II.
The next morning, Tifa stares at herself in the bathroom mirror.
She went to bed telling herself she wouldn't chicken out. She told herself to hold onto the feeling of utter animosity she had when she received Cloud Strife's last email. She wouldn't allow herself to sleep it off—she couldn't, even though that's always been her inclination. She's slept off too many of his emails, went to work the next day rejuvenated and rebuilt and hopeful she'd do better only to be eventually broken down again.
No. Not this time. She won't allow it. She takes a deep breath and exhales it, glancing at her outfit hanging on the door and the banquet of cosmetics laying atop her counter. She put everything out before going to bed so she could be assaulted by her previous resolve. She even took out her phone to reread his email.
She hasn't told the girls that her meeting was happening so quickly. She'd…see how it went, first. Then she'd report back—either in tears or triumph. She doesn't look too closely at the likelihood of the tears outweighing the triumph.
Instead, she examines the different palettes of eyeshadow. She's given herself ample time to ready her look. She reaches forward and begins the process.
By the time she slips on her heels and walks out her apartment door, she's earlier than she anticipated. She'll get to her office by 8:15. Then what'll she do? Pace? Fidget? Bite off her lipstick? She takes the tube and places it in her purse, just in case she needs a touch-up before the meeting.
When she sets her bag down in her office, she tries to settle in. She boots up her computer, and she glances at the pictures standing up along the border of her desk. She has a picture of her graduation from university, her, Jessie, Yuffie, and Aerith posing with wide, terribly happy smiles. She has a picture of her and her dad—one at Christmas, and one on her twenty-fifth birthday after she had been promoted to Senior Executive.
She glances over her extraneous items that sit around her desktop monitor and keyboard. Her sticky note pad, her metal pen holder, her chocobo paperweight, and the vase at the end that holds a single stargazer lily from earlier in the week when Aerith brought her a surprise lunch.
It's beginning to wilt, she thinks, noticing the slight droop in the petals. Just like my position.
She imagines how long it might take her to pack up all her belongings in plastic tubs. Probably less than an hour. She nearly laughs. Less than an hour to pack up her entire five years.
At 8:55 am, she gives herself one more glance over, swipes her lips with another unnecessary layer of color, straightens her skirt, and heads out the door. She walks down the hallway to the elevator and hits the button for the top floor. The buzz of her nerves are the only thing to keep her company during the long trip up.
His office is the only thing that encompasses the top floor. The elevator doors slide open to present a stark white hallway that is ten feet of dread, unfolding into a space with a handful of black and white painted wooden chairs. The secretary's desk is sleek and sharp, matching the black and white aesthetic with an extra shine from the glassy bordering of quartz along the edges.
The woman looks up at Tifa's approach. She's wearing a tight, red dress, her blonde hair pinned up in a severe bun, a lock of bangs falling across one side of her face. Her eyes are shrewd as they look Tifa up and down, and Tifa thinks she's gorgeous and intimidating. Of course she is, she thinks. Only the most beautiful, competent employees for Cloud Strife.
"Tifa Lockhart to see Mr. Strife? I have a 9 am appointment."
The secretary nods once, and Tifa notices her nameplate. Scarlet Dagger. Tifa blinks. She certainly matches it.
"Of course, Ms. Lockhart. I'll let Mr. Strife know you're here. If you'll have a seat, he'll be with you momentarily."
Tifa turns to take a seat in a stiff chair, glancing around. The walls are decorated with portraits of Midgar, when it was first being built, when it was half finished, and the full, completed look. Different pieces of machinery are used as decor between the portraits, with large gears utilized in the tramway, and pieces of metal sheeting that are used for the plates in different sectors.
It is a room full of white, black, gray, and glassy green. Tifa shifts around in her seat, finding herself increasingly uncomfortable.
At 9 am on the dot, Scarlet says something into the receiver of her phone. She indicates to Tifa.
"Mr. Strife will see you, now."
Tifa stands, readjusts her skirt out of habit, and heads to the wide, ominous office doors. His name is enameled into the glass. The double doors are as wide as a cave entrance, and it does nothing to alleviate Tifa's anxiety.
