Chapter 4 Sophia
R unning in four-inch heels is not for the weak. The only reason I’m wearing these fancy shoes is because my boss emailed me at midnight to inform me about a crucial last-minute meeting. He said, and I quote, “ You must bring your A-game .” He speaks like an overgrown teenager who peaked in high school most of the time, and I honestly don’t understand how he’s able to keep his job. Especially because I know for a fact he doesn’t do anything.
It was hard to not get pissed off when I received that email. I’m a lot of things. Very high-energy and somewhat intense, some people would go as far as to call me obnoxious, but I will never play when it comes to my job. I take so much shit from that place, any other normal person would have walked away by now. If I was the only one depending on the income, I would probably have left by now. But that’s not the case. So I keep working—and keep getting taken advantage of.
As if on cue, my phone rings with a call from the person who depends on this much more than I do .
“Hey, Mom,” I answer breathlessly, trying to speed walk to get to work on time.
“Hi, honey. You sound out of breath. Everything okay?” she asks with a sweet, soft tone.
“Yeah. I’m running a little late for work. Have an important meeting to get to.”
“Train issues again?” she asks.
“Yup.” I sigh.
Living and working in downtown Chicago has its downsides—too many transit delays and owning a car is out of the question. I’d rather spend the money on something useful, like Mom’s appointments or groceries. Traffic’s a nightmare, and rent near Vogue Elite , right in the heart of downtown, is sky-high. So, I’m stuck with public transit.
“You okay? Did you take your medication today?” A hint of worry laces my tone.
She lets out a soft laugh. “Yes. Stop worrying about me.”
Funny. I don’t think I will ever stop. The only reason I don’t live closer to home is because Vogue Elite pays enough, allowing me to cover all her living expenses, and make sure she lives a stress-free life. The last thing I want is to see her go back to the way she used to be. I love my mother, I truly do. She’s extremely sweet, and it’s not her fault she had a hard life. I know she hates depending on me, but I will never stop caring for her.
“I’m calling you for a reason.” She sighs. “Your sister, uh, called me again.”
I stop dead in my tracks, almost bumping into someone as my heart rate picks to a dangerously fast pace. Biting my bottom lip, I try to control the involuntary reaction I get every time my sister is mentioned.
Just count backward, Sophia.
10, 9, 8 …
Why is she calling Mom? She also called this past weekend, but Mom had told me she didn’t pick up. It didn’t ease my stress any less, though. I ended up sitting on a sidewalk in downtown Chicago, crying my eyes out with the uncertainty and anxiety of it all.
7, 6, 5…
What sort of trouble did she get herself into now?
4, 3, 2, 1…
How am I going to clean this mess? How can I make it go away? Think, Sophia. Think.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I ask, “Did she say what she wanted?”
“Only wanted to see how I was doing.”
“Right,” I answer, trying to keep my voice even.
Whenever Amelia starts lurking around Mom like a vulture, I know she wants something. And it’s usually money. She knows how to play me well by now. She reminds me of our deadbeat father. A sadistic, selfish man who thrived on the suffering of others. But there was one target he loved inflicting pain on more than any other—Mom.
I start walking again, in quicker steps this time as I glance at my watch. “Listen, Mom, I have to go but if she calls you again, promise me you’ll tell me?” I stress.
“Yes. I will. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I reply before hanging up. “God help me,” I murmur to myself as I drop my phone into my purse and gaze at Vogue Elite’s towering building, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.
Nausea settles in the pit of my stomach at the thought of my sister trying to reenter our lives. She briefly reappeared in my life a year ago, because she had a huge fight with her on-and-off boyfriend for the past three years, Miles. I stupidly let her stay with me, and everything was going fine. Then we went out one night, and when I woke up the next morning, she was gone, along with a few of my more expensive clothing items. The ones I worked my ass off to have. I’m not materialistic by any means, and things are replaceable. But when you live your whole life scrapping for money, you learn to appreciate things. Become attached to them. And I really miss my fucking Louboutins.
My breakfast is threatening to come out, and the nervous sweats are already here. I can’t afford to be all sweaty and disgusting for this meeting. Glancing at my watch, I have about ten minutes before I need to meet with Max and this mysterious person.
I drop my purse and lunch box in my cubicle and quickly walk to the restroom and lock myself in it, resting my forehead against the cold, dark wood door. I’m spiraling. This is what I do when Amelia reappears. I go into panic mode. She knows how to play the game, because she knows damn well I don’t want anything stressing out Mom.
I laugh out loud as I turn around to take a look in the mirror. Tears are threatening to spill, so I reach for the paper towel dispenser and grab one, soaking up the tears before they ruin my makeup. Another laugh bubbles out of me, like the ridiculous person I am. It’s impossible for me not to laugh when I’m on the verge of a breakdown. I’m all too aware it’s insane, but it’s something I’ve done ever since I was a kid. Even when the sadness wants to blow over, my coping mechanism tries to take over. Always with the laughter. Like a damn clown.
The worst part of this situation is that I’m self-aware she takes advantage of me, yet I keep letting her. It’s like I’m a kid all over again, having to be the mother and take care of her. It was fine when we were kids. After all, Mom was barely present when our father died—I never understood why, but I’ve always been too afraid to ask her. The day he died was ironically the best day of my life. It sounds crude, and like I’m the worst person to walk this Earth, but I have enough trauma baggage to back up these claims.
