Touch the Doll, Control the Man: A Sensory Game with My Boss

Veda's POV

"Veda Smith! What the HELL are you doing?!"

I jerked my head up to meet Austin's furious eyes.

Here we go again! This goddamn tyrant!

Austin Roberts, my direct supervisor and the Creative Director who'd parachuted into our company three months ago. Twenty-nine, Ivy League MBA, tall, handsome, and a complete ASSHOLE.

"Mr. Roberts, I can explain the design concept—" I tried to stay calm with twenty-plus colleagues watching in the conference room.

"Explain?" He snorted. "You've already screwed up the Pemberton project THREE times. What's left to explain?"

"I think the retro style better fits their brand identity—"

"Retro?" Austin cut me off, walking to the projection screen. "Is this retro or just OUTDATED? You think clients will pay for this... elementary school crap?"

My face burned. "Mr. Roberts, if you'd just let me finish—"

"Finish what?" He turned to face me, his handsome features twisted with sarcasm. "Explain how you turned a solid business project into an art exhibition?"

Whispers rippled around the room.

"I was just trying to—"

"Don't TRY!" Austin's voice shot up. "Three months, Veda! THREE MONTHS! Your work gets worse every time!"

I gritted my teeth. "That's because you never give me a chance to explain—"

"A chance?" He strode over, towering above me. "How many chances have I given you? You ignore every piece of feedback!"

"Your feedback is always vague—"

"Vague?" Austin mocked. "'This won't sell,' 'clients won't like it'—is that not clear enough? Or do you need me to hold your hand through basic business?"

Blood rushed to my head. "Mr. Roberts, I graduated from Chicago Art Institute—"

"Art Institute?" He laughed coldly. "Then explain why you can't figure out how to make MONEY? Maybe you should reconsider if you're cut out for this industry!"

That hit like a slap. I'd been busting my ass at this company, first in, last out, just to prove myself. And this arrogant prick was questioning my professional competence?

"At least my work has CREATIVITY!" I shot up, shouting. "Unlike some people who just recycle old formulas!"

Austin's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"I said you don't understand creativity!" I was past caring. "You just copy outdated garbage!"

"You—"

"Your ideas are STONE AGE!"

Austin's face turned livid, his temple pulsing. The entire conference room fell dead silent, everyone holding their breath.

Then I watched him walk to my desk and grab my design drafts.

"No—"

RIP—

Three nights of my blood, sweat, and tears got shredded in front of everyone. Paper fragments floated down like snow, each piece mocking my helplessness.

DAMN IT! I couldn't take it anymore!

"You know what?" I glared at him. "Maybe YOU should reconsider if you're fit to lead! Real leaders don't humiliate their staff to show off!"

Austin froze, clearly not expecting such fierce retaliation.

"Your brain is stuck in the STONE AGE!" I continued my rampage. "And your management style is workplace BULLYING!"

Dead silence.

The conference room was so quiet you could hear the AC humming. Austin's face went from livid to pale.

"Fine." His voice was ice-cold. "Since you're so talented, work overtime tonight. I want something that satisfies me, or else..."

He didn't finish, but the threat was clear. Getting fired by Austin Roberts in Chicago's ad world was basically career suicide.

"Meeting dismissed." He turned and left, leaving me standing among scattered papers, heart pounding.

"Damn, that was brave as hell!"

After the meeting, Kurt Williams, our new intern, handed me hot coffee with admiring eyes.

"Brave?" I laughed bitterly. "I felt like a lunatic."

"Don't say that," Kurt said earnestly. "Your design was great—the colors and fonts were really creative. Austin's just too... harsh."

"Harsh?" I nearly choked on my coffee. "You mean he's an asshole?"

"Well... maybe 'perfectionist psycho' fits better?" Kurt grinned.

We both laughed, tension easing slightly. Until I saw Austin pass the break room doorway, his expression even darker.

That look could've killed us both.

The next three days were pure hell.

Every night at ten, only security guards and I remained in the office. I hunched over my computer revising designs, downing endless coffee, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.

Austin was so "thoughtful"—checking my progress every few hours, then tearing my work apart with his vicious tongue.

"Colors too gaudy."

"Font too juvenile."

"Looks unprofessional overall."

Wednesday night, I finally snapped. "What the hell do you WANT?!"

He stopped typing and stared at me. "I want something presentable, not art school homework."

"Then do it yourself!" I exploded completely. "Since I can't do anything right, why don't YOU take over?!"

Austin stared at me for so long I thought he'd fire me on the spot.

"Because," he finally said, "this is YOUR job."

Then he left, abandoning me alone in the empty office to question my existence.

That weekend, I dragged my exhausted body to Chicago's antique market.

This was my secret sanctuary. Whenever life pushed me to the edge, I came here for comfort. Old objects had magical power—they made your troubles feel like tiny ripples in history's vast river.

"Little lady, looks like you need some luck."

A white-haired old man emerged from behind his stall, holding something small.

It was a vintage teddy bear charm, about fist-sized, with slightly faded brown fur but bright, sparkling eyes. It wore a little vest with two buttons on the chest.

"How much?" I asked.

"Thirty dollars." The old man smiled mysteriously. "This bear brings good luck."

I pulled out my wallet. Superstition or not, I needed all the help I could get.

Monday morning, I hung the bear on my phone as decoration.

Austin walked into the office promptly at nine. He glanced expressionlessly at the mountain of revisions on my desk, then began assigning today's tasks.

"Peterson project needs three concepts," he said. "I want initial drafts by two PM. Also, Johnson's rebrand..."

I nervously stroked the little bear hanging from my phone, silently praying not to get torn apart again today.

Then, a miracle happened.

Austin suddenly stopped talking, his expression turning strange. His hand unconsciously moved to his chest, and then... he blushed?

His face actually turned RED!

I rubbed my eyes hard, thinking exhaustion was causing hallucinations. But no—Austin Roberts, that cold, ruthless, sharp-tongued boss, was currently blushing like an eighteen-year-old virgin.

"I... I'll be in my office." He turned abruptly, practically fleeing into his glass-walled room.

I looked down at the little bear in my hand, then at Austin's tightly shut office door.

This... this was way too coincidental, right?