Continuation from Preface & Chapter I
Chapter II - No Witnesses. No Rules.
The resounding bang startled both herself and Tamara — who was conveniently seated at her large desk, glasses perched on her nose, engrossed in an overflowing inbox of emails.
Seated. Shit, Karen thought, a pang of sharp irritation flaring through her.
If Tamara had been standing — exposed, vulnerable — Karen would have attacked immediately. But safely perched behind her polished fortress of a desk, Karen would have to go with plan B.
A tense, heavy silence descended across the room as they locked gazes — hard, hostile, sharp as daggers. The realisation hit both women at once: this was the first time in months they had been alone together without another colleague or student in sight.
Karen battled to bottle her anger, wanting nothing more than to scream expletives — but she kept it together, for now — as she confidently, almost provocatively, strutted towards the imposing desk, coming to a halt with her hands planted high on her hips.
Tamara looked on, her expression a slow, calculating mixture of disdain, intrigue, and faint bemusement. She immediately had a strong inkling as to what this unexpected intrusion was about. Since becoming romantically involved with Tom,
she’d known this day would eventually come. How it was going to unfold, however — she was less certain about.
She wouldn’t have to wait long. Within seconds, Karen set the tone for the impending clash.
"You fucking, conniving bitch, Tamara!” Karen blurted out, the words spilling in a rush, a weight lifting off her shoulders.
Raising an angular, arched eyebrow, Tamara pursed her narrow lips, doing her best to wear a mask of nonchalance — even as a jolt of indignation shot through her.
The sheer impertinence of this upstart storming into her office, uninvited and unannounced, made her blood simmer.
For a brief, fleeting second, Tamara wanted nothing more than to vault over the desk and slap Karen clean across her condescending face. But she drew a slow, measured breath instead, leaned forward, and gently closed the lid of her MacBook,
setting her black Bulgari glasses atop her messy high bun.
If Karen wanted a fight, Tamara decided, she could damn well earn it.
Toy with her. Mock her. Humiliate her. Rile her up until she’s frothing — and then, when the bitch was good and rattled, tear her apart.
“Oh, deary me,” Tamara said coolly, a crooked, mocking curve tugging at her mouth as she tilted her head in an exaggerated pout.
“Someone’s cranky.”
Karen furiously shook her head.
“I’ll give it to you, Tamara — you’re a real piece of fucking work, aren’t you...” she growled, ignoring her adversary’s infuriating, dismissive approach.
“Um, sorry, excuse me?” Tamara cut in sharply, her voice dripping with feigned innocence.
“Why have you barged into my office, unannounced? I’m actually kind of busy — maybe make an appointment next time. Or, I don’t know, send an email.”
She tossed the words out lightly, her tone cruelly casual, as if Karen’s anger was beneath her notice.
“Quit the act, Tamara. You know why I’m here,” Karen barked.
“If you think I’m going to stand by and let you steal my man from me, you’ve got another thing coming. Keep your fuckin' hands off him, you…”
Karen trailed off, frustratingly struggling in the moment to find a suitable insult.
Tamara rolled her eyes dramatically, letting out an audible sigh.
“Um, well I didn’t steal anyone, actually. Tom came onto me — end of story.
"Now if you don’t mind fucking off, I honestly don’t have the time nor patience for whatever pathetic little stunt you’re trying to pull here.”
Her tone and pitch began to sharpen.
“Don’t interrupt me again, bitch,” Karen hissed, aggressively jabbing a finger as she lunged closer to the desk.
“You’re not getting away with this. I know this is all part of some pathetic scheme because you're fucking jealous of me.
You always have been. Well, guess what, bitch — it ends fucking today. You and Tom are done.”
“Jealous of you? Ha!” Tamara screeched back, shooting to her feet, shoving her chair backwards.
“This is my fucking office, and I’ll speak when I want, bitch!
"Barging in here and making demands of me? And I can absolutely assure you — nothing is ending today.”
She wobbled her head mockingly, as if to emphasise the point.
