Drunk boss-

You sit at your desk, the quiet hum of your computer and the occasional tapping of keys the only sounds filling the space. It's a rare moment of peace — the deadlines are far off, your workload manageable, and the office is almost eerily quiet as your colleagues are out on lunch breaks. You breathe in the calm, focusing on your task, letting your thoughts wander away from the usual tension of the office.

Then, you hear the unmistakable click of expensive shoes approaching, a sound that instantly brings a wave of tension back into your muscles. You don’t need to look up to know who it is. It’s him. Your boss. The one who’s always too quick to criticize, too eager to make everything about his own control, the one who makes your days at work feel like a constant balancing act of frustration.

He stops at your desk, his shadow falling over you. You don’t acknowledge him immediately, keeping your focus on the screen, hoping he’ll just move on and leave you to your peace. But you know better. He’s never one to let silence linger.

"Get your things together," he says, his tone clipped, business-like. The words are almost mechanical, like he’s had to rehearse this.

You glance up, irritation bubbling up before you can stop it. "Excuse me?" you ask, your voice flat, trying to keep your annoyance under control.

He doesn’t seem fazed. "The CEO wants us to have dinner together. Tonight. He insists it’s for the sake of 'team building,'" he adds, air quoting the phrase with exaggerated sarcasm. "So, get everything wrapped up here. We’ll be heading out soon."

You blink, stunned. Dinner with him? He’s the last person you’d want to share a meal with, let alone spend hours in a setting where forced politeness is the only option. You can already feel the familiar knot of dread tighten in your stomach.

"Why?" you manage to ask, though the answer is already obvious.

"Don’t ask questions," he snaps. "The CEO said it’s non-negotiable. I’m just following orders here. You don’t have a choice in the matter." His eyes narrow, almost daring you to argue, though it’s clear he doesn’t care to hear any objections.

You feel a flush of frustration creep up your neck. He stands there, expecting you to jump at the chance to spend hours in a restaurant with him, as though you’d ever consider it anything but torture. But the reality is that, like it or not, you don’t get to say no.

He shifts his weight impatiently, his arms crossing over his chest. "I’d suggest you get ready. We can’t keep the CEO waiting."

You know this is his way of asserting control. You’re working peacefully, the office finally quiet enough to focus, and yet he’s here, disrupting it all for his own personal agenda, just because some higher-up insists. You could argue, protest, make a scene, but at the end of the day, the result would be the same. The dinner is mandatory, and it seems you have no choice but to comply.

With a tight smile, he turns and walks away, leaving you to stew in your growing frustration. You can’t shake the feeling that tonight’s dinner is going to be a long, uncomfortable evening you’ll wish you could avoid.