When he died, someone had to take care of Mom and Amelia, so I shouldered the responsibility. It was my cross to bear, and I carried it. But Amelia is an adult now, and to this day, she still hasn’t grown up.
I can’t deal with this now.
Or ever. Don’t deal with it at all, Sophia. Ignore her.
Except, I can’t, because if I don’t deal with the problem now, she will involve Mom somehow, and that’s the last thing I need. It pisses me off how selfish my sister is. I know she was little when our father died, but there’s no way she has forgotten everything we went through with him. I always tried my best to take the screaming, the punching, and the name-calling, but I wasn’t perfect. She witnessed enough.
I walk out of the restroom and go back to my cubicle to grab my phone and physical planner. With Max, I always have to document everything. The man changes his mind more than not, and somehow, he manages to make it my fault. I’ve been down this road many times.
Any other journalist would be ecstatic to meet with the editor in chief and get to work closely with the person who’s supposed to lead us and inspire us. Except, he’s anything but a leader. Being a good employee under Max’s leadership is a curse. One I’ve been carrying for far too long. I enjoy the job in itself. The research, interviewing, editing, and of course, the writing. If being an author wasn’t my dream, becoming an editor in chief would be a close second. The reason I hate my job right now has nothing to do with my responsibilities and everything to do with my boss .
Taking a deep breath, I plaster a fake smile on my lips, like I always do, and stride toward his office as I mentally prepare myself. I softly knock on the door as I’m opening it. Walking in, I’m met with my editor with an exciting look in his eyes.
He waves his hand to where the other person is sitting. “Sophia, great, you’re here. I want you to meet Lorenzo Mancini.”
My steps falter for a moment as my head snaps to him . And I’m met with the same light-brown eyes, and God , how do they look even better during the day?
He’s dressed in a dark-gray suit and vest, with a black tie that matches his shoes. His hair is slicked back, which I hate. The messy hair he had during dinner suits him way better. He looks like the type of man who has his shit together, and for some stupid reason, it annoys me.
“After much pursuit, Lorenzo?—”
“Mr. Mancini for you,” Lorenzo interrupts him with a dry, bored tone.
Max’s ears turn red from embarrassment. “Right. Mr. Mancini, my apologies.” He lets out a fake cough. “Like I was saying, Mr. Mancini has agreed to do an article about him for our fall edition.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” I ask with a frown.
“He specifically requested you do the piece,” Max replies with a grimace.
I take a step back in surprise, clutching my things tightly to my chest. It’s not normal for junior journalists to do the main editions, that’s more for more senior journalists. I’ve only been working here for about four years, and while I’m considered as one of the best, you need to be working at the company for five plus years to be considered for a senior position. The fact it’s a fall edition, and we’re almost at the end of spring, makes me wonder just how substantial the piece will be. It’s a privilege to do this. Every writer’s dream. The opportunity of a lifetime—except, I’ll have to work with him . That’s a recipe for disaster.
I blink a few times, trying to make sense of what Max said. “Wow, I, uh. Thank you for thinking of me, but I can’t accept it.”
“I’ve read all the articles you’ve written over the years. You’re a great writer. And if you’re not willing to do it, well, I’m afraid this is not going to work.” Lorenzo shrugs as he stands and starts buttoning his suit.
Max looks at me expectantly, with a hint of irritation that Lorenzo doesn’t notice because he’s focused on me.
Anger slowly simmers through my veins. This is such a blatant attempt to get closer to me. Read my articles? Pft . Yeah, right. He’s playing those stupid games again, and while it was fun during his birthday dinner, this is completely different. This is my place of employment. I have people depending on me, and I can’t afford to lose my job over something like this.
“I’m afraid this is not up for discussion, Sophia,” Max says through gritted teeth.
Pick your battles. This is not one you can win.
I grab a strand of my perfectly styled hair with a nod, placing it behind my ear as I take a seat. “I’m sure you have an idea of where you want to go with this.” He’s my boss, after all. Even if he’s a raging dick, I have to listen to him.
Lorenzo sits back down, and I can feel his eyes burning me, but I refuse to look at him.
Asshole .
I cannot believe he’s here. Jesus H. Christ . This is a little too damn far.
“Definitely.” Max nods eagerly. “I want you to focus on what it is like to be Lorenzo Mancini, the billionaire. What is it like to live like him?”
“We should have coffee and chat more,” Lorenzo chimes in.
I plaster on the most insincere smile I can manage, setting my eyes on him. “Yeah, sure.”
“That’s a great idea. I know the perfect spot,” Max says, standing from his chair.
“No need for you to come. It’s not like you’re writing the article, right?” Lorenzo drawls lazily, not even casting him a glance, like Max is a pest he can’t bother himself with.
Max’s steps falter for a moment, a flush creeping across his cheeks as he sits back down. “Right. Of course.”
I turn my face away and bite my lip, trying to hold back my laugh. I don’t know much about Lorenzo, but I’ve noticed having a filter isn’t his style. It’s as funny as it is endearing.
He stands. “I have time right now.”
Of course, because he’s the king of the world, and the rest of the common people just orbit around him.
“Shocker,” I murmur.
“What was that?” he asks with a playful lilt in his voice.
“I said sure, coffee sounds great ,” I reply through gritted teeth.
He nods toward the door. “After you.”
Here the fuck we go.