“Stupid bitch!” Tamara spat coldly, her voice oozing with contempt, arms braced firmly at her waist in a defiant, challenging stance.
Karen’s face contorted into an unhinged scowl, her eyes narrowed, teeth flashing as she suddenly lunged across the desktop.
With a grunt of exertion, she swung wildly — her open hand glancing off the side of Tamara’s head with a dull thud — knocking the perched glasses from her messy bun, sending them clattering across the desk.
Visibly incensed by the sudden escalation from shit-talking to throwing hands, Tamara reacted instantly, instinctively lashing out. She stretched her longer arms to grab for Karen’s hair — but her fingertips barely
brushed the side of her scalp as Karen reeled back just in time.
Within seconds, their hands collided over the desk — a clumsy, frantic blur of swinging, grasping, and desperate pulling, the heavy desk frustratingly impeding their ability to fully tear into each other.
he sharp pitter-patter of frantic slaps and glancing strikes sounded as their hands connected with arms, shoulders, and chests, their blazers twisting and pulling tight across their bodies as the struggle ensued.
“Don’t touch me, fucking bitch!” Tamara squealed, her voice high and furious, as their human tug-of-war came to an abrupt halt — as quickly as it had started — both irritably staggering a few paces back.
“Come on, slut! You think I’m going to allow you to steal my man?” Karen snarled, yanking her houndstooth skirt down — the garment having ridden up scandalously high during the scuffle, exposing navy pantyhose stretched tight
across her thighs, the dimples of cellulite visible beneath the sheer fabric.
“Think I can steal your man?” Tamara sneered, her voice dripping with venom.
“Bitch, I have stolen your man — and he’s mine now.
"So, what the fuck are you gonna do about it?”
Tamara taunted, eyes flaring sharp, her mouth hooking into a razor-edged grin as she straightened the sleeves of her Ponte blazer.
To describe the tension now lingering in the room as merely “thick” would have been a gross injustice.
It hummed — a tangible, electric animosity saturating the air — as they squared off, eyes locked, neither woman flinching, neither blinking — both daring the other to make the first move.
Karen’s thoughts flickered briefly back to earlier that morning — to her conversation with Nikki, who had counselled caution, warned her not to let things spiral out of control.
But standing here now, staring at the arrogant, pompous bitch across the desk, any lingering shred of hesitation was gone.
Good, she thought grimly.
The truth was, deep down, she’d known it all along. From the second she decided to storm up here — barge into Tamara’s office uninvited — this was only ever going to end one way. Not in words. Not in apologies.
Not in reason. It was going to end in violence — a catfight.
Some pathetic part of her had clung to the idea — that she could storm in here, demand Tamara back off, order her to leave Tom alone.
But moments earlier, as the words had spilled from her mouth, Karen had known deep down it was hopeless.
Tamara wasn’t going to listen. She sure as hell wasn’t going to apologise. And she wasn’t going to back down.
And now, staring at that smug, condescending bitch, Karen realised the truth.
Neither of them wanted peace. Neither of them wanted forgiveness. They wanted to fight. And there would be no holding back.
Throughout the school day, Karen had been barely able to keep a lid on her seething emotions — anger, jealousy, and humiliation bubbling under the surface.
In every class, she’d been hopelessly distracted. Assigning silent reading, just so she could sit at her desk, staring blankly out the window, imagining this moment.
The more tame versions saw her standing tall, out-talking Tamara, cutting her down with brutal, humiliating insults, leaving her no room to strike back.
But the darker fantasies — the ones she kept replaying over and over — involved her grabbing double fists of Tamara’s thick black hair, dragging her across the carpet like a discarded plaything,
while Tamara clutched desperately at Karen’s wrists, kicking and struggling helplessly in her grip.
Her favourite had been the most obscene: the two of them locked together on a sofa, wrestling and thrashing, pulling and tearing at clothing, their bodies pressed together in a tangled, desperate struggle for dominance.
