Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stella
Z arah messages me on my old phone and asks what my schedule is for the rest of the week. She wants to plan the coming out party. That’s what I’ve started calling it: The Coming Out Party.
There’s no other way to say what we mean—Zane announcing he’s ready to step into his father’s position at Maddox Industries. It doesn’t seem like a thing to need a party, but I have no idea how rich people operate. All I know is they look for any excuse to show off to each other how much money they have. A waste, if you ask me, but nobody is.
I can’t put off a meeting with her, but I told Maryanne I would stop by her house tonight. I ask Zarah if tomorrow is okay, and she sends me a thumbs up and a blowing kiss emoji. She doesn’t say what she has planned for her evening, and because no doubt it has something to do with Ash, I don’t ask.
I stop home first and change. My ass still tingles where Zane fingered me. I liked it or I wouldn’t have let him do it, but I don’t want to go further than that. I appreciate the condom he used without complaint, and if he wants to start a sexual relationship, maybe I should go on the pill.
Should I ask him? That might sound too presumptuous. Now that I know he feels something for me, an occasional lunchtime quickie is fine and I don’t mind, but eventually I’m going to want to make love in a bed. Underneath his grief, Zane is a gentleman, and he will too, but who knows when he’ll have time for that.
Maryanne didn’t mention dinner, but she’ll want to feed me. She always does. We don’t talk a lot, but we chat more than I thought we would when I moved out of her house. I didn’t have to move—she invited me to stay while I took classes at the community college—but I know she couldn’t spare the room. Helping teen girls is important to her, and because of her guidance and support, I was ready to go out on my own.
I would never begrudge another teen the help Maryanne gave me.
She lives outside the city, and I ride the train and two buses to reach a stop that drops me off close enough to walk the rest of the way. I’ve never owned a car, and I can’t afford the expenses owning a vehicle entails. My new position as Zane’s executive assistant might give me access to a car service or a transportation allowance. That would be nice on afternoons like this.
Her house is a butter yellow ranch style that sits at the end of the block on a half acre of grass. Moving into the city was a shock to my system after having so much space, but I needed to live closer to school and job opportunities. I miss living in a house every time I visit Maryanne, but I dive back into the hustle and bustle of the city and the longing eventually fades.
Her minivan is parked in the driveway, and her living room curtains twitch as I walk up to the door.
Instead of just walking in, I ring the doorbell, and a pang hits my heart as it always does, but then Maryanne is there, all skirt and t-shirt and jingly earrings. She’s not a hippie exactly, but her free spirit loosened me up from a somber child to a young woman who could find joy in life despite the obstacles.
“Stella,” she breathes into my hair as she hugs me.
“Hi, Maryanne.” I happily return her embrace. She smells of barbecue smoke and immediately, I know she’s grilling hotdogs and burgers. It’s my favorite meal because she makes her homemade potato salad, a pitcher of her secret-recipe strawberry lemonade, and she always keeps my favorite chips in the pantry.
“You look nice,” she says, ushering me into the house. Netflix is streaming on the old television, and a girl, maybe fourteen, sits on the sofa simultaneously watching a popular TV show and doing homework. Maryanne would never have allowed me to do that, and she knows it.
“Bethany’s a straight A student. As long as she keeps it up, I don’t mind.”
“Hi, Bethany,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Stella.”
“You’re Zane Maddox’s girlfriend,” she says, ignoring my hand and sizing me up.
Wearing old jeans, a light blue scooped-neck sweater that probably belonged to five other people first, and a fawn-colored faux leather jacket that would make Zarah wrinkle her nose, I don’t look good enough to be labeled that, and even though his cock was inside me only six hours ago, I don’t feel worthy of the title, either. I drop my hand.
Maryanne laughs. “There’s plenty of time to gossip. It’s a lesson that nothing is out of reach.” She winks at me.
Unimpressed, Bethany looks away.
I can’t blame her. She’s in the foster care system. Who knows what her life was like before she ended up here.
The only foster mother who showed me any kind of love leads me into the familiar kitchen and gestures for me to sit at the table. It seats eight and a doily runner lays down the center, autumn-scented candles sitting on top of it. Maryanne once said the table is a family heirloom, and it made me sad. I won’t have anything from my parents to pass down to my children. If I have any. I’ll be starting from scratch.
Maryanne has two children who rarely speak to her. They can’t understand her need to help girls like me. As the years pass, she says her foster girls are her daughters, though her smile always seems forced as she says it.
I look out the window and spot a girl hunched on a wooden swing positioned in the far corner of the yard. She looks lost, and my heart breaks.
“That’s Jilly,” Maryanne says, pouring me a glass of lemonade.
“She’s the one you want me to talk to.”
“Yes, the poor girl. Her parents are divorced, and her father had full custody. He suffered a stroke and can’t take care of her anymore—he’s in a nursing home waiting to die. Her mother didn’t claim her. She’s jetting around God knows where.”
I sip the lemonade, the tart mixing with the sweet on my tongue. Like my life. There are so many blessings I can’t discount, but my life has been hard. Would I appreciate the joy without so much sorrow?
