54. This Woman’s Work
MAXWELL
“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. Bianca is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, you may hang up, or press pound for more options.”
BEEP—
“Hey, Bianca, it’s Allison.
“I know you told me to leave you the hell alone. Still checking in on you anyway. Still here. If you need me.
“Even if it’s to curse, scream, or fight.
“I’m still… I’m here, okay?”
I press the button on the steering wheel to hang up, then look out the windshield.
In front of me, the skyline’s bleeding glacier, snowfall cascading down glass buildings that look like shards of ice. Like the city got stabbed in the chest and Antarctica poured out.
Manhattan’s terrifyingly quiet at this hour. Along Fifth, the storefronts are still dark, their holiday displays haunting and frozen behind frosted glass.
The speakers pump out “Christmas” by Darlene Love, but my brain’s pumpin’ out Andrew’s voice.
‘I got three conditions—non-negotiable.
‘If you can’t do it… I’ll walk… for good.’
‘Alright. What are they, huh?
‘You’re mine, Allison. Like I’m yours.’
And each passing day with Andrew, all I can still feel is the ghost of my mistake between my thighs.
The guilt of Raymond is eating me alive.
Growing stronger.
Screaming louder.
Bleeding into everything.
Jalen was right when he said:
“Keepin’ shit in? It leaks out.
“In your tone, your body,
“how you treat people.
“You hide a lie long enough,
“it starts shapin’ you.”
And the entire drive to the office,
this guilt shapes into panic.
I roll down the window an inch,
the freezing air slapping my face numb.
Something bad is about to happen,
I can feel it.
I can’t explain it.
I don’t know what.
I don’t know when.
I don’t know why.
But I have this sense I’ll lose him soon.
I pull into my parking spot in Soundwave's garage, put the car into park, close my eyes, and rest my head on the wheel, trying to breathe.
All I see is his navy gaze,
and it’s there where all my air lives.
A double-edged sword. How cruel is it to find both weakness and strength in him.
Raymond should be a problem for another day. I got my win yesterday, got the board to kill Callista’s deal and open an investigation. I should bury Raymond under the weekend, celebrate, enjoy the label’s Christmas party tonight, hide behind a glass of champagne.
But it’s like the car drove itself.
I must have blacked out behind the wheel, because now I’m standing in the Soundwave lobby, about to dive into Raymond’s office, return to the scene of the crime, to ask Raymond for a favor.
It’s a pathetic trade-off, really:
‘Hey, Andrew. Quick update.
‘So last Friday? After you punched Ben?
‘Yeah… Raymond went down on me,
‘but it’s all good.
“Got your mom a new liver outta it.
‘Simple little exchange. No biggie.
‘You’re welcome.’
Like this can make up for it—
appease this never-ending guilt.
I round the corner, and Raymond is a silhouette behind a cracked door. I rap my knuckles on the wood as I enter.
“Yeah?” he barks.
He’s a mess. Hair wild.
Desk buried in disarray.
But then he looks up,
irritation replaced by amusement.
“Come to fuck over another deal this mornin’?” he asks, mouth shaped by a fed-up smile. “Nah. One thing about you, baby? You only walk through that door when you’re forced or desperate.” He leans back, the chair groaning under him. “Now I’m intrigued.”
The second I knocked on his door,
he knew he had me.
Because there is something I want.
And I am desperate for it.
So much so,
I’d be willing to do almost anything.
I stand behind the chair, keeping it between us as if it could protect me.
“Sit down, Allie. You’re acting like a fuckin’ pigeon.” He eyes me suspiciously. “Jesus. This gotta be important, huh?”
I give the back of the chair a squeeze
before walking around it.
I hate this chair.
I hate this office.
I hate him.
“I need a meeting with James,” I say,
dropping my palms onto my lap.
Raymond tips his head back, a smile twitching as if he misheard me. “James?” he repeats. “My brother?” His brows hike up to his hairline. This somehow delights him, and he pulls himself forward, adjusting his cuff. “Now, Allie… what on earth could you possibly want with James?”
Managing Raymond is like playing a game of cat-and-mouse.
If I appear too needy, he’ll either refuse out of spite or dangle it over my head to see how much he can wring out of me before giving in.
If I seem disinterested, he’ll blow it off.
I have to deliver the sweet spot,
give him just enough to make the call.
“That’s none of your concern.”
He tsks. “The man is a CEO, Allie, busy runnin’ an entire hospital and all.”
“I know his title. That’s why I’m here.”
For a beat, he studies my face,
his chair swiveling lazy, side to side.
Then he tosses his pen onto his desk.
“Stop wastin’ my time.
“What’re you after?”
I square my shoulders and interlace my fingers, locking in the violent urge to wreck his afternoon instead. “Family of a client,” I begin, lying through my teeth, hiding the fact I met Maria a month ago,
only ‘cause I fucked her son.