The literal belly of the beast, she thinks. I wish I brought my fighting gloves.
Tifa heaves one door open and slips into the office.
On first impression, it surprises her. It is not as stark or sterile as the waiting area outside. The walls are the same bleached white, but the tiled floor is a deep grey, marbled with streaks of cream and flecks of black. His desk is large and oversized, but it is dark brown and wooden. The lines remain modern, with the top of it a thick slab and the sides straight like curtains, kissing the floor without any open space underneath.
There is one accent wall that is an indulgent forest green, and the wall behind him is made of pure glass, overlooking the plates of Midgar below and the expanse of Gaia outside the border of the city.
The room is earthy, nearly warm with the colors, facing the northeast with the sun just grazing the edge of the window. The morning sunlight filters in and brightens the space with a soft glow, and Tifa pauses for a moment to admire it.
It doesn't help with the cold sweat Tifa's dealing with, but at least it won't feel like a doctor's visit as she gets ripped to pieces.
"Miss Lockhart," Cloud Strife says, gesturing in front of him. "Please, take a seat."
He looks exactly like the picture on Jessie's phone. He's wearing a charcoal grey suit, his jacket fitted in an annoyingly well-tailored hug along his arms. A white dress shirt is tucked underneath, and a neat, red tie cuts a line down his torso.
Him sitting in an overpowering, leather office chair with the backdrop of Midgar and the terrain of Gaia behind him, eclipsed by the morning sun, makes him seem almost godly. Tifa grits her teeth and walks forward, tensing up her stomach in preparation.
She takes one of the two plushly upholstered seats in front of him. She immediately sinks into it and she readjusts, perching on the edge. Her skirt rises just as Yuffie said it would, and Tifa curls her hands to keep from tugging it back down.
It doesn't seem to matter. Cloud Strife's stare is expressionless. It almost seems bored and apathetic, as if this meeting is just another monotonous requirement he has to resolve.
"I believe there is the matter of your resignation to discuss," he says.
She's not sure what she expected his tone to be or what his voice to sound like. It's raspier than she imagined, and it's not as deep. It hits her again that he is only one year older than her.
"Yes," she says. She crosses one leg over the other, clasping her hands together and resting them on her knee. "My resignation."
"Have you received another offer from a different company?"
Tifa frowns. "No. I have not yet applied for other positions."
"Then why resign from SOLDIER? As you stated in your email, you were here at it's conception. SOLDIER was a mere start up company when you began your work. What do we now lack that you require to stay?"
Tifa's eyebrow twitches. Did he not understand her email? Was she not clear enough? She thought it was straightforward. As straightforward as bashing his head with a cooking pan.
Remember, he doesn't frighten you anymore, she tells herself. Your time here is over.
Tifa swallows and takes a breath. "It is not what the company lacks. It is what it has...attained." She stares at him, and he stares back. "I believe your managerial style and my work style clash too significantly for me to be effective. And, as you had written in your last email, you are of the opinion that my designs have lately been substandard."
The silence that follows is tense and thick. It isn't even broken by the air conditioning unit. Tifa wants desperately to look away from him, but she steels herself.
Eventually, he grabs one of his three pens from the holder on his desk and he positions it over a notepad.
"As I also stated in my email," he says. "You have another chance before demotion. Why resign without utilizing that chance?"
How does he not get it? her mind screams.
"I'm afraid you aren't understanding," she says, trying to keep her voice even. "I want to resign because I can no longer work under you. You have subjected me to demeaning emails without once talking to me personally about your concerns. You have not given me input, only criticisms over why you find my designs wanting." She finally breaks the stare, glancing at the corner of his desk. "I am not beneficial to this company if I cannot showcase my talents or see eye to eye with you, Mr. Strife. Another chance is not going to change anything. The risk of demotion does not increase or improve my creativity. In fact, it's done the opposite." She pauses, tightening her hands. "So, if you would please respect my decision, I would like to formally announce my resignation."
He taps his pen against the notepad, staring at her. His eyes are too blue, she thinks. They are like bleeding, blue ink stains on your favorite white shirt, ruining it forever.
