FYI: I Hate You

The day Lillian Stewart finally got her own office was also the day she vowed to hate Oliver Hollingsworth forever.

Well, not forever-forever. That would be petty. Maybe just until menopause.

The office was barely more than a glorified closet, tucked between the breakroom and a suspiciously loud wall vent, but it was hers. After three years of fetching oat milk lattes and proofreading footnotes about 19th-century dental practices, she’d earned it. The email from HR said Junior Editor, but the plaque on her new door just said Editor, which, in her opinion, was the universe acknowledging her worth.

Now she was in the breakroom, basking in the hum of the overachieving Keurig machine and the glow of mild triumph, stirring sugar into her tea like it was victory confetti.

“You’re grinning like someone who just got promoted or slept with their landlord for a rent discount,” said Jane, her best friend and occasional enabler.

Jane was an editorial assistant with a talent for writing passive-aggressive emails and a collection of cardigans that could start their own cult. She leaned against the counter, chewing on a protein bar that looked suspiciously like a granola hostage situation.

“I got the closet,” Lillian said, holding up her mug like a toast.

Jane squealed.

“The one next to the vent that sounds like Darth Vader having an asthma attack?”

“That’s the one. It’s mine now. All 57 glorious square feet of editorial power.”

“Look at you! So official. So cramped. So alone.” She smirked.

“Now all you need is a steamy office romance to complete the publishing fantasy.”

Lillian snorted. “Please. My love life is a Victorian ghost story. Dull, haunted, and full of longing stares.”

Jane was about to reply when the door creaked open and in walked Oliver Hollingsworth.

The air shifted. Not dramatically, but enough to notice—like someone opened a window in the middle of a gossipy conversation.

He was holding a coffee mug and a manuscript, and somehow managed to make both seem like they were accessories in a brooding men’s cologne ad.

He glanced at them. Not rudely, but like he’d walked in on woodland creatures trying to discuss philosophy.

“Good morning,” Jane offered cheerfully.

He nodded. “Morning.”

Lillian just raised an eyebrow and sipped her tea like it was spiked with judgment.

Oliver walked to the coffee machine, ignoring the sad state of the communal sugar packets and the awkward silence that followed him. As he turned to leave, he paused—manuscript still in hand.

“Lillian Stewart, right?”

She blinked. “Yes?”

He held up the manuscript. “Your pitch on Ashes of Morning. Interesting. A little ambitious.”

Jane shot her a look that said be cool, don’t throw your mug.

“Ambitious how?” Lillian asked, voice calm but eyes narrowing like a cat tracking a fly.

“It’s just…” He gave that faint half-smile, the one that suggested he had thoughts and a very particular way he liked to deliver them—usually uninvited. “I think your angle underestimates the complexity of the prose. You might want to simplify your analysis for the audience.”

She stared. Jane actually paused mid-chew.

“It’s not that it’s bad,” Oliver added quickly. “Just... lofty. New editors often go overboard. You’ll learn.”

And then he left, casual as anything, as if he hadn’t just flung a condescending bomb into the middle of her confidence parade.

The silence he left behind was so thick you could spread it on toast.

Jane turned slowly, wide-eyed. “Did he just ‘you’ll learn’ you?”

“I think he did,” Lillian said, voice low and dangerous.

“Wow.”

“Yep.”

“Want me to trip him in the hallway?”

“I love you,” Lillian said.

Five minutes later, she was back in her office, signing into Austen Anonymous, her favorite little digital escape. There, she was LizzyB, literary snarker extraordinaire, and she didn’t have to deal with real-life Mr. Darcys who didn’t have the decency to evolve past Chapter 15.

Naturally, FitzWill had just posted.

FitzWill: “I just witnessed a man explain Persuasion like he discovered it in a cave. Send help or brandy.”

LizzyB: “Brandy’s in the mail. Also, I may have murdered someone at work. Not legally. Just emotionally.”

FitzWill: “Proud of you already.”

She smiled. Her day was turning around.

Until it wasn’t.

The office had mostly cleared out by 6:45—editors trickling off like overworked shadows, leaving behind only the sound of printers wheezing and keyboards muttering their last gasps. Lillian stayed late to write up a fresh draft of her pitch. Not because of him, obviously. She just had… pride. And standards. And a strong desire to set fire to the first version and send the ashes to Oliver's inbox with a sticky note that said "lofty this."

She stepped into the hallway, arms full of papers, bag slung over her shoulder, only to find him standing at the elevator, waiting.

Perfect.

He looked up as the elevator dinged. His expression was unreadable—which, she’d decided, was code for mildly judgmental.

“Late night?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him. “Guess I was just being... ambitious.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that made elevators feel smaller.

“I wasn’t criticizing you,” he said. “Well—I was. But not maliciously.”

“Oh, well as long as it wasn’t maliciously,” she said brightly. “I love being condescended to with a smile.”

The elevator doors slid open. He held them.

She stepped in.

He followed.

They stood on opposite sides, tension thick enough to staple.

Oliver cleared his throat.

“You’re clearly passionate. That’s good. But passion doesn’t always mean clarity.”

“And clarity doesn’t mean you get to rewrite other people’s work in your head,” she snapped, before she could stop herself.

He looked over at her—really looked this time. A flicker of something passed between them, something that might have been surprise or irritation… or interest. God help her.

The elevator chimed.

They stepped out in silence.

“I’ll send you my notes,” he said, without looking back.

She didn’t answer.

But as he walked away, she muttered under her breath, “Maybe attach a translation guide next time.”

He didn’t turn around, but she swore she saw his shoulders shake—just barely.

Lillian exhaled sharply, adjusting the strap of her bag, and marched toward the parking lot. She refused to think about how broad his back was or how annoying his voice was or how maybe, maybe, she didn’t entirely hate how his stupid smirk made her feel.

This was war.

Or worse… professional development.