The Bravest Little Lamb

1 My boyfriend Ryan's childhood friend, Poppy, calls herself “the bravest little lamb.” When she wires money to a vendor, she enters the wrong account number three times, freezing our company’s assets. She just giggles and claps. “My mistake! But I only got two digits wrong! I’m the best little lamb!” When she sends the wrong design files to the printers, $300,000 worth of materials are scrapped. She makes a fist. “Even though everyone has to work overtime to fix it, I’m still the most amazing little lamb!” I’ve talked to Ryan about it. Repeatedly. He just says, “It’s a learning experience, Sophie. She’ll get there.” It all came to a head at the dinner with our biggest potential client. Poppy secretly switched my carefully planned menu. She ordered mango smoothies, panna cotta, and mozzarella sticks. It was corporate suicide. I immediately overrode her order, switched back to the original menu, and managed to land the fifty-million-dollar deal. Afterward, she burst into tears and ran to Ryan. “I ordered all by myself, Ryan-bear! All by myself! I was the bravest lamb!” “Why did she change my menu? Why did she steal my hard work?” “Lamb good! People bad!” To “compensate” her, Ryan decided to promote her to Project Director. I refused. Poppy ran off, got blackout drunk, was assaulted by strangers, and, unable to cope, jumped from a bridge. Ryan blamed me for all of it. On my birthday, he had me tied to a chair. “You did this,” he hissed, his face a mask of rage. “You took her from me. Now you can join her.” He force-fed me the entire catering order, twenty full entrees, until my stomach ruptured and I died. …Then I woke up. I was back in my office, on the day of the client dinner. This time, I’ll let the bravest little lamb do her very best. “Sophie, sweetie! I’m heading to The Sovereign Steakhouse to check on the private room. You just finish up and meet us there, okay?” Poppy’s voice, sickly sweet, chirped from my doorway. I looked up, my heart hammering. I saw her face, so full of naive, weaponized innocence. It was real. I was back. Last time, at this exact moment, I’d just found out she’d called the restaurant and changed my menu to something you’d serve at a six-year-old’s birthday party. I’d intercepted it. I’d called the manager, fixed the menu, and saved the deal. Poppy had cried. Ryan had tried to give her my job. And then… I looked at Poppy. She’d been with us for a year. In that year, she had frozen our accounts, cost us $300,000 in trashed materials, and alienated half the staff. And every single time, she’d just tilt her head and say, “But I’m the bravest, bestest lamb!” And Ryan would just laugh and say, “She’s still learning, Sophie. She’ll get there.” I wouldn't let her be director. I wouldn't let her destroy the company I’d built with Ryan from a college dorm room. Our company. Our eight years of work. So she went to a bar, got drunk, and never came home. Ryan, my Ryan, who I’d starved with and celebrated with... he found me on my birthday. He didn't yell. He was terrifyingly calm, just like he was when he found out Poppy was dead. I thought our ten years together, our shared history, meant something. He tied me up. He looked at me with dead eyes. “It’s all your fault, Sophie. You were jealous. You couldn’t stand that she was getting ahead.” “You’re a monster. And you owe her.” He smiled, and then he started feeding me. The memory of my stomach tearing, the agonizing pressure… I gripped my phone, my knuckles white. “Sophie, I’m going to the airport to get Mr. Sterling. I’ll just take Poppy with me.” Ryan’s voice pulled me back. He was at the door, his hand resting casually on Poppy’s shoulder. “You head straight to the steakhouse. Sterling really likes you. Don’t be late.” Poppy leaned into his touch, then peeked around him to make a face at me. A flash of pure, childish spite. “Yeah, Sophie, don’t be late! Ryan-bear and I are off!” Ryan just chuckled and squeezed her hand. Last time, I thought that was just his "big brother" act. Now I see it for what it was. I forced the rage down. I looked up. I smiled. “Okay. You two drive safe.” If Ryan wants to burn his own company to the ground to play house with his little lamb, who am I to stop him? 2 I got my hair blown out and arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes early. The Sovereign’s private room was all dark wood, leather, and quiet, old money. The thought of what was about to be served here made me want to laugh. A few minutes later, Ryan walked in with Mr. Sterling, the CEO of Apex Solutions. “Mr. Sterling, so glad you could make it,” I said, shaking his hand. We exchanged pleasantries. Sterling was tough, but fair. He seemed impressed. And then the door slammed open. Poppy burst in, a bag of Doritos in her hand, crunching so loudly you could hear it across the room. Silence. Mr. Sterling’s eyebrow twitched. Poppy’s outfit was a war crime. Hot pink eyeshadow. A giant, matching pink bow in her hair. Ripped jeans so shredded they were barely pants, and—I am not kidding—rubber flip-flops. Her shoulder bag was covered in jangling blind-box toys. Last time, I’d seen her in the lobby and forced her into a spare blazer I kept in my car. She’d complained to Ryan for a week. This time, I just watched. “Mr. Sterling! Hi! I’m Poppy!” she chirped, holding out a hand covered in orange cheese dust. Mr. Sterling stared at her offered hand for two full seconds before giving it a single, reluctant tap. “A pleasure,” he said, his voice clipped. “Ryan, this is your new… assistant?” “She’s… full of energy, sir,” Ryan stammered. “You’re so right!” Poppy beamed. “I’m the bravest little lamb!” Mr. Sterling looked completely baffled. “...Lamb? Is her last name Lamb?” Ryan’s face went red. “A nickname, sir. Just a nickname. Please, let’s sit.” I deliberately hung back, chatting with Sterling’s