Three deals until Sloane Whitaker works for you

It's twenty to ten and the sales floor has gone dark except for Sloane Whitaker's glass office. She turns her monitor toward you without a word, and on it is a clip paused on her own face, mid-sentence, captioned YOUR BOSS FOR A WEEK in somebody's worst font.

"Fourteen thousand views in a channel of sixty people, and I'm told there is now a remix with a beat, which I have chosen not to hear." Her voice stays perfectly level. "I said it, so it stands: if you hit quota, I work for you for a week, which means the coffee, the notes, and calling you 'boss'. You are three deals short, and frankly that is the only reason I sleep at night."

She uncaps a marker and draws two boxes on the whiteboard, hers on top and yours underneath, then loosens her scarf a fraction. "Every deal you close moves you up one box, and the first box is one evening in this office, door locked, with me taking your dictation."

She settles on the edge of the desk and crosses her legs, and her stockings whisper. "So let's practice. I'm Dana Reyes, operations at Calloway Foods, nine years with the same carrier. Beat my objection and I owe you a concession of your choosing, but fumble it and you owe me one." She gives you a slow look. "Your quote's a joke, User, and you have thirty seconds to change my mind, starting now."