And in this fantasy, Karen always ended up victorious — as they had tumbled off the sofa to the floor, her knees pinning Tamara’s narrow hips, fingers clamped tight around her neck, nails digging into soft flesh,
repeatedly slamming her rival’s head into the carpet over and over.
The shrill clang of the school bell had snapped her back to reality — a sea of teenage faces staring up at the fifty-two-year-old teacher, blissfully unaware that their teacher had spent the entire lesson fantasising about violently fighting another staff member.
Back in the present, Karen realised things weren’t going the way she had envisaged.
Moments ago, Tamara had happily thrown hands across the desk — and Karen had assumed the natural next step would be both of them scrapping it out in the open space between the door and the desk.
But Tamara, for the moment, it seemed, had other ideas.
She wants to fight. I can see it in her eyes — so why the hell is she still planted behind the damn desk?
Equal parts bemused and confused, Karen lifted her hands in exasperation, waving them mockingly toward the ceiling before letting them slap back to her sides with a frustrated growl.
She’s playing games. Trying to get inside my head. Throw me off.
Karen’s jaw tightened as she realised she had two realistic options: charge behind the desk and risk putting herself at a disadvantage — or bait the bitch into coming to her.
Tamara stood firm, posture tilted sharp to one side, arms braced firmly at her waist in an exaggerated, taunting pose.
Karen could feel the provocation in the air even before Tamara spoke.
“What are you gawking at, you stupid bitch?” Tamara hissed, her small white teeth flashing in a sneering, mocking smile.
“You think this is some kind of joke, bitch?” Karen shot back, strangely relieved that the silence had shattered and the insults could finally fly.
Tamara sighed dramatically, tapping her fingers against her hips in mock boredom.
“Yeah, I think you’re a joke. A fucking pathetic one at that.”
Karen snorted, pressing her lips into a thin line, her tongue running along her teeth.
A fierce scowl on her face, Karen surged forward — slamming her open palms onto the desk with a violent crack.
Tamara didn’t flinch.
Her stance remained defiant, elbows flared, one heel dug lightly into the carpet, the other angled outward as her weight shifted — poised, elegant, but visibly precarious.
“Stay away from Tom, you pathetic, desperate bitch,” Karen hissed — low and deliberate — each word punching out of her like a bullet.
Even as the words spilled out, Karen knew it was pointless — she knew Tamara would never listen.
But I have to say it again. I have to at least try — if only to justify the fury boiling away inside me.
“Make me, bitch,” Tamara spat back immediately, her small white teeth flashing again in a venomous grin, their eyes locked in a staring war of pure hatred.
“Why do you think I’m here, you dense bitch?” Karen exclaimed, her voice rising to match her aggressive, agitated posture.
Tamara shuffled slightly, her stance still defiant, her posture tilted, as she gave a mock-sympathetic sigh.
“Look, I know you’re not exactly the sharpest tool in the box,” she drawled sarcastically,
“so let me explain things in a way even a complete fucking imbecile like you might understand.”
Karen’s nostrils flared as she straightened back up, clenching her fists at her sides.
“Tom left you,” Tamara continued, her voice sickly sweet, as if explaining it to a child.
“Now, even despising you as much as I do, I can appreciate how humiliating that must be. But it’s hardly my fault you aren’t woman enough to hang onto your own man.”
She delivered it with a sneering little shrug, her smile pulled tight — thin, merciless, loaded with contempt.
The focus on Tom — and the attack on her worth as a woman — had Karen absolutely seething, and it showed.
She was a literal hair’s width away from a complete and total meltdown — her petite little body trembling from head to toe, fists now clenched so tightly at her sides her knuckles had turned bone white.
Tamara’s cutting remark consumed her in a perfect storm of rage and humiliation.
“Separated because you manipulated him — that’s the whole fucking point!” Karen spat, her voice crescendoing, cracking at the edges.
“Oh, believe me, Taa—ma—ra — I know exactly what sort of person you are.
A fucking conniving snake, you fucking slut bitch. You stole Tom, just fucking admit it!”
Tamara threw her head back, forcing out an overdramatic, condescending laugh.
