Micromanaged?

By late afternoon, I was holed up in my small office, surrounded by a mountain of paperwork and a computer screen that looked like a battlefield of spreadsheets and production schedules. Tomorrow's reality show was looming over me like a dark cloud, and I was racing against the clock to make sure everything was perfect or at least not a complete disaster.

My office was modest well, modest by corporate heiress standards, anyway. A window that let in just enough sunlight to make me aware of how long I'd been stuck in here, a desk that was almost too big for the space, and shelves filled with random binders I'd never looked at. The walls were adorned with generic art that screamed, "Look, I'm a productive adult!" A motivational quote framed on one wall read: Success is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration. I was definitely in the perspiration stage right now.

[You know,] the system piped up, [if you fail tomorrow, not only will you lose the mission, but you'll also have to deal with your parents' disappointment. Again.]

"Thanks for the pep talk," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Very motivational."

[I'm just saying. You seem to enjoy putting yourself in positions where failure is highly likely. It's almost like you crave the chaos.]

"I don't crave chaos. I'm a victim of circumstance."

[Oh, sure. Circumstance.]

Before I could retort, the door to my office creaked open, and in walked the last two people I wanted to see when I was buried in work: my parents. My father, dressed in his usual expensive suit that probably cost more than my rent, and my mother, looking effortlessly put together as always, like she'd just stepped off the set of a magazine shoot.

"It's time to go home, darling," my mother said, her voice dripping with that passive-aggressive sweetness only she could pull off. "You've been at this all day."

My father, ever the man of few words, gave me a look that said, Wrap it up, kid.

"Uh, yeah, about that…" I swiveled in my chair, gesturing to the mess that was my desk. "I'm kind of in the middle of prepping for the show. You know, the one that starts tomorrow?"

They exchanged glances, clearly unimpressed by my sense of urgency. My mother smiled, the kind of smile that said she was about to make me feel like an idiot. "Of course, the show. How could we forget?"

"Well, considering you didn't tell me it was starting tomorrow, I'd say pretty easily."

My father raised an eyebrow. "We assumed you knew."

"You assumed I knew?" I stared at them in disbelief. "How was I supposed to know when no one bothered to tell me?"

"We told Felix," my mother said, as if that explained everything. "And since you're working with him, we thought it unnecessary to repeat ourselves."

"Yeah, because communication is so overrated," I muttered, leaning back in my chair. "Just toss the responsibility on me and hope I magically absorb information through osmosis."

My father gave me a look that could freeze lava. "Amara, stop being dramatic."

"Dramatic? I'm sorry, did you just say I'm being dramatic? You dropped a reality show on my lap and didn't even have the courtesy to tell me when it was going to air!"

"You're capable, darling," my mother chimed in, ever the queen of backhanded compliments. "You've been handling things so well lately. We didn't think you needed to be micromanaged."

"Micromanaged?" I repeated, incredulous. "I'm literally buried in paperwork because you didn't micromanage enough! I've got twenty-four hours to make sure this show doesn't implode, and—" I paused, narrowing my eyes at them. "Wait a second. Is this some kind of test?"

They exchanged another one of those silent glances, and I knew I'd hit the nail on the head. Of course, it was a test. Everything with them was a test. It was like they couldn't go five minutes without seeing how well I could juggle a flaming chainsaw while blindfolded.

"You're always testing me," I grumbled. "Like I'm some kind of lab rat in an obstacle course."

"You're our daughter," my father said, as if that justified every absurd challenge they threw my way. "We want to see you succeed."

"Oh, well, thanks for that. Nothing says 'I love you' like putting me through emotional boot camp."

"Amara, darling, you're more than capable of handling this," my mother said, her tone annoyingly soft. "You've already shown us you can take charge. Look at how well you've done with the reality show idea."

"Yes, and I would have done even better if I knew it started tomorrow!" I waved my hands at the chaos surrounding me. "But sure, I'll just pull an all-nighter and hope everything magically falls into place."

[Spoiler: it won't,] the system chimed in, ever the pessimist.

I ignored it.

"We have faith in you," my father said, clearly done with this conversation. "You'll figure it out."

"Great. I'll just add 'overcoming impossible deadlines' to my list of talents. Right next to 'dealing with parental sabotage.'"

My mother smiled again, that maddening smile that made me want to scream. "You'll thank us one day."

"Oh, I'm sure," I said dryly. "Probably right after I finish my stress-induced breakdown."

"You always did have a flair for the dramatic," my father said, already turning toward the door. "Come, it's late. Let's go home."

I stared at them, incredulous. "You can't be serious. I've got so much to do—"

"You've done enough for today," my mother said, her tone firm in that way that made it clear I wasn't getting out of this. "Come home, rest, and tackle the rest tomorrow with a fresh mind."

"A fresh mind?" I scoffed. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to wake up with a migraine the size of Felix's ego."

They didn't bother responding to that. They knew it was a losing battle.

With a sigh, I reluctantly gathered my things, throwing random papers into my bag and shutting down my computer. "Fine, but if this show blows up tomorrow, just know it's on you."

"We trust you," my father said over his shoulder as he held the door open for my mother.

"Yeah, well, I trust me too," I grumbled, "but that doesn't mean I'm not two seconds away from setting this whole place on fire."

[Tempting,] the system agreed.

As we made our way to the elevator, I couldn't help but feel like I was walking toward my doom. Tomorrow was D-day. Everything had to be perfect, or I was screwed. Not just with my parents, but with the mission.

[No pressure, though,] the system whispered. [Just your entire future and a reality show hanging in the balance. You're probably fine.]

"Shut up," I muttered as the elevator doors closed, sealing me in with the looming reality that tomorrow was going to be one hell of a day.

The ride home was predictably awkward, filled with the sound of my parents chatting about meaningless things while my brain short-circuited from all the tasks I still had to complete. By the time we pulled up to the house, I was practically vibrating with stress.

"We'll see you in the morning, darling," my mother said sweetly as I climbed out of the car. "Make sure you get plenty of rest."

"Oh, I'll rest all right," I muttered as I headed inside. "Just as soon as I finish planning an entire reality show in the span of twelve hours."

[Sounds reasonable,] the system quipped.

I shut the door behind me, sinking into the silence of the house.