6. Nikki
The entiretyof my employment at the Blakely Advertising Agency had been spent in the studios located on the bottom two floors of the skyscraper, with the exception of a visit to HR on the fifth floor to do some paperwork on my first day.
As I entered the glossy, luxurious lobby on a brisk autumn morning, it already felt like a strange place in which I didn’t belong. My heels echoed on the marble floors as my gaze snagged on a few palm fronds fluttering in an artificial breeze in the corner.
The security desk was to my right, with the elevators directly in front, behind a row of electronic gates. I took a deep breath.
“Everything will be fine,” Phil Phillips told me reassuringly. “Let’s just hear them out. I’ll cut in if I think they’re trying to do something that isn’t in your best interest.”
He was a tall, wiry man in his early sixties, with kind brown eyes and a full head of hair. His suit looked expensive—bespoke, probably—and he wore a designer watch. He moved easily, like he knew he belonged in spaces exactly like this one.
I was glad to have him beside me. “Okay. Thank you for coming,” I told him.
The older man inclined his head, then strode to the security desk to check in.
I scurried after him, stopping at the chest-high piece of marble. The man behind the counter had dark-brown skin and close-cut hair. His beard was trimmed to millimeter-precision. He looked as glossy and attractive as the rest of the people who worked in this building, and I wondered how I’d snuck past that particular filter to get a job in the first place.
But I was here, and there was an expensive lawyer beside me, so I might as well see why Blakely had set this meeting in the first place.
“Nikita Jordan here to see Rome Blakely,” I told him, my voice wobbling a tiny bit. “I have an appointment.”
The man nodded and tapped on his computer. “He’s expecting you,” he said, then shifted his gaze to the lawyer beside me. “And you are?”
“Phil Phillips. I’m representing Ms. Jordan.”
“Of course. Please fill out the tablet in front of you to sign in, and I’ll issue your visitor passes.” He gestured to the device bolted to the check-in desk, then waited patiently for us to finish the sign-in process. Once we were done, he gave me an encouraging smile as he handed me my visitor pass. “Take the elevator to the forty-second floor. Someone will be there to greet you.”
“Thank you,” I said, then took a deep breath and passed through the gates that granted us access to the elevator bank.
“Nikki?”
I turned to see Eleanor struggling through one of the doors leading to the ground-floor studio at the back of the building. She had an unwieldy cardboard box in her hands, and I hurried over to help her with the door.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have a meeting with Rome Blakely,” I explained.
She looked at me like I’d started speaking another language. “What?”
I laughed. “I know.”
Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ballerina bun. She blew out a breath and shook her head. “Good luck. You want to grab a drink or something this week? How’s the hand? Have you heard about them offering everyone full benefits this week?” She glanced behind me and shook her head. “The elevator’s here. Call me when you’re done! We’ll go out tonight and you can tell me everything.”
Smiling, I nodded and hustled over to where Phil held open the elevator door. One of the security guards swiped his pass and pressed the button for the forty-second floor for us before stepping out to let the doors close. I noticed it was as high as the numbers went. We were headed to the top of the building.
“What was she saying?” Phil asked. “The woman you were speaking to.”
“Who, Eleanor? She just wanted to grab a drink with me later.”
“No. The other thing.”
“Oh. Apparently they’ve offered everyone full benefits, or something? I didn’t have time to get the full story.”
A slow, victorious smile stretched over Phil’s lips. “They’re covering their asses.”
The screen above the door flashed with increasing numbers as the elevator shot up through the core of the building. “What do you mean?”
“Everything is going to be fine. They’re scrambling, Nikki. We have the upper hand. Now look sharp,” was all he said.
The elevator slowed so smoothly I barely felt it, and then the doors opened to reveal a bright white lobby and a woman of about forty, staring at us from behind thick-rimmed glasses. She wore a dark-green dress with an asymmetrical neckline and a perfectly tailored waist. I wanted to ask her where she got it, but I doubted I’d be able to afford it even if I knew. Her brown hair had golden highlights that had obviously been done by someone who was an expert colorist.