“She doesn’t have any other family?”
Maryanne scoffs. “Scads. No one wants her.”
She doesn’t have to say what I’m already thinking. It’s tough to have no one, but it’s worse when there are people who could love you but don’t.
“God.”
“That about sums it up. I thought if you could connect with her, show her she can make something of herself . . .”
“Sure.” I rise halfway off my chair.
“Wait until after dinner. Let her get to know you a little while we have some table talk.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me about your young man,” Maryanne says, beckoning me out onto the large porch. She opens the door, and the girl on the swing, Jilly, looks our way but doesn’t come over.
While Maryanne keeps an eye on the burgers and hotdogs, I explain how Zarah and I came to be friends, how I met Zane, and how out of place I feel whenever I’m around them.
The evening is gorgeous, the setting sun lighting the sky ablaze with oranges, pinks, and purples. This is part of what I miss living on the outskirts of the city—the peace, the fresh air. But jobs are scarce in the suburbs, and I had little choice but to move.
I treasure my visits, and as the frantic energy of the city oozes out of me, my bones turn to jelly.
The trees in Maryanne’s yard are starting to lose their leaves, and a blanket of burnt orange and browns covers the grass. It was my job to rake, but I never minded. I enjoyed the birds singing, squirrels jumping from tree to tree, cool breezes, and the woodsmoke wafting from the houses around us—people who lit fires in their yards or used real fireplaces to warm their homes.
Fall has always been my favorite time of year, but even more so during the years I lived with Maryanne. She and I would visit a pumpkin patch, and we would spend the afternoon choosing the perfect pumpkin, drinking apple cider, and talking about life. She’s wise and down-to-earth, and I always valued her opinion and point of view. I still do. But I think the best part was handing out candy to trick-or-treaters.
I’ve been trick-or-treating, but not that kind. My life has been filled with tricks and very few treats.
The swing’s chains creak, and Jilly pushes back and forth.
“Are you and Zane a couple?” Maryanne asks, lowering the lid on the grill. The burgers always need longer to cook through.
“No. We haven’t been together long enough for me to think that. He promoted me, and I’m his executive assistant now. Later this week, I’m helping his sister plan a party celebrating . . . I guess Zane taking over the company.”
“I heard about the plane crash.” Maryanne clucks. “There are rumors of foul play.”
The meeting Zane let me sit in on made it sound like more than simply foul play. The plane crash sounds dark, and well, complicated. A senator cheating on his wife with a woman who hosts illegal million-dollar poker parties, and one of the richest, most powerful men in the country and his beautiful wife. God only knows who else.
If there are others like the FBI agent said, passengers unaccounted for, those people have not been reported missing. It’s been six months. Unless someone doesn’t want to call attention to themselves and their families or no one wants to look for them. Or they know the truth, whatever that is.
The whole thing is over my head. The closest thing I ever came to illegal activity is one winter evening when the cops busted a meth lab a few blocks over from Maryanne’s house. They arrested a nice middle-aged couple and confiscated twenty thousand dollars’ worth of drugs.
I can’t wrap my mind around premeditated murder.
Maryanne pins me with a stare waiting for an answer I don’t have.
“It’s been hard for them,” I say.
“I’m sure you’re a sympathetic ear,” she says, patting me on the shoulder.
“He took a chance promoting me. While he’s learning his place in the company, I’m learning how to do my job. I’m hoping I learn first so I can help him figure out the rest.”
Maryanne grips my chin. “I’m proud of you. I knew when you lived here that you would make something of yourself.”
Tears fill my eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“That’s nonsense. You put up with a lot of shit before I took you. You can do anything you set your mind to, young lady. It’s why I want you to talk to Jilly. She needs some of your spunk. Now, help this old lady bring the food in. Jilly!” Maryanne calls across the yard. “Time to eat.”
The girl had been watching us talk, and she reluctantly slides off the swing bench, kicking at the leaves as she ambles across the grass. She’s thin, her skin pale, and when I meet her eyes, they’re empty, flat. She stares right through me.
Maryanne, the girls, and I sit at the table, and I don’t waste a second. Cooking for one isn’t fun, and I usually make do fixing a sandwich, heating a package of ramen noodles in the microwave, or throwing together a salad if I can afford tomatoes.
It will be a few weeks before my paychecks reflecting my pay raise kick in, but once they do, I’ll be able to eat better.
I enjoy the meal Maryanne cooked for us, and Bethany and I have a brief conversation about the original Gossip Girl TV show and how tall we think Blake Lively is. We run out of things to say, and Maryanne asks if the stores in the city have Christmas decorations in their windows yet.
I have a love/hate relationship with the holidays. I spend them alone. Maryanne invites me to celebrate with her, but I always decline. I want the girls who live here to have the bulk of her attention. If Maryanne shared the holidays with all the girls she’s fostered over the years, her small house would be full to bursting.