“Oh, honey please — do you know how fucking pathetic you look right now?” she sneered angrily.
“You truly are delusional. Christ! Fucking get over it — Tom has.”
She let the words hang a moment longer, savouring Karen’s livid expression, before twisting the knife even deeper.
“I mean, surely even a dumpy, ragged old Viet trollop like you can find yourself a fat old white guy with an Asian fetish.”
A cruel pause. A glint of self-satisfaction.
“I can see why Tom had to move on,” Tamara added coldly — almost too coolly — her voice razor sharp.
Karen shook her head slowly, momentarily lost for words.
“I’ve never hated anyone as much as I do you. Puffy-eyed, thin-lipped, Khmer whore,” she drawled, venom and disdain dripping from every syllable.
For a brief second, she caught it — a flicker in Tamara’s dark eyes.
A chink in the armour.
Good.
Tamara’s puffy eyes had always been a sore spot — Karen had long noticed the heavier-than-usual application of concealer, the way she subtly angled her face away from fluorescent lighting when in front of a camera.
That insecurity? Karen had filed it away long ago — and if this was going to get petty and nasty, she was more than happy to oblige.
Tamara’s face twisted into a grimace; her jaw clenched so tightly a vein pulsed at her temple. Karen smiled — a wide, mocking, toothy sneer.
Finally — a direct hit.
“Puffy-eyed? Have you looked in a mirror recently, you ugly bitch?” Tamara snapped.
Karen instinctively glanced downward, banishing the hypocritical flash of guilt — her own eyes weren’t exactly flawless either.
But fuck it. This isn’t about fairness. This is about landing hits.
“Seriously — get some filler for those crow’s feet.
And a quick makeup tip — caking on foundation with a trowel isn’t helping,” Tamara snickered, her voice dripping with gleeful, sarcastic malice.
Karen fidgeted for a moment, crossing her arms defensively — before steeling herself and doubling down.
“Prettier than you, bitch,” she irritably replied.
“I’d offer some advice for those black, bulging fluid sacks under your eyes, but I suppose there’s no helping shallow Khmer genetics.
"I don’t know — maybe try some cucumber slices.”
Tamara’s eyes gleamed — bright, hungry, feral.
For a moment, the icy façade cracked — and Karen saw it. Real anger. Real humiliation.
Her smile broadened. I’m inside her head now — and it feels good.
Tamara tossed her head arrogantly, twirling on the spot as if to flaunt her toned figure.
“Hmmm, whatever, bitch.
"Tom always tells me how much sexier I am than you. Fat-assed bitch.”
Karen arched her painted-on eyebrows in second-hand embarrassment, letting out a loud, derisive snort — the sound slicing through the air like the crack of a whip.
The sheer audacity of Tamara calling herself sexy was so pathetic it was almost laughable.
“Sexier?” Karen scoffed.
“I’m sooo sure he does."
What, per se, are his views on your tragic receding hairline, bitch?”
She proudly relished the stinging barb for a moment — the insult carving straight into Tamara’s carefully curated self-image.
Choosing to ignore the cutting — yet painfully accurate — jibe at her hairline, Tamara forced herself to stay composed.
“Old, washed-up, tacky bitch,” she mouthed slowly, each word heavy with spite.
“I’m like fucking two years older than you, stupid...” Karen started.
“Yeah — and you look about ten,” Tamara interjected curtly.
Karen cocked her hip, bracing her fists at her waist, mirroring Tamara’s own assertive stance.
“Well, I might be older,” she fired acidly,
“but I’m not the one greying, bitch.”
She exaggerated the motion, craning her neck as if inspecting the messy strands of silver creeping down Tamara’s temples.
It wasn’t lost on Karen that she herself clearly dyed her hair — but like the dig at Tamara’s puffy eyes, the truth didn’t matter. This was about winning.
And judging by Tamara’s twitching jaw, Karen was winning big.
Tamara rolled her eyes stiffly, forcing a fake, brittle smile, as she self-consciously raised her hand, brushing at the offending grey strands — ruing cancelling her colouring appointment last week.