“She has liver disease, and she's inactive on the transplant list. I need to speak to James, see if there’s anything I can do—programs, I don’t know.”
“Lemme stop you right there,” Raymond unclasps his hands, palms up with a grin, “the answer is obviously no.”
I clamp down on my teeth.
Fancy. Using my words from yesterday.
He’s expecting a bitter reaction,
so instead,
I turn my face into a dead-end street,
giving his arrogance nowhere to park.
“I thought we could be mature about yesterday.” It’s almost impossible, getting my heart to calm before it shakes me apart and gives me away. “It’s only a phone call,” I say through a sigh. “That’s all. I’ll handle the rest.”
His lips curve into a crazed smile.
“How bad you want it?” he asks,
tipping his head. “Scale of one to ten.”
“There’s a life on the line. Stop it.”
He sinks back into his chair, clicks his mouse. “Everything has a price, kiddo. Altering a transplant list?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s not a favor. That’s prison time, and crimes are expensive.”
“How much?” I bite out,
willing to hand over whatever it takes.
Raymond reclines with a chuckle, pressing his fingers under his jaw, looking at the ceiling, eyes glazed with the joy a cat feels right before it snaps the mouse’s neck.
“Look—technically, you’re a billionaire on an allowance.
I got a fiduciary duty to make sure you don’t light your future on fire.
Facts: I sign off on that? Makes me look incompetent.
So the answer’s no. You ain’t playin’ Santa, Baby. Not this year.”
But she doesn’t have another year.
“Jesus, Raymond.
“Just tell me what you want.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna have to chew on that one for a bit.”
I take him in,
his greedy eyes, his cruel coercion,
the sins of his soul shadowing him.
He disgusts me.
“You’re a real asshole.”
A smug, dead-eyed grin splits his face. “Ayuh. A copper-plated, grade-A bastard,” he grumbles, rolling the chair back under his desk, “spendin’ my mornin’ cleanin’ up another one of your messes before I gotta prepare for the label’s Christmas party tonight.”
He glances up at me and taps his finger against the desk. “Speakin’ of, wear the red dress for me?”
“Fuck you.”
He returns to his screen. “I’ll bring the car around at eight. Be ready. There’s a special Christmas gift I have planned.”
A short breath leaves me,
half of a laugh born from his audacity.
“Can’t wait. I’ll see you at the event.
“With my date.”
The blue light from his screen bounces off his amused expression. “Boys ain’t dates, baby. They’re props.”
I smile. “Not this one.”
His eyes shift fast,
his smirk wiped clean in a heartbeat.
I stand to leave.
“It’s gonna be a magical fuckin’ night.”
// 12:02 AM - VALENCE MODELS - NOMAD, NYC //
At Valence Models, silver garland wraps every railing and fake snow’s sprayed across black marble floors.
An intern with an empty gaze is hot-gluing rhinestones onto a six-foot nutcracker, humming while Mariah Carey’s whistle notes ring throughout the hollow building for the millionth time.
I’m elbow-deep in a rack of men’s shirts, lost in thought, wondering if inviting Andrew tonight is my worst idea yet (coming from the girl who literally modified AI Brooke’s voice to sound like Mom’s—a hack so successful I can’t talk to her without crying, so we ain’t talking at all now.)
Celie follows behind me, catching every hanger I toss over my head into her arm. “Nah. What’s wrong with this one?” she says, trying to hold up the navy shirt against her chest.
I squint. “It’s too boxy.”
I grab another shirt.
Too short.
Andrew’s not bulky, not a gym-bro inflated steroid balloon animal. He’s lean muscle stretched tight over bone.
Built for fucking.
For throwing punches.
For ruining my standards.
About the same size as half the models in here, but somehow I’m striking out.
The vintage-music-box intro of “All I Want For Christmas Is You” loops again, its twinkling bells tapping my shoulder.
An annoying reminder that I have exactly six hours to find him the perfect suit for tonight, get ready—hair, makeup—and devise a plan to make sure Andrew doesn’t reject me at the final second.
I dump the air from my lungs,
hold up another shirt,
toss it to the side.
Celie stands in the mirror’s reflection.
“And what was wrong with that one?”
“He has long arms,” I mutter.
Her face falls deadpan.
“You know his arm length.”
I shrug.
“He reaches for things, don’t he?”
Another four minutes pass,
and Mariah’s high note shreds the air.
I wince through the saccharine pitch,
just before it loops again,
no longer a jingle but now a death knell.
Celie’s not bothered by it.
The models aren’t bothered by it.
Doesn’t matter how many times the song plays, they still sing and hum on autopilot.
Meanwhile, I’m two seconds from either killing something or taking it out on my clit.
I close my eyes.
Inhale deep.
Breathe out slow.
Celie’s voice floats over Mariah’s—“You really gonna show up to the bar, tell him to get his ass in the car?”