I tuck the wallet into my purse and hit the Uber app on my phone. One stop, then I’m going home to sleep for a week.
Kingston
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Hayes’ angry voice wakes me from my midday nap, where I’m buried behind a stack of paperwork. I assume he’s barking at one of his employees again—he really is a shit boss—so I rearrange my paper barrier and fall back to sleep.
“Did you get the email?” he yells, startling me awake again.
Earplugs. I make a mental note to bring some with me tomorrow.
“You better not be sleeping in there, asshole!”
I drag my eyes open and slowly push myself up from my hunched-over position at the table. “Are you talking to me?”
I hear the wheels of his chair roll, and I rush to make it look like I’ve been working this entire time. “What’s up, bro?” I say a little too brightly when he pokes his head into my closet office. If North Industries is my prison, my office is The Hole.
He scowls. “You were sleeping.”
“I was not. And I’m insulted you’d accuse me—”
“I can see the indentation from your Montblanc cufflinks on your cheek.”
Shit. “How do you know I didn’t do that on purpose? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some very important ABC order to finish up—”
“Check your email.”
“Why?” I pull out my new phone and see I have thousands of unread emails. I never check email. If someone needs to get in touch with me badly enough, I expect they’ll call. “Did you finally reply to my resignation letter?”
He’s doesn’t look at all pleased with my wildly entertaining sense of humor. “It’s an evite.”
“Who the fuck sends evites?”
“My mother, apparently.”
“Huh.” I search for my stepmother’s name in my inbox. “I thought I’d blocked her,” I mumble. Balloons dance on the screen, and I see my dad’s name. “She’s throwing a party for the Old Man this weekend?”
“Wow. You can read,” he says dryly.
His dig delivers a direct hit, but I school my expression, so he doesn’t know. I’ve been doing it all my life. “I’m not going. I have plans.”
“What plans?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to make some.”
He leans a shoulder on the door frame, making the space feel infinitely smaller. “You’re going to dip out on your dad’s seventieth birthday party?”
“I—”
“The same man who has been supporting you for the last how many years now?”
I don’t appreciate him throwing that shit in my face. “Don’t—”
“You’ve been on the payroll since you were seventeen years old.”
“Thanks for the news, Hayes. What’s the weather?” Shame and humiliation weigh on my shoulders.
“The weather, Romeo, is stop being a selfish, spoiled prick and go to his fucking birthday party.” He turns and storms away.
I flip him off and mutter a string of curse words.
“I heard that!”
I push up from my desk, which is a very liberal term for the four-legged table I’ve been assigned to work at. “I’m taking a break.”
He checks his watch. “You had your lunch break an hour ago.”
I ignore him and walk right past him and out of the office.
What’s he going to do, fire me?
Four
Gabriella
When my Uber pulls up to the gleaming glass high rise, I practically pull a neck muscle taking in the enormity of North Industries. My stomach rolls with nerves. I haven’t been to the city in a long time, and what little memories I have are bittersweet.
The Manhattan elite are no longer my people. They have very little tolerance for people like me who spoil their view from the top.
Rather than ask the Uber to wait, I decide to make the forty-dollar fare worth it and grab a giant pretzel in Central Park for dinner and take a little walk down memory lane.
I pay the driver, crawl out of the car, and face the tall glass doors in front of me. Rooted in place, a frustrated man in a business suit with a bald head and one diamond earring sneers as he passes me. I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at him and follow him inside.
The lobby is bustling with activity. I jump out of the way before getting mowed over by a group of executives with their heads buried in their phones.
Both men and women are dressed in power suits, their heels and shoes polished to a shine, and I’m suddenly painfully aware of how out of place I am in my scrubs.
I pull the elastic of my ponytail out and hide behind my hair. If I’m going to do this, I need the shield.
“Welcome to North Industries. Can I help you?” A brunette woman with a big smile greets me. Her light eyes sparkle with friendliness but blink rapidly when they settle on my scar. She clears her throat. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m here to see Kingston North?”
Her eyelids drop a fraction in suspicion. “Is Mr. North expecting you?”
“I’m returning his wallet.”
She seems to mull that over and then hits a couple of buttons on her phone and presses the receiver to her ear. She angles her body away from me as if it’ll somehow keep me from hearing her. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a woman here to see Kingston.” I hear a couple of mm-hmms and fully expect her to hang up the phone and tell me to get lost. “She says she has his wallet?” More mm-hmms.
This guy must be pretty important if he needs a sentry.
“You can go on up,” she says and hangs up the phone.
“Go where exactly?”
“Executive level. Turn right out of the elevator, and Mary will help you.”
The heat of curious eyes burns my skin as I wait for a chance to race into the elevator and hide. Only, when I do get inside, I end up surrounded by people who dress like they have money and smell like newly printed bills. The elevator car stops a few times until finally hitting the executive floor. A man races out from behind me, and I’m reminded how everyone in Manhattan is always in a hurry to get somewhere.
I stand out of the way of traffic and take in the office space. Not at all what I expected from a stuffy New York corporation. The room is spacious and airy. The glass walls let in sunlight, and every office has a floor-to-ceiling view of the city. A blonde woman lifts her eyes from her computer screen as I approach.
“I’m looking for Kingston North.”
She, too, seems a little confused after taking me in. Either Kingston doesn’t often get female visitors, or he doesn’t often get female visitors who look like me. My guess is the latter.
She picks up her phone and hits a button, apparently reaching out to another gatekeeper, and I wonder how many of these I’ll have to get through. She directs me where to go and tells me to ask for Danielle. I do as I’m told, and finally, after one more phone call, Danielle leads me to an office decorated like something out of an interior design magazine. I only have a second or two to admire it before a man peers up from his desk, looking wholly perturbed.