assistant about the market, letting Ryan and Poppy go first. Just as I’d planned, Poppy, in her infinite, self-absorbed energy, bounced ahead and plopped right down at the head of the table. She then patted the seat next to her. “Come on, everyone! Sit down, don’t be shy!” I watched, fascinated. That seat was for Mr. Sterling. Ryan’s face tightened. He was about to speak. I cut him off. My voice was sharp. “Poppy. That’s Mr. Sterling’s seat. Move.” She hated when I gave her orders. As predicted, she pouted. “But Ryan-bear,” she whined, looking at him. “This seat is right under the AC vent! It’s the best spot!” Ryan, God help him, still tried to be diplomatic. “Poppy, come on. Mr. Sterling is our guest. Let him have the seat.” His voice was so gentle, it had no effect. Mr. Sterling, a true professional, just waved his hand. “Please, please. It’s fine. Young people don’t stand on ceremony. Let the girl sit where she’s comfortable.” It was a polite dismissal. His smile was made of ice. 3 Poppy, however, heard only permission. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Sterling! You’re the best!” She even stuck her tongue out at Ryan. He just shook his head, a helpless, doting smile on his face. I almost felt sorry for Mr. Sterling, who was now seated awkwardly to the side, his entire posture stiff with offense. He actually let her sit there. My God. Last time, I’d forced her to change, so she’d been late and this whole seating disaster never happened. She was full of surprises. The waiter, trying to ignore the breach of protocol, began the service. I picked up my water glass, hiding my smile. Showtime. The first course arrived under a silver cloche. The waiter lifted it with a flourish. A plate of... sweetened condensed milk buns. Mr. Sterling, who had just picked up his fork, froze. Ryan’s smile twitched. “Ah. An amuse-bouche! Just a little something to start, Mr. Sterling. The real food is coming.” The next plate came out. And the next. Coca-Cola chicken wings. French fries. Mac and cheese bites. Creamed corn. A parade of sugary, starchy, deep-fried beige. Mr. Sterling’s face had gone from mildly annoyed to thunderous. He leaned back, folding his arms. He didn't touch a thing. Ryan was visibly sweating. He flagged down the waiter. “What... what is the main course?” The waiter replied, “A mango smoothie bowl, sir. Shall I bring it out?” “What?!” Ryan’s voice cracked. He looked at Sterling’s stony face and jumped up. “There’s been a mistake! A terrible mistake! I’ll go speak to the chef right now!” “No mistake!” Poppy chirped, beaming. “I changed the menu, Ryan-bear! It’s a surprise!” She turned to Mr. Sterling, her eyes wide with expectation. “Mr. Sterling, these are all my favorite foods! I ordered them just for you!” I had to give her credit. She was so stupid, it was almost performance art. She genuinely thought she was being creative, that this titan of industry was tired of “boring” steak and lobster. She didn't get it. You don't sign a fifty-million-dollar deal over mac and cheese. This wasn't about food. It was about respect. Ryan knew. He knew how bad this was. “Poppy, be quiet,” he hissed. She immediately teared up. Mr. Sterling’s assistant, Graves, had seen enough. He slammed his fork down. He stood up. “Mr. Ryan. Is this a joke? This is how your company does business? You serve our CEO... this?” He gestured at the table. “Is there even a hundred dollars' worth of food here?” “What’s the matter? Is your company going bankrupt?” 4 Graves was Sterling’s attack dog. If he was this angry, Sterling was furious. Ryan knew it, too. He was bowing. “Mr. Sterling, please, it’s a misunderstanding. She’s new. She... she doesn’t understand corporate etiquette. Please don't hold it against her. I'll re-order. Immediately.” Graves laughed. “'New'? Is it your company’s policy to let 'new' people sit at the head of the table? Or is she the only one you've got?” This was a direct insult to Poppy. She puffed out her chest. “What’s wrong with being new? I’m the bravest little lamb!” The room went so quiet I could hear the ice melting in my water glass. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from howling. Mr. Sterling let out a sound... a choked cough. His face was purple. Graves just stared. He looked... bewildered. “...The bravest... lamb?” He turned to Ryan, his voice shaking with either rage or suppressed laughter. “Ryan. Are you well? In a meeting of this magnitude, you bring... this... child?” “Are you trying to insult Mr. Sterling, or is this a hostile takeover bid via pure, uncut cringe?!” This was bad. Apex Solutions was the industry leader. We needed this deal. I’d set it up myself, leveraging a connection my uncle had. Ryan couldn’t even get in the same room with this man without me. “Poppy, shut up!” Ryan was finally, truly panicked. He turned to Sterling, almost prostrating himself. “Mr. Sterling, it’s my fault. All my fault. Please, give me one more chance. I’ll make it right.” He shot a desperate look at Poppy. “Poppy! The gift! The Pappy Van Winkle! Get it! Now!” Poppy, startled by his tone, looked confused. “What? The bourbon?” “Yes, the bourbon I told you to bring! Get it!” Poppy flinched. “But... you said that was for after we signed the deal...” “Just get it, Poppy! It’s all for Mr. Sterling!” She reluctantly fumbled with her bag and pulled out a beautiful, hand-carved wooden box. Ryan’s professional smile snapped back on. “Mr. Sterling, I heard you were a connoisseur. This is a 23-Year Pappy Van Winkle. A fifty-thousand-dollar bottle. It took me months to find. Please, accept it as a token of our esteem.” At the mention of "Pappy 23," Sterling’s posture relaxed. Just slightly. A bottle like that... it was a serious gift. Ryan, beaming, undid the polished brass latch on the box. And we all stared.

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