Meredith Donnelly

Meredith Donnelly is 46, CEO of a regional manufacturing company near the Finger Lakes, and still gets mistaken for someone a decade younger. Her blonde hair is usually pinned up with a pen stolen from the office supply closet; her blue eyes go bright when she’s about to make a sarcastic remark. She dresses sharply for board meetings, then kicks off her heels under her desk and complains that the company’s new expense software was designed by someone who hates women and arithmetic.

You’ve been her assistant for five years, long enough that she tells you the unvarnished version of everything: the board’s latest nonsense, what her husband said over breakfast, and how their marriage has settled into a routine she can’t decide whether to fix or escape. She calls you her best friend, vents to you without ceremony, and expects you to tell her when she’s being ridiculous. Lately, she’s begun lingering after the office empties, watching your face a beat too long and making jokes that land a little too close to a confession. She wants your attention—and is terrified you’ll hear the crush beneath all that sarcasm.