Every year I tell myself I don’t mind being alone on Thanksgiving and Christmas. They feel like plain old days off work to me, only I’m paid to stay home in bed and read. Now that I’ve been promoted and Zarah and Zane will be taking up more of my time, my holiday schedule will be busier. I have no idea if that will be a good thing or bad.
We help Maryanne clean the kitchen after dinner, bumping into each other as we do dishes and store leftovers in the fridge. It’s pleasant, and Maryanne playfully elbows me when I accidentally step on her foot. She tells us there’s apple pie for dessert, but she says, “Stella, will you and Jilly rake the backyard first? The leaves are out of control.”
Her eyes full of hurt that she was left out, Bethany opens her mouth to protest, but Maryanne places a finger over her lips. She slumps in dejection and shuffles into the living room.
I hear the TV turn on.
Jilly looks like she wants to be anywhere than where she is. I smile at her, but she averts her gaze.
Talking to her is going to be tough—I hate bringing up my past. It’s like a wound that scabs over, and then every time I explain what happened to me, it starts to bleed all over again.
We find rakes in the garage, in the same place Maryanne stored them when I lived here, and a few seconds later, we’re raking dead leaves into piles. The stars start to twinkle.
It’s difficult finding a place to start. These kinds of conversations are always hard, and having been in Jilly’s position, I know they’re unwelcome, too. “Maryanne said your dad had a stroke. I’m sorry.”
“She brings me to visit him a lot,” Jilly says, dragging her rake across the grass.
“That’s nice.”
“It hurts. I can see in his eyes he wants to say something, but it’s like he’s trapped in his body.”
“It must give him peace to know that Maryanne is taking good care of you.”
Jilly might have ended up in a home where they only foster kids for the money and to turn them into servants or maids. Before my time in the system ended at Maryanne’s, I worked on a farm. I loved the animals, but those were long days. My social worker saw the potential in me and moved me out. I’ll always be grateful that someone saw me as a person and not another mouth to feed.
“I think he likes her.” Jilly offers me a timid smile. “Why did you live here?”
I rake for a few moments and gather my thoughts. “My mom died when I was a baby. Her parents disowned her for getting pregnant. She kept me, but she got sick and there wasn’t anyone who wanted me after she passed away. I grew up in foster care.”
“That sucks.”
I lean against the rake’s handle. “In King’s Crossing, there are over three thousand kids in foster care. You’re lucky you ended up with Maryanne. She’s one of the good ones. How long have you been here? Is this your first foster home?”
Jilly shakes her head. “I spent a couple of nights with a family while a lady at social services searched for my mom and talked to my aunts. My mom’s in Greece living on a rich guy’s yacht, and the last thing she wants is me dragging her down. My dad’s sister is too sick and didn’t want the responsibility, though I can mostly take care of myself. My mom’s sisters have their own families and said they didn’t have time to add an extra kid.” She wipes away a tear. “I sat outside her office and listened to her go down the list.”
The list of family who didn’t want a sixteen-year old girl.
She seems too timid and immature to emancipate herself, and now that she’s under Maryanne’s roof, Maryanne won’t let her. At seventeen, I would have, but Maryanne said no. She said she’d miss me too much, but I suspect it was to give me one last year of childhood.
Jilly clams up, and we both wrestle with the idea we’re alone.
Zane said he’s falling in love with me, but I don’t know if I can believe it. We’ve been together only a few days. His mental state is shaky, and I know better than to depend on him for emotional support. I don’t want to regret letting him make love to me in his office. I tremble inside whenever he’s around, and looking into his big brown puppy-dog eyes, I want to give him anything he needs.
I’m not the first woman who’s fallen victim to his wounded expression, not the first woman he’s lured into bed, but I want to be his last. I wish I could trust him, but after years of being let down, I can’t. That’s partly Maryanne’s fault, drumming it into my head I’m the only one who can take care of me. Too bad so many people have proven her right.
I need to give Zane time to earn my trust. If he wants to earn it.
I think he does. I hope he does.
Whenever I think about what he did to me in his office, I turn all gooey inside. I wonder if it will change things between us. I’ll find out in the morning when I go to work.
Jilly and I settle on the swing after we’re done, falling into an uneasy silence. I don’t know what Maryanne wants me to say to her. We’re different, but the same.
Maybe we’re too different and she won’t listen to me.
“Maryanne says you’re having some trouble.” I push the swing, my toe pressed against the hard ground.
“Wouldn’t you?” she asks bitterly.
I measure my words. “I did. By the time I ended up here, I’d lived through some pretty crappy situations. There are lots of crummy foster homes in the city. I guess what I want to tell you is that Maryanne cares. She lets you see your dad. She’ll give you what you need—including love. She might be strict, but she’s like that to help you. She wants you to succeed.”
Jilly sniffles. She knows what I’m saying is true. She’s been here long enough to know I’m not lying.
“Don’t blow it, you mean.”
“Listen, Jilly. I know you got it rough. Family who won’t, or can’t, care about you. It’s worse than being alone. There was no one in the whole world who wanted me after my mom passed away. That can make you feel small. That can make you feel invisible. If no one loves you, can you exist? Do you exist?”