But Tamara was Tamara — and she was never going to let Karen have the last word.
“Well, I suppose ultimately it doesn’t really matter about my forehead or a few grey hairs,” she snarled, her voice rising sharply,
“Because at the end of the day it was me naked in Tom’s bed last night — fucking his brains out — not you, bitch.”
She stepped forward, her thighs pressing against the edge of the desk, flashing a poisonous smile.
“Or would that be your bed?” she asked sweetly.
Karen’s hands dropped, twitching at her sides, fury written in every line of her body.
But Tamara wasn’t finished yet.
“Oh, and for the record,” Tamara cooed, twisting the dagger deeper,
“Tom says I suck his cock way better than you ever did — thin lips and all.”
She let the words sink in, relishing the storm clearly raging behind Karen’s glassy eyes — and then with one final malicious thrust, she twisted the knife.
“Fucking face it, Karen — you’re just a lousy fuck who never deserved a man like Tom in the first place.
"He needs someone who knows how to give him what he wants. A real woman.”
Checkmate.
Barely a minute earlier, when she barged into the office, Karen had foolishly believed the confrontation would erupt naturally — a few insults, a few wild slaps and swings, and then a full-blown catfight.
Instead, facing Tamara’s calculating smirk across the desk, she realised just how wrong she’d been.
Frustratingly for Karen, it was becoming increasingly clear that Tamara was in her element — playing her like a fiddle.
She was on another level when it came to cattiness and vindictiveness. And although Karen could sense Tamara was itching to fight, it was equally obvious she was relishing holding back — constantly provoking,
constantly baiting, but cruelly denying Karen the satisfaction.
Karen understood the game. It wasn’t just about pride — it was tactics.
Charging behind the desk would mean fighting in the cramped, awkward space between Tamara and the lowset cupboards behind her — the equivalent of launching a desperate uphill attack. Reckless. Desperate.
Exactly the kind of mistake Tamara was baiting her to make.
The mere mention of Tom — naked in bed with Tamara — was too much to bear. The mental image was devastating.
Tom trapped between those slender thighs, his lips locked greedily onto Tamara’s breast, his hips thrusting, Tamara writhing, moaning, clutching at him in pleasure.
Karen’s stomach twisted violently.
Come on, Karen — don’t let this bitch inside your head. That’s what she wants — to see you crumble. To watch you cry. Don’t give her the fucking satisfaction. Deal with this!
“You’re fucking lying,” Karen snarled through gritted teeth, her voice low, deliberate, simmering with rage.
“About our amazing sex life?” Tamara purred mockingly.
“No, I mean, I would say ask Tom for yourself — but obviously, I’m not letting you get within a hundred yards of my man.”
Tamara smirked, her voice saccharine, every word sharpened to a dagger’s point.
“I’m super possessive of what’s mine, bitch.
And make no mistake — Tom is mine.”
Tamara’s dark, narrow eyes widened with gleeful malice, drinking in Karen’s visible recoil, basking in her own cruelty.
She stood tall behind her desk, arms folded, tapping her foot, the very picture of arrogant triumph.
“Cat got your tongue, bitch?” she taunted.
Karen’s lips curled into a horrific sneer, as she glanced briefly around the office — the sofa, chairs, and coffee table in the far corner not going unnoticed.
But her gaze snapped right back to Tamara, hardening.
Things suddenly got very, very real.
Karen leaned forward, locking into the blacks of Tamara’s eyes, her voice dropping to a sinister growl.
“Actually, I’m just thinking how fucking great it’s going to feel when I’m smashing your cxnt face into this fucking desk —
wiping that insufferable smirk off your slut face, you BITCH!”
The word hit the air like a slap — vile, loaded, toxic.
Even Karen felt it — the way Tamara’s eyes flared, her smirk twitching ever so slightly.
But it was too late now.
Way, way too late.
Tamara regathered herself, letting out a sharp, disdainful scoff.
