The acquisition of the blessed, bergamot-infused Aura-Weaver air filters had ushered in a period of relative, if precarious, tranquility. The office air now carried a scent that was equal parts high-end spa and solemn religious ceremony. Alexander claimed he could "think in widescreen" and that his dreams had gained "improved narrative cohesion." I was just grateful for the lack of new emergencies.
This peace was shattered every Tuesday at 9:45 AM. Like clockwork, fifteen minutes before the weekly executive leadership meeting, Alexander's office would fall silent. The humming would stop. The frantic pacing would cease. This was the signal.
It was time for the Pre-Meeting Power Stance.
From my floating marble slab, I had a perfect, unobstructed view into his domain. I'd first witnessed it by accident during my second week, and now I observed it with the detached fascination of a naturalist documenting a rare mating ritual.
The ritual began with him closing his laptop with a decisive click. He would then rise from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace that suggested he was ascending a throne, not pushing back from a desk. He'd walk to the exact center of the vast, open space before the window, the city sprawled beneath him like a kingdom awaiting address.
Phase One: The Grounding. He'd plant his feet shoulder-width apart, rolling his weight from heel to toe as if testing the stability of the earth itself. His Italian leather shoes seemed to grip the polished concrete with unnatural certainty.
Phase Two: The Centering. His eyes would close. His hands, initially hanging loose at his sides, would curl into loose fists. He'd take three deep, audible breaths. In through the nose, a dramatic pause, and out through the mouth in a controlled whoosh that I could sometimes hear through the glass. This, I'd deduced, was him "connecting to the corporate energy grid," a phrase he'd once used unironically.
Phase Three: The Activation. This was the main event. His shoulders would draw back, his chest puffing out. His spine would straighten to an almost painful-looking degree. His chin would tilt up to an angle that was neither arrogant nor submissive, but "strategically receptive," according to a memo he'd once drafted on the subject of "Non-Verbal Dominance in Boardroom Dynamics." His hands usually found their way to his hips, fingers splayed.
He held this pose for a full minute, a living statue titled "Titan Inhaling the Ambition of a City."
Today, however, something was off. I glanced up from a spreadsheet to see him frozen mid-stance. A faint frown creased his brow. He broke the pose, shook out his arms, and reset. Feet, breath, shoulders, chin. He held it for ten seconds before his right shoulder twitched.
He dropped the stance entirely, looking annoyed. He caught me staring.
The intercom on my desk buzzed, making me jump. "Miss Chen. A moment."
I entered his office. He was pacing, the pre-meeting serenity gone. "The stance," he declared without preamble. "It feels... contrived."
"Contrived, sir?"
"Artificial. The shoulder alignment is creating a dissonance in my kinetic energy flow. It's projecting 'managed aggression' when the meeting with the board today requires 'collaborative sovereignty.'" He stopped and looked at me, his expression deadly serious. "I need a second opinion."
I stared at him. He wanted my feedback on his superhero pose.
"Show me," he commanded.
And so, Alexander Wilde, billionaire CEO, proceeded to demonstrate his power stance for me, his underpaid (but rapidly less so) assistant.
"See?" he said, holding the position. "The hips are locked. It's too rigid. It doesn't allow for the fluidity required for a pivot during Q&A."
I walked a slow circle around him, as if appraising a sculpture. My inner monologue was screaming. He's paying you enough to buy a car. Nod and say it looks powerful.
But a strange sense of professional duty, or perhaps just the sheer absurdity of the situation, took over. I channeled my inner theatre director.
"Try widening your stance just a little," I heard myself say. "Might lower your center of gravity. Make it look more... grounded. Less like you're about to be knocked over by a strong gust of wind."
He adjusted his feet. "Better," he murmured. "More stable."
"And maybe," I ventured, "instead of the hands on the hips—the 'Wonder Woman'—try crossing your arms? But loosely. Not defensive. More... contemplatively assertive."
He unfolded his arms and recrossed them, this time with a more relaxed drape. He looked in the window, studying his reflection.
"Yes," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "This has a more... inclusive authority. It says 'I command the room, but I am open to the collective genius.' The collaborative sovereignty!"
He held the new, "Chloe-approved" stance. He looked, I had to admit, incredibly commanding. And also completely ridiculous.
"Excellent," he pronounced. "The energy is realigned." He checked his watch. "Two minutes to meeting. I must integrate this new configuration."
He closed his eyes and began his breathing exercises, now with the "collaborative sovereignty" arm cross.
I slipped out of the office, returning to my desk just as the department heads began to file into the conference room. Brenda from Marketing gave me a tight, nervous smile.
A moment later, Alexander swept past my desk. He didn't look at me. But as he passed, he paused for a fraction of a second.
"The feedback was... adequate, Miss Chen."
Then he was gone, entering the conference room. Through the glass wall, I saw him take his seat at the head of the table. But before he did, he paused, standing behind his chair. His feet were planted. His arms were crossed, just so.
He'd struck the pose one last time, for good luck.
I sat back in my chair, a bizarre mix of mortification and pride washing over me. I was no longer just an assistant who found lost paperclips and sourced mystical wood. I was now the official coach to the CEO's pre-meeting power stance.
My life had reached a new tier of surreal. And the truly terrifying part? I was starting to get good at it.