, the knot of anxiety tightening. Whatever this was about, it was clear that it was quite serious.

“Why is the quarterly report missing crucial data on our latest project?” Mrs. Thatcher demanded, her voice low but deadly serious. “I’ve been watching you all day, Sophia. You haven’t been concentrating, and that’s why you’ve made these mistakes.”

My heart sank as her words registered. I could feel my colleagues’ eyes on me, their whispers now silent as they awaited my response. The pressure was immense, the weight of their expectations and Mrs. Thatcher’s disappointment pressing down on me. I had no choice but to face this head-on and find a way to rectify my mistakes.

My heart sank as her words registered. I could feel my colleagues’ eyes on me, their whispers now silent as they awaited my response. The pressure was immense, the weight of their expectations and Mrs. Thatcher’s disappointment pressing down on me. I had no choice but to face this head-on and find a way to rectify my mistakes.

My mind raced, trying to process Mrs. Thatcher’s words. I opened the file, my hands trembling slightly, and skimmed through the report. Sure enough, there were glaring gaps in the data, sections that should have been filled with crucial information about our latest project.

"I... I'm sorry, Mrs. Thatcher," I stammered, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise to my cheeks. "I'll fix this right away."

She leaned in closer, her presence looming over me like a thundercloud. "Sorry isn't good enough, Mrs. Hayes. This is a critical report, and your lack of focus has put us in a difficult position. I expect better from you."

I could feel my colleagues' eyes on me, their reactions a mix of sympathy and relief that they weren't the ones in my shoes. Some exchanged quick, furtive glances, while others pretended to be engrossed in their work, though I knew they were listening intently. The office was tense, the usual hum of activity replaced by an uneasy silence.

"I understand," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll make sure it's corrected and resubmitted by the end of the day."

Mrs. Thatcher straightened, her eyes never leaving mine. "See that you do," she said coldly. "And make sure this doesn't happen again."

With that, she turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. I watched her go, feeling a mix of shame and frustration. How had I let this happen? I prided myself on my attention to detail, but clearly, I had been slipping.

As soon as she was out of earshot, the office buzzed back to life. I heard whispers and saw colleagues exchanging looks, but I ignored them. I had to focus. I couldn't afford another mistake.