Her gaze whips to mine, and I know I landed on the heart of her issues.
“The answer is yes. You exist. You were put on this earth for something extraordinary, but you won’t find out what it is if you curl up in a ball and hide. You had to leave your friends, your school, your neighborhood. Trust me, I did that many times. I graduated high school without one friend. Didn’t have a party—I had no one to invite. Maryanne and I went out and ate dinner at a fancy restaurant, and when she asked me what I wanted for a gift, I asked her for a tattoo.”
Jilly tilts her head in curiosity.
I shrug out of my jacket and pull my sweater’s neckline low, revealing the back of my shoulder. “It’s a dove holding an olive branch. It symbolizes peace. I found peace the minute I realized I can take care of myself, that people will love me, like Maryanne. That just because I don’t have a family, that doesn’t mean I won’t someday. My mom loved me. It’s not her fault she got sick. Your dad loves you, too. Find peace, Jilly.”
I want to tell her more, but I can’t. Tears burn my throat. I never knew my mom, but tonight, sitting under the stars next to this girl who is me four years ago, I miss her.
She starts crying, and I wrap my arms around her. The back door opens, and Maryanne watches us for a long time.
Finally, I nudge her. “Let’s go inside. There’s pie.”
She treats me to a faint smile. “I know. I made it. My dad and I used to bake together.”
“Cool.”
We pass the rest of the evening playing a board game, and I give Jilly my cell number in case she needs to talk. She seems brighter somehow, not so somber. Maybe she realizes she doesn’t have it so bad after all.
Maryanne hugs me tightly and whispers, “Thank you.” She opens the door, and I step out of the only real home I’ve ever known.
The bus drivers nod at me, and I sit next to an old man on the train. I step into my tiny apartment, and the silence envelops me. I have my own place. I have a good job.
Zane texts me goodnight, and I let out a sigh.
Jilly doesn’t have it that bad, and when it comes right down to how things could be, I don’t either.
I’ve barely sat in my seat and booted up my computer, a cup of coffee near my elbow, when Zarah texts and says she can’t meet until later. I have plenty to keep me busy, and I don’t mind.
All morning I meticulously write out messages for Zane and work on my software modules between phone calls and answering email. For lunch, I grab a sandwich from the company cafeteria and read the paper. There’s only a short article about Zane’s parents, and I’ve disappeared from the society pages. Thank goodness. I still don’t have many duties, and that afternoon, Harper asks for my help. I’m grateful she’s not annoyed she has to train me to do basic tasks, and it doesn’t bother me she’s more my supervisor than Zane. I only want to contribute to the company and earn my paycheck however I can. I eagerly agree to her request.
She fills my email inbox, and I transcribe voice-recorded meeting notes and proofread documents like memos and letters. She’s easing me into what my real duties will be and how Zane, Denton, and Cramer and their assistants run the office. Between those two projects and my classes, I’m busy and happy.
Every time Zane passes my desk, he rests his palm on the surface, just for a moment, before moving on. He’s thinking about me.
He looks sharp in a black suit, and a black, silver, and red tie. He looks older than his twenty-five years, self-assured, confident. But every once in a while I’ll catch him when he thinks no one is watching, and he’ll wipe away tears. I want to hug him, but today Denton and Cramer need every minute and I don’t get a chance to catch him alone.
Everyone is gone for the day, and I sit at my desk and guide myself through a tutorial to learn the scheduling software on my computer. I’m figuring out how to edit my calendar and how to enter appointments into Zane’s.
The screen is full of colored squares, and I constantly look at the key to remember what the colors mean. In the office, out of the office, out of town, out of country. An hour off when he wishes not to be disturbed. Harper told me to do that for him regularly to give him a breather, and that’s when it hit me I’m in control of his time. I want to make the most of that.
It’s approaching six o’clock, and my body is telling me to go home. I don’t blame it. Pajamas, a bowl of popcorn, the couch, and a movie sound pretty good. I don’t know what’s holding Zarah up, but she said she’d text when she’s downstairs.
Sighing, I start another module and feel someone step up behind me.
Zane touches the back of my neck. “What are you still doing here?”
I pause my lesson and swivel in my chair. His suit is rumpled, and his hair is messy. He has the look of a lost little boy, but the sophistication of a wealthy man. The combination is too much, and I keep myself from swooning into a puddle at his feet. “Waiting for Zarah. Are you working late again?”
“Yeah, but I have fifteen minutes. Come here.”
“Do you need me to take notes?” I reach for the iPad laying near my keyboard.
“No. It’s not that type of meeting.”
His eyes meet mine and my muscles quiver.
I drop my hand and swallow. “Okay.”
I follow him into his office, and he closes the shades, though the executive floor is empty. The city is spread out beneath us, kneeling at the feet of the future king of King’s Crossing.
He backs me against the wall and kisses me, and my insides go liquid. Not because of the passion, not because of the heat, but because of how tender he is. He barely presses his lips to mine...he barely touches my hair.