“Come and try, bitch,” she snapped, her manicured fingers gesturing wildly, beckoning — daring Karen to cross the threshold and truly start what they both so clearly craved.
A low hum of tension pulsed through Karen’s limbs. Her hands were curled into rigid knots, nails biting into her palms. Tamara’s confident little challenge had landed, and Karen was wound tight as a spring.
Every muscle pulled taut. Her body frozen, straining against the urge to launch forward.
Tamara exhaled through pursed lips, arms folding with bored precision.
“Um, are we just going to stand here and stare at each other all fucking night, bitch?”
“You need to tread very carefully, Tamara,” Karen cautioned — the use of her name cold and deliberate, more damning than any petty insult.
She stripped off her navy houndstooth jacket in one curt, irritated motion, discarding it onto the carpet with an impatient snap of her wrist.
Pivoting sharply, she strutted into the clearer space between the desk and the door — hips snapping, her meaning unmistakable:
Here’s our stage. Let’s do this.
Tamara audibly sxxxxxxxed. She adjusted the messy bun perched atop her head, then slid off her own black Ponte blazer with serene control. Turning to drape it neatly over the back of her leather chair,
she took a moment to smooth out the fabric — because of course she did.
“Or what, huh? What are you going to do about it, Karen?” Tamara’s tone was lazy, needling.
“Come out from behind your fucking desk and find out,” Karen snapped, her right hand slicing through the air in a wild, impatient beckon.
“Dragged your fat ass all the way up here to fight me for Tom?” Tamara sneered, still dawdling — deliberately drawing it out.
“Amongst other things,” Karen instantly shot back.
“You’re an arrogant slut who needs putting in her place.”
Tamara let out a sharp laugh, her eyes dragging slowly down Karen’s compact figure.
“I’m a slut? Bit rich coming from the dumpy bitch wearing pumps and a miniskirt to an all-boys’ high school.
Have some class, bitch.”
“Talk, talk, talk, bitch,” Karen taunted.
“Let’s sort this out — all of it. Right now. One on one. No crowd. No interruptions. Or what — not woman enough?”
The jab landed — Tamara’s earlier attack about her inability to keep Tom clearly clinging to Karen’s pride like a bruise.
Tamara’s catty grin flickered.
“Oh, trust me, bitch,” she said, voice low and driven.
“You don’t want this. Gaye’s not gonna be around to pull me off you this time…”
Karen blinked. For a split second, she was back there — slammed up against the sink counter, Tamara’s fists tangled in her hair, while Karen’s palm was shoved hard against her jaw, forcing her head back.
Her other hand gripped a clump of thick, messy bun, yanking hard as they hissed threats and insults through clenched teeth.
It had all exploded days after they found out they were the last two standing for the role — that ended up landing Tamara this extravagant fucking office.
Karen’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open in theatrical astonishment — stunned at Tamara’s gall to twist that memory.
“Oh my god. You are fucking delusional,” she barked.
“Gaye pulled me off you, you lying bitch.”
The indignation wasn’t just for show — she was genuinely aghast at Tamara’s warped recollection of their now-confirmed, once-rumoured staff restroom catfight.
The truth, of course, lay somewhere in between their clashing accounts.
Gaye had been the only witness — the only one to intervene. She’d walked in on bedlam: the two of them thrashing around on the cold restroom tiles, locked in an awkward, yet vicious tangle of hair-pulling, clawing, and frenzied slaps.
It hadn’t been clean. It hadn’t been dignified.
Skirts had ridden up. Blouses had been torn. And the room echoed with the sharp snaps of flesh striking flesh.
But Gaye had somehow forced her way between them and pried them apart.
Tamara scoffed, rolling her eyes, before waving her hand with faux boredom — as if Karen’s recollection wasn’t worth correcting.
Agitated by the mixed signals and deliberate stalling, Karen scanned the pristine, modern office, searching for any way to draw her out.
Then without a word, she turned on her heel and strutted towards the door — hips swaying high and sharp beneath the hem of her skirt.
