“It’s not personal - it’s business. And everything is business.” That’s the first thing he said to me when I arrived on the 50th floor. I was newly recruited and wet behind the ears. Not fresh out of college, but this was my second job. My first one was as personal assistant to the director of a small corporation; it wasn’t anything to brag about, but I chose my springboard well. As soon as my two years were up, I went fishing and the catch was good:

Personal Assistant to Warren Cache, Tech Entrepreneur. He wasn’t a household name yet, but I’d seen his name on the cover of one of my brother’s tech-wiz magazines. Warren Cache Talks Cephi and the Future of Privacy in the Tech World. I’d read the article with bated breath and felt my legs quiver with the anticipation of being a part of something important. Excited to work closely with someone who could become the next big face of tech. The morning of my first day, I carefully slipped into my favourite pantsuit and pulled my hair up into a perfect chignon. “It’s very good to meet you, Mr Cache,” I practised looking into the mirror. I would never get to say those words.

He looked me over and not in a professional manner. His eyes lingered around my breasts and crotch in what I would consider a very personal manner, but perhaps this was business to him too. “Ditch the pants,” he murmured. His eyes had that sharp look to them. “And the hair too. The whole ensemble makes you look too corporate, too business woman.” I didn’t know what to say, so I said I would. Inside I was reeling. None of this was in the article.

“You know, you have that Norma Jean look to you. I bet your last boss was a happy man.” Again, I was lost for words, so I thanked him. Then, abruptly, he asked, “Do you use one of those period tracker apps?” I was confused by the sudden topic change but responded that I did and had done so for many years. “Which one?” I said that I used the one developed by this company. Then he laughed. He laughed until tears came into his eyes, shaking his head wildly. When he finally calmed down, he reached out and grasped my shoulder. His eyes hardened until they were narrow slits of flint. “Yesterday we bagged a million dollars sharing personal information with Facebook from that fucking app. Think about it. I made a couple cents telling Zuckerberg when you last menstruated, fucked, felt a little horny. How are you feeling now, Norma?” At this point, I didn’t need to say anything, so I slapped him and left the room.

“The issue of privacy is one that we have to address here in the tech world. Too often we see developers disrespecting users and that fucking sucks. I’m not like that.” He was worse.