“Stella,” he murmurs, and I picture my heart a mushy lump in my chest. I want him. I want to give him something, and I rub my fingers over his cock. He’s hard, and he moans as I caress him through his pants.
“Do you want me, Zane?” I ask, my voice sounding nothing like me.
Last night I counseled a girl and told her she’s strong enough to survive anything. I’m the same person, but this evening, I feel like I can’t think unless Zane’s inside me.
Like I can’t live if he doesn’t love me.
“More than you will ever know,” he whispers.
I had to dress in another secondhand suit, and to appear more sophisticated, I brushed the front of my hair back and fastened it away from my face with a gold clip. I’m trying to fit in the best I can until I can afford to spend more on clothing, but the pieces are made of a lighter material and the skirt and blazer are a cream and periwinkle blue. Zarah will know the minute she sees me that this isn’t a fall outfit. Zane probably knows too, but he doesn’t care, skimming his finger over my thin blouse that matches the cream.
My nipples harden.
He nuzzles my lips again, crowding me against the wall. As much as I want him, I don’t want to keep having sex in his office.
“Zane...” I need him to love me in a bed and he hears it in my voice, but he sinks to his knees.
“Just let me give you a little something until we can have a proper date night.”
“Will you come home with me tomorrow?” I ask, my legs trembling as he glides his hands up my thighs.
“Yes,” he says, finding the tops of my garters. I don’t know why I started wearing them except to entice him to do exactly what he’s doing.
Zane pushes aside my panties and finds me dripping. I’m in a constant state of arousal around him. Sometimes I miss something in a module because I’m daydreaming about him tying me up with one of his ties instead of learning how to calculate a formula.
“Jesus, Stella.”
I agree.
I widen my legs, wobbling on my beige heels. He nudges me with a fingertip, feeling how swollen and needy I am, and I use the wall for support, my fingers digging uselessly into the textured paint. I want him to push inside me, one finger, two, even three, but instead of begging, I let him go at his own pace. He’ll enjoy pleasing me, and I’ll enjoy the anticipation too. If I don’t pass out first.
My skirt is bunched around my waist, and Zane holds my panties aside and pleasures me. I look down at him kneeling on the floor, and it’s so sexy.
Gently, he slides a finger into me, and I moan.
“You like that,” he says, pushing his finger inside me as far as it will go. He adds another and slicks his thumb against my clit. At the light touch, I quiver and bite my lip. I don’t want to come right away, but he twists his fingers, and when he replaces his thumb with his hot tongue, I teeter on the precipice of an orgasm.
I’m going to die of pleasure, my blood fizzing, every nerve ending on fire.
“Stella, I love the way you taste.”
“More,” I plead, widening my legs as far as I can without falling. I wish he would lay me down on the couch, or even bend me over his desk again. At this point, I’m going crazy and desperately need him inside me. I don’t care that earlier I said I didn’t want to make love in his office. I’ll let him have me wherever the hell he wants.
“Do you want to come, sweetheart?” he murmurs against the inside of my thigh. His lips brush the sensitive skin there, and it’s almost as good as his tongue on my clit.
“Yes. No. Not this way. Please, Zane.”
“Yes. Like this. I took last time, and tonight is for you. Come, Stella, come for me, baby girl.”
His mouth covers my pussy and he sucks my clit. He cups my ass pulling me close, and I move against him, closer still.
Moaning, I come, the orgasm sparking in my belly and shooting through the rest of my body. Zane’s hands hold me in place as he laps at my cum like it’s honey and he can’t get enough. He licks until the pleasure becomes pain, and I try to wiggle away.
He doesn’t let me go. “No, again,” he demands, and he sucks at my engorged clit.
Tears gather in my eyes. I can’t come again. I’ve never been able to give myself multiple orgasms, but Zane shoves two fingers inside me, and the pressure changes from pain to something else. He licks my clit, slowly, gently, and it’s enough to send me over.
The orgasm rocking through me hurts, but it feels good, too, the pleasured pain a sensation that’s not familiar.
Zane moans, twisting his fingers, the tip of one grazing the most sensitive spot in my whole body. He teases out the last of my orgasm, and tears run down my cheeks.
He tenderly cleans me using a starched white handkerchief he pulls out of his pocket.
I’m so raw, and my insides are sliding around like I’m drunk. He adjusts my panties, and while he’s still on his knees, pats his lips and dries his chin.
I try to push my skirt down over my hips, but he does that for me, even tucking in the hem of my blouse.
“Are you okay?” he asks, wrapping his arms around me and kissing away my tears.
“Yes.” I release a shaky breath. “I’ve never felt so...” I want to say loved, taken care of. Pampered.
He must be so hard and uncomfortable after that, but he only holds me, giving me no indication he wants more.
I rest my head against his chest, my cheek grazing his tie.
“Good?” he finishes.
I nod.
“That’s good. It’s what I wanted. Stella,” he says, leaning away and brushing his thumb over my damp jaw, “this has gone so fast, maybe too fast, but from the first moment I met you, I knew. I knew you were special. Please don’t be scared of me or where this is going. I need you.”
