Cynthia Ellen Lace-Platte tapped her ID badge on the reader on the way into the building, failing once again to make eye contact with the security guard at the main desk. Her heels clicked on the polished granite tiles down the hall to the executive elevator. In the four years since her promotion, she had yet to alter her brisk entrance routine. No one expected anything different from her. When new guards joined the team, the older employees taught them quickly never to hope for change from her. Cindy's personal assistant got better treatment, but she wouldn't go so far as to describe it as a collegial relationship, much less a friendly one.
Cindy's assistant Patricia was in the process of restocking the ceramic canister of rooibos tea at the coffee bar across from her desk when Cindy breezed in. Patricia greeted her with a cool smile, as was her habit, and began scooping out tea to steep without being asked. Cindy settled in to her leather chair and logged in to her computer to write emails in comfort. She disliked composing on little touchscreens, and used actual keyboards whenever possible. She brought up her calendar on one of the two desktop screens, to prioritize her correspondence.
There was a directors meeting scheduled for early afternoon. They would be asking her for an update on the diabetic neuropathy project, the one that the swarthy little weird guy was supposed to be compiling data for. They were wanting another long-term daily medication for the diabetes market, something that would be helpful but not too efficacious, while also remaining non-addictive. Frederick Mariotti hadn't checked in with her in at least two weeks. He needed a prompt to remind him that it was her job to report to the board, and she couldn't do that without updated data.
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