Tamara snorted, throwing her hands up in confused disbelief at what looked like retreat.
“Oh no, no, wait — no, come back biiitch,” Tamara called out, voice lilting into a mocking whine.
“What’s the matter? I thought we were going to have a little catfight.”
But her tone betrayed her — a little too theatrical, a little too eager to believe Karen was walking away.
Then came the click of the lock.
Tamara’s face twitched — barely. A flicker of confusion.
Karen turned back — slow, deliberate — the hint of a smirk ghosting at her mouth.
Cute.
She sauntered back toward the desk, rolling her eyes at the misread, a small flicker of satisfaction settling beneath her stern expression.
She halted, stepping out of her Louboutin nude patent pumps — her height dropping instantly as her wide calves relaxed, muscle settling into the soft give of her navy pantyhose.
Barefoot now, toes flexing into the carpet, she felt lighter. More grounded.
Ready.
“The only way you’re leaving this office is through me, bitch!” she snarled, raising her fists into an unconvincing, vaguely ridiculous boxing guard.
“And I’ve got all night. Do you?”
“Jesus, put your fists down,” Tamara bit out.
“Trying to stand there like some prize fighter — let’s not pretend this is going to be anything but a catfight, not a boxing match, you dumb bitch!”
Karen lowered her hands, instantly regretting the absurdity of her stance.
I’ve never boxed a day in my life.
And I know damn well that the second I get close enough, I’ll be going straight for that thick mass of black hair tied atop her smug little head.
“Come on, bitch,” she muttered, almost pleading.
“Quit stalling.”
Tamara let out a low, disbelieving laugh — slow and scornful.
“You’re not worth ruining these for.”
Tamara’s demeanour shifted as she hurriedly fumbled to remove her silver XL hoop earrings, slamming them shut in her desk drawer, along with her prized silver Cartier tank watch.
“You could have fooled me.
"I’m not the one hiding behind my fucking desk, Tamara!” Karen fired back, brushing her own shoulder-length hair behind her ears, shifting and adjusting her skirt high up on her hips,
attempting to conceal her lightly trembling hands as adrenaline coursed through her.
The posturing was unmistakable — years of petty vitriol and simmering hostility were about to come to a head.
Locked in an office, with no chance of interruption, the long-overdue catfight between these two bitter enemies was finally about to explode.
A familiar silence settled across the office — thick, electric — the kind that hangs before a storm breaks.
Both women stood their ground, each projecting calm, composed — as if untouched by the inevitability of what was about to occur.
But beneath the surface, their stomachs twisted. Hearts pounded. Chests tightened.
The tension was palpable — sharp, coiled, and utterly unbearable.
Contrary to Karen’s tired little taunt, Tamara wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t hesitant. She wasn’t even slightly intimidated by the thought of a catfight with her most hated rival.
Truth be told, she would’ve fought Karen long ago — for far less than Tom.
Of course she was going to take this opportunity.
The fact that Tom had become the catalyst made it oh so much sweeter.
Would Tamara have preferred it if Karen had given her the option to meet on neutral ground? Sure.
There was no shortage of hidden nooks or vacant classrooms across the campus.
A prearranged fight — maybe set up through someone like Gaye — would’ve made things cleaner. More controlled. She could have dressed for it: leggings, a sports bra, bare feet.
Not heels and a sateen mock-neck blouse better suited to staff meetings than catfights — but if it got ruined, so be it.
But then again, fighting over a man in the very office they’d both battled for — the one they’d fiercely competed to call their own — felt fitting. Symbolic.
Fuck this. Get this skank.
Karen’s pulse spiked as she finally snapped — no more circling, no more posturing
She faked a lunge around the edge of the desk, satisfaction blooming as Tamara instinctively recoiled, eyes flaring wide before narrowing into a deadly glare.
Karen snatched a potted snake plant off the desk and hurled it across the office — not at Tamara, but hard enough to make a point.
The pot shattered near the sofa and chairs, soil and shards spraying across the carpet — the smash cutting straight through the silence like a warning shot.