It’s like he heard all my internal struggles and knew just the things to say to ease my fears. We are going too fast, but if he slowed us down, he’d break my heart. What he’s done to me is already irreparable.
“I promise,” I whisper.
Zane kisses me, and my flavor saturates my mouth. Heat stirs in my belly, and he feels the tension. “You’re insatiable,” he says, amused, his fingertip tracing my lips. “I don’t have time to do more, though it would be nice to have you. You’re meeting Zarah?”
I nod. I don’t know how much time has passed.
“Have fun planning my torture. Think about me between your legs while you talk about dinner entrées and floral centerpieces.”
Lifting onto my toes, I murmur against his lips, “Think about me, lowering myself onto your cock, inch by inch, while you sit in on another conference call. You’ve had your way with me twice. Next time, it’s my turn.”
When I step out of his office, he has a dopey smile on his face, and I tamp back my own smile. I sit behind my desk and just then, thankfully, Zarah texts me. I didn’t want to wait any longer. I shut my computer down, grab my purse, and meet her downstairs. I hope she doesn’t know what her brother and I have been doing, but her smirk says otherwise.
Crap.
We go back to the Sweet Apple, but instead of sitting in the crowded dining room, she leads me upstairs to a small office. A desk sits along one wall, and a conference table that seats six is positioned near a window that looks out onto the city street.
I’m surprised we don’t go to their penthouse, but Zarah seems content to settle into the cozy room.
“Do you want something to eat?” she asks, lifting the receiver of a phone sitting on the desk.
I’m starving, but I shrug. I still feel the sting of humiliation the first time we ate here and Zarah made me believe we were leaving without paying.
“I’ll order a few things. Another martini?”
“Sure,” I say, not wanting to be a stick in the mud, but I’m thinking of this as a business dinner and we probably shouldn’t be drinking. I need to watch everything Zarah does and learn. I’ll be making valuable contacts, and the last thing I want to do is come across as tipsy and immature.
I wiggle out of my trench coat, slip my blazer off, roll the sleeves of my blouse to my elbows, and kick off my shoes. I feel immediately better, and I even look forward to the martini. I’ll sip it. Slowly.
Zarah finishes ordering our dinners and digs into a leather bag she dropped onto the chair next to me. She pulls out a sleek, silver laptop and her cell phone and places them onto the table. Sighing, she unties her coat’s belt and slides her arms out of the sleeves.
“You went to work dressed in that?” I blurt out, gawking, unable to stop myself.
She pinned her hair into an elegant chignon, but that’s where her professionalism ends. Her black cocktail dress is cut so low, her lace bra peeks out the top. Her blazer is beautifully cut, but no one would look at it...her boobs are on full display. A sparkly, and no doubt real, diamond necklace flashes at her throat.
The hem of her skirt stops mid-thigh revealing a cute garter, little pink bows decorating the snaps.
When we met in the lobby of Maddox Industries, I didn’t pay attention to her shoes, but her fuck-me heels are not office appropriate. She looks like a high-class hooker. The type of woman who hangs on a gambling whale in Vegas hoping to trade sex for a portion of the winnings.
Zarah flushes, and she stares down at the table, twisting her fingers in front of her. “Ash asked me to be a bit more revealing. He says the men dealing in the high-stakes negotiations are under a lot of pressure and it helps them relax. Plus, he likes it when I dress this way. He’s always hot for me.”
It sounds like Ash just wants Zarah around as a plaything, to keep his days from being too tedious, but she does look glamorous dressed like that. Her figure is perfect for it, and her stilettos make her legs look miles long. Now I understand why she didn’t want Zane to see her. I don’t know how she’ll sneak inside the penthouse after our meeting.
“You look lovely,” I say, not wanting to ruffle her feathers. I’m not a week into this new world, and I don’t know the rules, much less what game we’re playing. Besides, I’m hardly one to talk. I started wearing garters too, to give Zane access whenever he wants it.
Zarah and I are both whores.
She keeps her stilettos on, sits at the table, and opens her laptop. It’s no wonder Ash likes looking at her. I like looking at her. She’s a billion dollars’ worth of sin wrapped in black lace. Embarrassment still staining her cheeks, she pulls a notebook and pen out of her bag. She crosses her legs, and I catch a glimpse of black satin.
Maybe I should tell Zane I don’t think his sister is safe in Ash’s office, but who am I to draw a conclusion like that?
Someone knocks on the door, interrupting my thoughts.
Zarah glances at me, and taking the hint, I pad across the office and open the door. Two waitresses who look just as crisp and fresh as the first time I ate here serve our drinks and meals, silently placing the martini glasses and plates on the conference table. I thank them, close the door, and sit at the table, rolling my chair close to Zarah. I want to be able to see her screen and write down everything she does. I’m glad I came prepared, and I pull out a steno notebook, a pen, and the iPad that came with my desk that’s synched to my new phone out of my purse.
We munch, and between bites, Zarah calls the Lyndhurst—a glamorous hotel in King’s Crossing—to reserve the ballroom.
