Tiffany

Tiffany glared up at the vending machine. Normally she wouldn't be caught dead using a vending machine, but she had overheard some whispers in class that this one had some unusually good cheesecake. It was one of those vending machines that turned and you opened the door to get at the item.

And the door she needed was about four feet off the ground. She was able to stretch on her tiptoes and tap her phone to the terminal and pay... But the door. The door!

The sheer injustice of it all was currently raging inside her.

You stupid fucking machine. I'll buy you out and then throw you in a dumpster, she thought irritably.

Her twintails flailed as her head snapped to the side, one hitting her in the face, when she heard giggling and just knew it was directed at her.

A group of girls sat at a table, covering their mouths and looking in her direction.

One pointed.

She flipped them off and looked back at the machine, deciding they were beneath further attention.

She reached up, as high as she could, and slapped one of the doors uselessly, then looked to the doorway, where she had already commanded Doug and Charles to wait.

"Shit," she sighed heavily.

She gave the vending machine one last scathing look as she turned to march towards the door to get one of the two to get it for her.

Tiffany sat behind the massive mahogany desk in her study, her chin resting on her hands. The leather chair was practically swallowing her, but she refused to use a booster cushion. It was humiliating enough that her feet dangled a good few inches above the floor.

She let out a sharp sigh, her emerald eyes scanning the printed application on the desk. "Next," she called out.

Charles, the towering white wolf standing by the double doors, opened one side. "Candidate number four, Miss Cheesecake."

In walked a golden retriever. He was wearing a polo shirt that clung desperately to his biceps and smelled faintly of cheap body spray and an energy drink. Tiffany's nose twitched in immediate disgust.

"Hey there," the retriever said, flashing a blindingly white smile as he took a seat without being asked. "I'm Brad. Saw the ad. A thousand bucks just to walk around a gala and eat free food? Sounded like a sweet deal."

"It's a business arrangement," Tiffany said, her voice flat. She adjusted the pink ribbon on her left twintail. "You are there to look presentable, stand next to me, and speak only when spoken to. Do you own a tailored suit?"

Brad chuckled, leaning forward and resting his elbows on her desk. "I've got a suit, yeah. But come on, you're paying a grand. I can definitely protect a little thing like you in a crowd. I'm on the varsity football—"

"Stop," Tiffany interrupted.

Brad blinked. "What?"

"I don't care about your sports. I don't care about your varsity whatever." Tiffany glared at him. "And I am not a 'little thing.'"

"Whoa, hey, chill out," Brad said, reaching a hand across the desk as if to pat her shoulder. "No need to get feisty, you're just so cute when you're—"

Squeak.

The sound slipped out of her throat before she could stop it. Her face flushed hot beneath her blonde fur. Tiffany snapped her fingers.

Instantly, Doug stepped forward from the corner of the room, grabbing Brad by the collar of his polo.

"Hey! What the hell, man—" Brad yelped as the wolf hauled him up.

"Out," Tiffany snapped. "Throw him out the front gate. If he touches the grass, bill him for the landscaping."

She rubbed her temples as the door clicked shut behind the struggling retriever. Idiots. They were all idiots. She grabbed her red pen and drew a massive, jagged X across Brad's paper.

"Charles, send in the next one before I lose my mind."

Charles nodded and opened the door again. "Candidate number five."

This one was a sleek, silver-furred feline wearing a charcoal suit. He looked much more put together than Brad. He walked in, gave a polite nod to Charles, and stood in front of the desk.

"Miss Cheesecake," he said smoothly. "Julian Vance. Economics and Finance."

Tiffany leaned back, crossing her arms. The movement pulled her tailored white button-up tight across her chest, a dangerous amount of tension resting on the third button. "At least you own a suit. Why do you want the job, Julian?"

"To be entirely frank? Networking," Julian said, taking the seat. "The Cheesecake conglomerate is a massive player in the dairy sector. However, looking at your quarterly reports, your supply chain inefficiencies in the Midwest distribution network are costing you roughly four point two percent in gross margins. I figured escorting the heiress would be a good way to get my foot in the door with your father."

Tiffany stared at him. She tapped her claws against the wood of her desk.

"Four point two percent," she repeated.

"Give or take." Julian smiled, looking immensely pleased with himself.

"Your math is garbage," Tiffany said.

Julian's smile faltered. "Excuse me?"

"You're calculating based on last year's fuel index and ignoring the subsidized freight contracts we secured in Q1," Tiffany said, not missing a beat. "The actual margin loss is one point eight seven percent, which is offset by the tax incentives from the new processing plant in Ohio. You didn't factor in the state tax breaks, did you?"

Julian opened his mouth, then closed it. His tail flicked nervously. "I... the public filings didn't explicitly—"

"You're trying to use me as a stepping stone, which I expected," Tiffany said, her voice dripping with venom. "But you tried to do it while being stupid. I have zero tolerance for mediocrity." She snapped her fingers.

Charles stepped up this time.

"I can find my own way out," Julian muttered, standing up quickly and smoothing his jacket before practically fleeing the room.

Tiffany groaned, dropping her head onto the desk with a soft thud.

"Shall I call candidate number six, Miss Cheesecake?" Charles asked.

"Yes," Tiffany mumbled into the wood. "Bring in the next sacrifice."

Tiffany fidgeted in the backseat of the Rolls, uncomfortable and stressed.

She was going to a gala with a stranger. Someone she hadn't even met yet. She had tried to set up interviews. She had gotten more responses than she expected and had done FOURTEEN interviews before she trashed all the remaining ones and snapped at Doug to "Choose one at random. Buy them a suit or dress if they need it. I'd rather leave it up to fate. If I hate them when I see them, I'll go alone."

Oh, how she had regretted it. Not immediately, of course, but definitely later.

And definitely right now.

"They're already there?" she asked, without turning her head to face the front, speaking to Charles—Doug had been sent to pick up her "date."

Charles adjusted the rearview mirror just a smidgen to look at her before adjusting it back.

"Yes, ma'am. Doug picked them up fifteen minutes ago. They are already waiting. I have instructed him to have them wait on the carpet to lead them in."

Tiffany sighed. "Thank you, Charles," she said quietly and looked forward only a moment before looking out the window once more.

They pulled up to the curb. The paparazzi were already in full swing.

She reached down and tugged at her strapless bra, making sure it was hidden underneath the red backless dress she was wearing. It was a pretty one that sparkled with every movement. She had still foregone heels. Still wore her sneakers. She had opted for much nicer gold-inlaid red ribbons for her hair than she usually wore. She had also not worn her thigh-highs as the dress went to her shins, so she didn't see the point. Her claws were painted the same shimmery red as her dress.

She sighed. "Don't let me regret this more than I already do." She was speaking to whatever gods might exist, but Charles answered with a chuckle. "Too late," he said, and she stepped out into flashing cameras.