Prologue
Charlotte Simpson MIA for Big Company Decision
Exordium Princess, Charlotte Simpson, cancels all meetings and contact with the outside world. Sources say she hasn’t been in to work and has missed the pivotal board meeting concerning the possible Vita Corp merger.
-The Biomed Daily
Daughter of Deceased Exordium CEO/Founder on Unannounced Vacation
Exordium has released a public disclosure that Charlotte Simpson is taking a leave of absence effective immediately. A return date has not been released.
-The Turing Herald
CEO Smith Ushering in New Merger That Keeps Exordium at the Top of Biomedical World
Matthew Smith, CEO extraordinaire, has managed the impossible and orchestrated the much-watched Vita Corp merger. The company stocks have reacted favorably to this decision and Exordium’s net worth has propelled it to the most stable Biomedical company to date. Just what can’t Matthew Smith accomplish?
- The SEC Times
You’ll Never Believe Where the Exordium Princess Is!
Sources say the absence of Charlotte Simpson from Exordium is expected to last exactly nine months… What exactly has this heiress been up to?
-Flash News
Clark Simpson’s Daughter Returning to Exordium After Two Month Absence
Charlotte Simpson, daughter of the late renowned inventor Clark Simpson, is expected to return to Exordium and resume duties in the Research and Development branch, well-rested after taking a disconnected sabbatical.
-The Biomed Daily
Chapter 1
“Where do you think she was?”
“Definitely rehab.”
I want to roll my eyes—hard—but instead, I school my features. I pray to whichever deity will listen that this elevator ride ends soon. The blurry reflections of the women whispering behind me move, and I try not to focus on them. Their voices sound unfamiliar, but I don’t want to know for sure if we’re acquainted. Some might say that it’s easier to navigate through life if you know friend from foe.
For me, it’s both a process of elimination and a means of survival. I don’t have many friends left; very few people in this company are neutral parties. They’re either with me or against me. I just need to get to my office. Then I can start on my list of I just need tos required to get through this day.
I just need to open my email. Need to say hello to person A, respond to person B, give an analysis of how buried my desk is with various projects needing approval, and I need to avoid a certain CEO. That last one will probably be impossible. What a shame.
If the women are foes, at least they aren’t smart ones. Smart foes are worse than catty women who gossip in a space the size of a closet and expect not to be overheard. I concentrate on not grinding my teeth and feel the earbuds. Oh.
That makes more sense. It’s still a lot of trust to give the little devices. I had needed to blast my power song to get through all the people staring at me as I walked through the lobby. The song is over now. The silence lets the world in a little closer. Soon, the elevator will reach my floor, and then I can push the world a bit further back again.
“She doesn’t look like she was pregnant.”
The elevator doors reject my prayers and stay closed. I could age 100 years on this elevator ride. The doors will open, and I’ll have to use a walker to leave.
“Jesus, Linda, she was only gone for two months.”
“She could have gotten rid of it.”
The effort it takes to pretend I don’t hear them suddenly chokes me, and I remove my headphones. Thank God they instantly shut up. It isn’t the first time people have spread rumors about me, and it won’t be the last. My goal, entire focus today, is to get through it—rip off the Band-Aid. I don’t have the energy to confront every person who regurgitates speculations about my absence.
A ping signals the end of my purgatory and the elevator doors open. Luckily, it's the right floor. Otherwise, I'd have been forced to take the stairs just to escape the incessant staring. I walk down the row of cubicles and tables scattered with different electronics and mechanical prototypes to use in bionic projects. Work ceases around me, but I ignore even more stares.
The looks on this floor burn. These are colleagues of mine. People under my management. I would have thought that they, at least, wouldn’t give in to conjecture.
Some snide inner voice wonders if I should start charging for the viewing pleasure. I don’t need the funds personally; Dad had left me an inheritance. But maybe I’d start a charity from it. I retract from that idea as if I’ve put my hand near a flame. Too soon. One thing at a time.
I finally get to my office and am accosted by flowers? Piles of flowers and gift baskets occupy either side of my assistant’s desk.
“Ms. Simpson, it is so good to see you.” Delila’s cheerful Southern drawl welcomes me, and her gray bob and skirt suit almost bounce from contained happiness. The woman is the bright spot about returning to work.
“Where did all of this come from?”
Delila’s smile looks a little stiff at the question.
“Your well-wishers, of course. Everyone is just so happy that you’re back that they couldn’t contain themselves.” Her eye twitches when she says the words.
Ah, displays of fair-weather friendship. Delila’s manner makes sense, for someone as genuine and loyal as she is, the machinations of the corporate atmosphere are especially bothersome. She’d worked at the company longer than I had but hadn’t been exposed to the extent of fraud that is my existence here until working for me.
Delila’s clear and open honesty has been more helpful than she will ever know. I thought I had been losing my mind. My past assistant had acted as if the actions of others in the company hadn’t been happening. It had gone on long enough that it had been giving me a complex. Was I misconstruing everyone else’s behavior? Did that manager snub me on purpose? Were the words of that financial advisor meant to be counseling or a passive-aggressive jab?
It was fucking exhausting, it still is. But with Delila, I know it isn’t just me who interprets it this way. It had only taken one meeting to know I hadn’t been making it up in my head. Delila had turned to me, fuming, before calling the manager we’d met with a horrible man. The kinship had been instant and invaluable.
The working situation had slowly gotten better with time. The exact time it had taken the people of the company to realize that I hadn’t been given my position of managing R&D projects just because of my last name. Delila had acted as my rock in the constant storm.
“If you could arrange for these to be donated somewhere, I’d appreciate it. Maybe send one to the woman who handles our budget. She always looks like she could use a pick-me-up.”
Delila raises her brows. “Ms. Sorenson? The woman who crosses herself when you walk past?”
Ouch. “Hmmm, maybe not, then.” I walk toward my office door but stop with my hand on the knob. “There aren’t more in my office, are there?”
A vision of being buried under gift baskets once I open the door hits me. It’s ridiculous, but I’m still reassured when Delila gives a slow smile.
“Just one.”
When I see the monstrosity on my desk, I want to groan. The flowers are pretty. I’ll give them that. Unlike the little baskets outside, this is an arrangement with volume and flare. Vibrant red roses mixed with deep blue flowers I don’t recognize but give a dynamic feeling to the creation. I don’t have names for any of the flowers other than the roses. I’m a biomedical scientist, not a horticulturist, and the position of the arrangement across my desk is impossible to work around.