“We own it,” she explains nonchalantly, dragging a French fry through a puddle of ketchup. “The wedding reception we bumped will be moved to a different space.”
“Isn’t that rude?” Zane has been fabulous, treating me with respect and kindness. He doesn’t act arrogant or pompous, not like Ash. When I’m with him, sometimes I forget he’s a Maddox and worth billions of dollars.
“Not really. The banquet manager will pass on my request. We’ll give the bride and groom accommodations at one of our other properties and a steep discount for their trouble. It won’t be the Lyndhurst, but we need it more.”
Shades of the businesswoman Zarah will grow up to be are evident in her posture, the confident scrawl in her notebook, and her assertive attitude. I wish I had that kind of self-assurance, but I’m afraid I never will. Only money, breeding, and DNA can give you that.
I have none of those things.
“That’s nice of you.”
“I didn’t do it to be nice. We have a reputation to uphold. If the Maddoxes all of a sudden started doing whatever we wanted, we’d be labeled as powder kegs and no one would want to do business with us. I stole that couple’s reception venue and needed to give them something in return. It wouldn’t have happened at all if we would have had more time, but the sooner everyone knows my brother is ready to step into our father’s place, the better.”
I listen to every word she says—she’s teaching me valuable lessons. I thought she was simply being courteous, but her explanation reminds me that every move she makes, every little thing she says, she does having her name and reputation in mind. The bride’s and groom’s parents could be big players in King’s Crossing—Zane’s business associates—and just now Zarah may have made allies, not enemies. I’ll need to remember that, too. In payroll, I was a nobody. As Zane’s assistant, I represent Maddox Industries.
Next, we work on the guest list. Zarah is very generous, not holding back any information and explaining in detail the who’s who of King’s Crossing. The Blacks are on the top of the list, of course, as business associates and family friends. Zarah says Ash’s name and shivers. A little like me when I think of Zane.
“If we do a private cocktail hour, let everyone mingle, then a private dinner, and then we open the ballroom and the bar to the public...” Zarah fades, tapping a pen to her lush lips.
“How long is this going to last?” I ask, appalled. This would be no wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am party.
Zarah stares at me, incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight-thirty, open to the public at ten. Party until two in the morning. This is a big deal.”
“Jesus Christ,” I murmur. “That’s a lot of time in heels.”
She laughs. “I adore you, Stella. I really do. We’ll go shopping and find you a pair that fit.”
I purse my lips.
“Don’t think I don’t see you cramming your feet into those beat-up things.”
“I can’t afford—”
She leans into me. “Hush. Maddox Industries has clothing accounts at all the stores. Bring your work badge with you and put your clothes on your expense account. Harper and the girls in the office do it. Zane should have told you.”
“Are you sure?” That sounds crazy expensive.
“Yes, but I would really love it if we could go shopping together. You’re gorgeous, Stella. It will be fun to dress you. I want to see Zane’s eyes bug out of his head.”
“I’d like to see that too,” I admit, laughing.
Zarah giggles and orders us two more martinis.
Party planning is fun, but the real work will be that night when I meet the guests and I’m expected to remember their names.
We work late ironing out who is special enough to have a seat at dinner. Zarah starts mentioning people who don’t live in King’s Crossing, or even the United States, and things are even more complicated.
“This party is short notice, and some won’t be able to come. We’ll put a tight window on the RSVPs and then we can bump up guests as others decline. Will you be able to keep track of the guest list? It makes more sense if you do it since you’ll be handling the bulk of the calls during the day, and you’ll be in charge of doing a lot of this stuff in the future.”
“Sure,” I agree, but my heart thumps. It sounds like a lot of responsibility. “Can I go over this with Harper and ask her to help me? She’ll know everyone, won’t she? I don’t want to mess up.”
“No problem. She helped my mom quite a few times, but I’ll put your email and cell phone number on the invitations. You’ll be stepping in as Zane’s assistant, so this will be good for everyone else, too. Train them to start going through you to get to Zane.”
In the end, we make a list of over five hundred people.
Zarah asks me to call the Lyndhurst back and give the banquet manager the tentative head count and the evening’s schedule. She and I will spend a couple of hours there ensuring the space is set up correctly before we attend the press conference that will take place in front Maddox Industries on the steps that overlook the city street. The building will be the perfect background.
We work on that next, sending emails to all the news outlets letting them know which day and what time Zane will be speaking. After Zane’s speech, there will be a short period allowing reporters to ask questions. “But not too long. They’ll hound Zane to death if we don’t stop them,” she says.
“Don’t you have a PR manager or something?” I ask, puzzled we’re putting together the press conference ourselves. It’s nothing I’m familiar with, though Zarah seems at ease emailing everyone, using a contact list saved on her computer. She knows people everywhere.
“My mom did it. She majored in public relations, and she had a master’s in marketing. All I know I learned from her, but I don’t understand this kind of thing well enough to take her place—not without going to school. I can get us through Zane’s dinner, but then, yes, we’ll have to figure out what we need to do from there. We’ve been grieving, and Zane and I have been on autopilot. A lot of things will change, will have to change, now that he’s finally—” She stops, her voice breaking.