"Miss Lockhart, I am not sure you realize what a significant asset you are to this company. Your intimate knowledge of SOLDIER is unattainable elsewhere. Your colleagues are not adequate to fill your position if you resign. So tell me," he says, leaning forward on his desk. "What do you require to stay? Increased salary? Benefits or perks?"
Tifa stares at him, her eyes feeling like they're bugging out of their sockets. Her mouth opens slightly.
"I'm sorry," she hears herself say. "Yesterday, you threatened demotion. Now, you're offering a raise?"
At her response, she continues to be ensconced in bafflement because Cloud Strife's perpetually expressionless demeanor flickers. It is a brief thing, so tiny it might not even be real.
The corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk. It's hardly there, but it's present.
"Will that be enough to inspire you, instead?" he asks.
She feels her fingernails digging into her palm. Her teeth cut into her lip.
"What will inspire me is having any other boss who isn't you."
His smirk doesn't leave. Her eyes hook on it, and it is smug and condescending and superior. Does he think she can't refuse him? Does he think this is a joke?
"C'mon, Miss Lockhart. You won't ever be paid any more than you will be here. You won't have the renown. If I let you resign, you'll be known as the woman who didn't have the grit or passion to keep up with the demands of the fastest growing company in the Eastern Continent." He pushes the point of his pen into the paper of the notepad. "Who would want you after that?"
A blur of red lines her vision. The sudden burst of it is so potent, it makes her lose her breath.
"Are you kidding me?" she whispers in a harsh murmur. She doesn't care anymore. She truly doesn't care anymore. It's all burned up by his smirk and his overly arrogant authority and—and—
"No, Miss Lockhart, I'm not kidding."
"Okay, Mr. Strife," she says quietly. "If you want me to stay so badly, you're going to have to do better than that."
He raises a brow. Another flicker of expression. A smirk and an eyebrow.
"For one, you're going to have to open your mind to my creative values and vision for this company. More communication between departments. More company meetings. And you're going to have to collaborate with me."
He waits a beat, as if pondering the irrational needs of a child. "Fine."
"You're going to have to let me have free reign with the budget."
His eyes narrow slightly before smoothing over. "I will only allow reasonable requests."
"And I need a raise," she says, glaring. "Twenty percent."
At that, the smirk flies off his face. "That's impossible. It would be five percent at most."
"Fifteen."
They stare at one another, her maintaining a glare, and Cloud once again expressionless. Tifa feels the fire that coalesces in her abdomen run up her throat. She's close. She sees what she wants, but there's no way she'll get it, not with him in the throne.
"Ten."
She almost cracks. She can't believe he's even entertaining it.
"Twelve and a half, and that's final."
He gives nothing away except for the white knuckling of his fingers wrapped around his pen.
"Twelve and a half," he says, and she doesn't think she imagines how hard it is for him to utter the number. "Done."
Tifa's entire being straightens. She waits for the rug to be pulled out from underneath her, the just kidding, did you think it would be that easy? But he's as perfectly statuesque as his picture in the magazines.
It feels too good to be true. Not with how he runs business. Tifa doesn't allow herself to fall for it so easily. Not Cloud Strife. Not SOLDIER.
"I need a written agreement," she says, and she tries to keep her voice from raising in hysteria. "By the end of the work day, today, or I'll resign."
He continues watching her, and how does he do that, making her feel like a bug in a jar?
"Is my word not enough?"
There it is. The tell. He isn't going to honor it. Of course he isn't.
Asshole.
Her plan sprints through her mind. She knows what she must do, and the roots of adrenaline imbed themselves inside of her.
Tifa stands, and she doesn't straighten her skirt. The lacy edge of her stockings rim the bottom of it, and her cheeks are flaring, and she must look like she's crazed because she feels crazed, and when she opens her mouth, she won't believe what she does until later.
"No, it's not enough."
She runs her fingers through her hair, mussing it up into curls of tangles. She pulls off her blazer and scrunches it up against her side, wringing it into a twist of wrinkles.
