Chapter 2

“Of course, you’re not. You never are!” she quickly adds a grin and slides back into her little culinary world, oblivious to anything I amiss in my behavior today. I smile again as I watch her recede and turn with a wave of my fingertips before heading out the door on my mission to get to work.

Sweet Sarah. She’s so sure of my capabilities and calm, outward confidence that I sometimes wonder if she even remembers the old me at all or associates me with the girl I was when we met so many years ago.

I close the door behind me quietly, holding onto the handle for a second as I take a deep, steadying breath and take a moment to be still, refusing to let emotion get the better of me and crack my armor. Looking down at the cool silver knob to calm myself, I steady that creep of inner nerves and push down all my anxiety and fears.

I can do this.

It’s what I’ve been working so hard for; finally, my abilities are being recognized after years of hard work and climbing the corporate ladder. I need to push down the inner doubts and the final traces of my adolescent Emma to focus on the tasks ahead of me and the responsibilities I’ll be taking on after today. It is heady and overwhelming, but I steel my nerves inwardly, stilling my hands against me as I’ve practiced a million times in the last ten years. Every day I’ve worked toward the person I’ve become, this cool and confident persona known as Emma Anderson.

It takes a moment to be able to walk away from the door, but as I do, the armor slides up, and the mask fully connects with my face. Each step strengthens my resolve, back to my usual practiced demeanor and inner me, finding the willpower and continued strength to pull this off day after day. I head to the subway station.

***

FLOOR SIXTY-FIVE OF THE CARRERO CORPORATION

Executive House, Lexington Avenue, Mid-town Manhattan.

I’ve been watching the hands on the clock move very slowly for the last few minutes, and all I can hear is the sound of my blood rushing to my ears. My hands are clammy and heated, and my heart is pounding so hard I may throw up. It’s grating on me that I’m unable to reel it all back in so easily now I’m here. I’m sensitive to every noise and movement around me in the stark modern office, and the shiny new keyboard in front of me is gazing back expectantly. I’ve not even begun to start working.

This is so unlike me.

I’ve taken twelve deep breaths in a row, yet my hands still shake; I feel like I may pass out at any moment. I’m disappointed in myself for letting my nerves get the better of me, and I’m trying to pull back every emotion one at a time to stow them into that neat box in my head.

Don’t fall apart, Emma.

I chastise myself and recheck my reflection in the glass opposite me that serves as a wall to the office to ensure I’m not betraying anything. I look self-sufficient, calm, and in control despite my inner turmoil. As I always do. There is no hint of the conflict behind the cool blue eyes or sleek, smooth tawny hair. Years of practice have given me this uncanny ability to act my way through life, to ensure no one ever sees the turbulence below the surface of my calm waters. I will never let them again.

“Emma?” Margaret Drake’s voice echoes toward me as the clip-clop of her stilettos come at me across the white marble floor from her internal office. She looks unflustered and ever graceful in a tailored black pantsuit and high shiny heels.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake?” I stand, unsure if I’m meant to, suddenly nervous and shy of this woman who has been letting me shadow her for over a week. She looks pretty professional today with an air of purpose, and I steady my hands on the hem at my waist and fix the obligatory smile on my face with grace.

“Mr. Carrero will be arriving shortly; make sure there’s fresh water with ice on his desk and clean glasses,” she smiles encouragingly, possibly sensing my unease.

“Have the espresso machine on and ready if he asks for one and all his mail and messages laid out on his desk before he arrives. When he does, please keep out of his way until I call you for introductions.” She pats my shoulder gently with a wide bright smile, a mannerism I’ve grown accustomed to.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake,” I nod, still trying not to feel in awe of the swirl of platinum blonde hair held on top of her head or the severely tailored jacket that reveals a curvy physique. My mentor, Margo Drake, is a gorgeous and intelligent creature I can only look up to. When I met her a few days ago, I was floored by her physical appearance. My previous mentor had informed me Mrs. Drake was in her fifties and Mr. Carrero’s personal assistant. I expected someone colder and dragon-like, considering her crucial role in the business, not this designer-clad, fabulous temple before me with breathtaking beauty and natural friendliness.

“Oh, and Emma?” she pauses, turning slightly.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake?”

“This week, you’ll meet with Donna Moore. She’s Mr. Carrero’s personal shopper and she’ll fit you out with appropriate work attire, anything you’ll need when representing him when you go on trips, events, and such, and all that red-carpet crap he’s so fond of.” She smiles warmly with a little sigh and a raised brow, suggesting she disapproves of his public affairs.

I swallow, deliberately quelling the nerves once again. I was aware that my role would require me to be available on short notice for trips and functions, but I was never informed it would include the public side of him at all.

Damn!

“Yes, Mrs. Drake,” I say, trying to work out how much I’ll have to spend to be red-carpet-ready, worried it may eat into my savings a bit more than I expected. A lot more than expected.

“It goes on company expenses, Emma. Mr. Carrero expects his staff to look a certain way,” she winks at me. “He considers it a necessary expense for all employees on the sixty-fifth floor.” Mrs. Drake has this uncanny ability to read everyone’s mind. I like her ability; it removes awkward misunderstandings, nervous hesitations, and no second-guessing, and I work well with her. I inwardly sigh with relief that this won’t affect my savings or my future hopes of one day buying myself an apartment in New York to cut my travel time.

“Thank you, Mrs. Drake,” I nod as she walks off.

“Emma?” She turns her head back to me with a half-smile.

“Yes, Mrs.—”

“Please,” she interrupts, “It’s Margaret… Margo… from now on! Only my children’s friends call me Mrs. Drake. You’ve been here for over a week, and I’m happy with your progress. We’re going to be working closely, so please.” She gives me a warm smile before turning on her expensive high heels toward the massive door of her office.

I’m warmer and calmer. I’m getting a solid impression Margo has taken a liking to me in my time here. I’m not sure I like the casual first name suggestion; I like to keep things as professional and impersonal as possible. I’m good at keeping people at a distance, and I prefer it. Letting people cross the line from business to pleasure is a messy mistake that I never let happen.