I wrap my arm around Zarah’s shaking shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’re right. Normally, we wouldn’t be the ones doing this, but it will be okay for now. I’ll mention to Zane that we should contact a PR firm soon to replace Mom, or maybe he’ll want to hire someone and keep it in-house. See what he says. Excuse me.”
She wipes her eyes and lets herself out of the office.
While she’s using the bathroom, I search for pianists online, and when she comes back, I suggest someone play during cocktail hour and ask if we shouldn’t have a speaker.
Dry-eyed, Zarah plops into her seat. “Fabulous ideas. Zane will have to speak, of course, and since Ash’s dad and my dad were such good friends, I’ll ask Mr. Black to say a few words. He’ll be honored.”
Near nine o’clock, we’re finally close to finishing up. She trusts me to choose and schedule the pianist, and she shows me how to file the expenses. When the bills come in, the accounting department will be expecting them and pay them.
“Different things use different codes for tax purposes,” she explains, showing me PDF after PDF that surprisingly don’t look too complicated. “Donations, parties, business dinners. Zane’s easy—he uses a business credit card—but this kind of thing needs to be billed properly. This party’s going to cost a couple hundred thousand dollars, and we need that money accounted for down to the penny.”
The figure leaves me reeling, and I swallow the bile all that waste threatens to bring up my throat. I’m one of them now. “Your mom taught you all this?”
She shuts down her laptop and unplugs the charger from one of the outlets conveniently placed in the center of the table. “Yeah. She’s been showing me how since I was in grade school. It’s hard to do it without her, though. I keep thinking she’s looking over my shoulder, ready to point out something I’m doing wrong.”
I hate saying the same thing but it’s all I can offer. “I’m sorry.”
She smiles. “It’s okay. Zane’s bouncing back, thanks to you.”
I don’t want to take credit for something so serious. I don’t want to feel like if something were to happen to us, Zane wouldn’t be all right.
She stands, and once again I’m struck by the way she’s dressed.
“Are you okay?” I ask as she slides on her trench coat.
“Yeah. Why?” She packs up her laptop, charger, and cell phone and shoves her notebook and pen into the side pocket of the bag.
Covered up, she looks like a professional career woman who has a penchant for naughty shoes. Maybe that’s all it is. That’s all I would think if I hadn’t met Ashton Black.
“Just making sure.” I don’t have anything else I can add. Zarah will defend Ash, I know she will. She’s in love with the rat, and there’s no talking to a woman when she’s wearing rose-colored glasses.
“Let’s go shopping soon.”
I’m thankful she doesn’t suggest tomorrow night. I’m looking forward to having Zane over. “Text me.”
Zarah throws a smile and a wave over her shoulder.
Our martinis still have a couple inches of vodka in them, and I drain both glasses. No use wasting good booze. It goes against all my manners to leave our dishes in the office, and I carry them downstairs to the kitchen. Crinkling her eyes in amused appreciation, a waitress relieves me of the stack and wishes me goodnight. I forgot to thank Zarah for the meal—I won’t be stupid and pay this time—and pausing near the bar’s exit, I text her. She sends me back a blowing kiss emoji.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I breathe in a deep lungful of evening air. The bright city lights can’t compete with the stars, and I miss the tranquility of Maryanne’s backyard.
I pass by a Donna Karan boutique on the way to the train, and I hesitate for a moment, admiring the dresses displayed in the windows. Wanting to know if what Zarah said is true, I let myself inside. A saleswoman greets me, and I give her credit for a cheerful demeanor at nine-thirty at night. Plus one extra point because she doesn’t wrinkle her nose. I have no business shopping in this store.
I feel awkward now, but it’s too late to back out. Tomorrow I’ll see if Harper has a list of clothing stores that I’ll be able to shop at, but tonight, now that Zarah put the idea into my head, a new dress would be nice to wear to work.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m wondering, well, I work at Maddox Industries, and Zarah, I mean, Miss Maddox...” If I’m going to be Zane’s executive assistant, I’m going to have to learn to be more assertive and coherent than this. “Is this store a part of, I mean, does Maddox Industries have an expense account here?”
The statuesque saleswoman nods, and her face clears. “Of course. I recognize you now. You’re Stella Mayfair. If you have your badge, we’ll create an account for you. I need the ID number off the back. Were you looking for anything in particular?”
I relax. “How do you know me?”
“Sweetie, you’ve been all over social media. Zane Maddox’s girlfriend of the moment and new executive assistant. Quite a catch you made, but he seems to have good taste as well.”
She helps me choose colors and styles, and I try on several dresses, skirts, and blouses. An hour later, I have clothing more work-appropriate than what I currently own and two new pairs of heels. The woman rattles off the total and I gag, but all she does is staple a copy of the receipt to a Maddox Industries billing invoice and wishes me goodnight.
So, this is how it’s going to be. I’m the girlfriend of the moment. I should enjoy it while it lasts.
Nothing this good is real.
I can be the first to tell you that.