Tiger Shark

By: L.P. Lovell

London’s square mile is witness to a revolution, a new breed of business woman. They call us tiger sharks. We out-earn, out-work and out-play our male counterparts. We work the system, play the game and most importantly, win. In a city full of sharks only the most ruthless make it to the top of the pool.

No matter how much money I make, or how successful I am, I am and always will be a woman in a man’s word. Employers will tell you they support equal rights. On paper it seems that way, but I know better. It has fuck all to do with rights and more to do with the fact that men are men, and they will always see women as something to stick their dick in. Unless you play the game. Unless you win. And in order to do so, rules must be followed.

Rule number one: Never, ever, fuck the boss.

Rule number two: As an extension of rule one, never let the boss hit on you. The second the boss hits on you, you’re done. Reject him and you’re the bitch who turned him down. Fuck him, and you’re the office slut that he cheated on his wife with. Either way, you’re screwed and I guarantee, that the next round of redundancies, you’re out.

Rule number three: Anybody might be somebody. Be careful what you say, what you do and most importantly, who you fuck. That annoying twat who’s drunkenly dragging his eyes all over your tits…he might be your next boss or the guy you need to cut a deal with next week, hell, he could be a client. Always err on the side of caution and no matter how much you want to tell someone to fuck off, don’t.

Rule number four: Always appear beyond reproach. A male colleague can go out, get pissed and turn up to work smelling of whiskey and looking like he got run over. That’s fine. The boss will probably laugh it off and give him a manly pat on the back. The same does not apply to a woman. Keep it clean, keep it legal and most importantly, keep it private.

Rule number five: Play nice. I may be painfully aware of the inadequacies of my male colleagues at times, but I cannot point that out. I must be one of the guys, yet unattainable in every way. This is the only way to earn their respect, and that will be a factor when it comes to the next promotion.

This is what it takes to be a tiger shark. I pay the price willingly. Because one day, I’ll be the CEO.

“Fucking shit.” I whisper, scanning the graphs on the computer screen. I press the intercom in front of me. “Jonathan get in here.”

The door opens and my assistant shuffles through the door nervously smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt. “Ms Roberts.” He stammers.

“Are these figures right?” I ask, turning the screen towards him and pointing at the print. For the most part, the boy is a stuttering mess, but he’s a statistical genius. He glances at the screen and then drops his eyes to the floor.

“Yes, um, they’re this morning’s reports.”

“I’m aware of that. What I’m asking is whether that can possibly be right?!” I snap, jabbing my finger against the glass at the point where one of my biggest client’s stocks just took a twenty percent dive. Variations I can deal with. Stocks move up and down all the time. Every day, every hour, but twenty fucking percent…

“Um, yes. I believe so.”

“Shit. Get Samson on the phone. Tell him I’m on my way up.” I push up from my desk and strode from the room, slamming the door behind me.

The office is quiet at this time of morning. I’m always here an hour before anyone else in order to have a head start on any shit hitting the fan.

The only person I see is one of my colleagues, Dan, otherwise known as the competition. He’s a slimy prick who spends most of his time balls deep in the latest secretary. “Georgia.” He starts.

“No time.” I say, walking straight past him.

“I heard NewTec just went down!” He shouts after me, a smug edge in his voice. I ignore him and keep walking.

I cross my arms and tap the toe of my shoe against the floor as I wait for the lift to climb to the top floor of the building. My heart is pounding, adrenaline spiking through my veins. I live for the rush of making money, but I hate losing. At anything.

The lift pings and the doors slide open revealing the enormous lobby, the walls adorned with some crappy art which my boss, Collins, seems to think makes him cultured. Two mahogany desks sit on either side of the lobby, stationed by the pretty secretaries he likes to keep. The one on the right eyes me, pouting her bright pink lips.

“He’s in a meeting…” She says, but her voice trails off as I storm past her and shove the double doors to his conference room open.

Collins and two other men are sat at his monstrosity of a conference table. He never has a meeting with more than three people so I have no idea why he has it. I guess it saves him having to whip his dick out. The room smells of strong coffee and pastries. All three men look up at me as I walk in, their conversation halting. Martin Collins is a wiry, short man in his forties. He got where he is by being a shady fuck, but he’s extremely successful and makes a lot of money, so I don’t judge his methods. After all, he has everything I want.

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