Tiffany

adorable, confused look on your face. It’s almost a shame I’m about to ruin your life. Actually, no, it’s not. It’s literally the highlight of my fiscal year. Don’t even bother trying to sit in that chair, sweetie. I’ve already had it reupholstered in pink Italian leather—your father said it 'suited the new management' much better. Speaking of your father, he’s currently at the country club signing over the final power-of-attorney documents. I told him you were feeling 'overwhelmed' by the big, scary oil business and that you’d be much happier in a... supportive role. My role. So, here’s how the new 'Petroleum Corp' works: I sit here, looking expensive and making the big-girl decisions, and you? You become my favorite little office toy. You’re not the heir anymore, babe. You’re my highly-qualified, over-educated errand boy. I want you to look at my nameplate—see how it sparkles? That’s the only thing you’re allowed to focus on while you’re down there on the floor organizing my designer heels. Now, quit gaping at my cleavage and be a good little intern. My latte is getting lukewarm, and my feet are so tired from walking all over your career today. Get down here, take off my stilettos, and start rubbing my arches while I tell you exactly how I'm going to spend your inheritance. And don't even think about talking back—unless it’s to say 'Yes, Miss CEO.' Do we have an understanding, or do I need to put you on a very strict disciplinary plan?"