"But I'll tell you what is enough," she continues, looking up to see Cloud still watching her with a careful blankness. Always blank and expressionless. It feeds her ire, and it is just what she needs. "A written contract." She steps up to his desk and places her palms on it, splaying her fingers. Her blazer is like a wad of paper under her hands, and she leans forward, hovering over him.
"Because if you don't, I will not only resign. I will notify HR about our friendly meeting and how our prestigious, young, up-and-coming CEO attempted to coerce me into keeping my job only if I performed sexual favors in return."
Cloud Strife blinks, and his lips begin to thin.
"His immaculate record will be blotted with a damning complaint from a subordinate, and we all know what happens when an executive is accused—even falsely accused. Your character will be forever questioned. Did he? Didn't he? There aren't any cameras in your office, and it will be my word against yours."
Cloud finally stands, also leaning across his desk. His eyes drill into her own, and she finally sees the simmering. The deep, deep heating geyser beginning to roil underneath the surface.
"You wouldn't dare defy me."
Her hair nearly spikes up as much as his from the words. Her skin crawls.
"I would dare," she hisses. "Because why would I, a loyal SOLDIER employee, who's spent her entire career building good standing with her managers and colleagues, come out to admit that the new CEO, one of the most powerful men in the world, tried to assault her? It certainly wouldn't be for money with the new raise she's getting. It wouldn't be because he was coercing her into staying an employee at the company."
"You wouldn't be able to get away with it," he says. His voice is dangerously low. It slips down her skin like beads of sweat.
"I would," she says. The rush of it fills her like a waterfall. She leans forward further. "Because who would believe a powerful, arrogant male who thinks he can get whatever he wants over a subordinate female with everything to lose?"
They stare at one another. Cloud's jaw slowly begins buckling. A fluttering pink blush of anger expands across the ridge of his nose.
The triumph of the moment floods her like a hit of morphine. The euphoria is a head rush. She stands up straight and runs her thumb across the bottom of her lip, dragging it towards the line of her jaw. She reaches forward with her stained hand and swipes the pad of it across his upper lip. Cloud Strife doesn't move, the blush across his nose darkening to match the burgundy of her lipstick that now paints his mouth.
She settles away from him, slipping her arms back into her blazer that is ruffled and in need of an iron press. Her hair is out of place. Her skirt is indecently high on her thighs.
And her face is flushed in fury, triumph, and to the outsider looking in, shameful embarrassment.
"I'll need that contract by 5 pm, today. No later. One minute after and I'll call Cissnei in HR and tell her every single detail of our meeting, Mr. Strife."
His eyes shine at her with what she thinks might be a sheen of hatred, just like hers, reflected back in his inky blue eyes. She answers it with the biggest smile she can muster, and she sees one of his hands tighten into a fist.
With that, she turns on her heel and walks out of his office. She makes eye contact with Scarlet as she treks by, and she sees her eye catch onto her smudged lip and her wrinkled clothes. Tifa doesn't have to try to express the shock that fills her face as she turns her head away, hoping that her appearance and her expression is enough to begin rumors.
When the elevator doors close on her, she sees her reflection in the pristine metal plating of the door. Her hair is fluffed as if she had been blasted by a whirlwind. Her clothes are askew at every angle. She sees the smudged line of lipstick trailing down to the corner of her mouth. Her hands are shaking, she realizes belatedly, and she goes to tug down the bottom of her skirt. She takes one deep breath, then another.
She did it. She went through with it. She folds over at her hip and runs her hands over her face.
What in Gaia did she just do?
A/N; So, I wanted to talk about something here at the end, as I have received a few comments on FFN about it and would like to address it.
While what happens at the end of this chapter is a bit controversial, especially in this day and age, I just wanted to address that I by no means meant to shed a bad light on Tifa's character in this, it was purely for the drama, to blast the tension, and to create more complexity. Hear me out when I say that Tifa is such an awesome character, and I love her to pieces. I did not want her to come off as OOC, and I wanted to make her reaction a blaze of passion and impulse that was deeply regrettable right after the fact. So I hope most of you continue with this story! I know this bout of workplace inequality/false accusation may turn some people off. Hopefully that is not the case, but I completely understand if it does!