Her gaze was sharp as she took in my appearance. I’d chosen a black tweed dress that fit close to the body. It was piped in white and had big, white, fabric-covered buttons. It was fabulous, even if I’d bought it for less than twenty dollars in a bargain bin and had to do some major repairs to the aged fabric. Whether or not the woman agreed was hard to tell.
All she did was nod and say, “Ms. Jordan. Mr. Phillips. My name is Clara. Mr. Blakely will be with you in just a moment. Please follow me.”
I was impressed she knew our names—especially Phil’s. Then again, she’d probably been notified of us signing in, which meant she—and Rome, and whoever else would be attending this meeting—now knew I had brought legal representation.
My heart thumped as we crossed the white space. Two white leather armchairs were clustered around a heavy-looking wooden coffee table. The walls had a few large pieces of art to break up the blank color scheme so that the overall effect of the lobby was one of money, prestige, and—to me—intimidation.
I took a deep breath and trotted after Clara, my heels clacking in time with hers. Beside me, Phil stalked, utterly calm—almost serene. A small smile teased the corners of his lips.
If only I could have an ounce of that confidence. As it was, I felt like I was walking deeper into the dragon’s lair. Danger lurked just beyond my sight, but I could sense it.
I didn’t belong here.
“Please,” Clara said, gesturing to an open door. We entered a medium-sized conference room with a great view of Manhattan.
I drifted to the windows to glance down at the world spread out below my feet, then turned when Clara cleared her throat.
“Can I get you coffee or tea? Water?”
“Water’s fine,” I said.
Phil chose a seat with his back to the windows, midway down the long table. “I’d love a coffee, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Dash of cream if you have it.”
Clara inclined her head, then clip-clopped down the hard floors until the sound of her shoes faded. I sat beside Phil who rocked slightly back and forth in his chair, his fingers drumming on its arms. He looked like he was out for a day at the beach instead of a boardroom in a billionaire’s building.
I, on the other hand, was full of nervous energy. I unclasped my purse and pulled out my compact mirror and my bullet lipstick. My hands trembled slightly, but the familiar motion of uncapping the lipstick and twisting it up settled my nerves enough that I could reapply it without worrying about looking like a five-year-old who’d raided her mother’s makeup drawer.
I was halfway through swiping my favorite rust-red onto my top lip when I heard the sound of many footsteps. I would look stupid if I stopped now, since the pigment on my bottom lip had worn off slightly, so all I could do was keep going. That meant that when Rome Blakely strode through the conference room door followed by half a dozen men and women wearing severe suits and scowling faces, I was in the process of painting my bottom lip.
Lifting my gaze, I saw Rome’s thunderous expression as he watched me. Long fingers grabbed the back of the leather chair across from mine as a network of tiny lines tightened in the corners of his eyes. He wore another one of his expensive white shirts under a perfectly tailored suit. His tie today was black silk. He looked powerful and in control of his domain.
I felt like a trembling little mouse with a bullet of red lipstick in her paws.
Beside me, Phil stood. “Mr. Blakely,” he greeted politely. “Very nice to meet you.”
I snapped my compact mirror closed and slipped it into its designated slot in my purse. Then I worked the lipstick bullet back into its tube and slipped the lid back where it belonged. My movements were slow and deliberate, because otherwise I’d betray the fact that my heart was fluttering, and my fingers felt swollen and uncoordinated. The last thing I wanted to do was drop something and make a fool of myself.
It wasn’t until I put the lipstick away and stood beside my lawyer that Rome Blakely tore his gaze away from me to bare his teeth at the man to my left. “I wasn’t aware Ms. Jordan had engaged your services,” he said.
Phil shrugged, unconcerned. “I’m sure we can all come to a resolution today. That’s why we’re here.”
The man to Blakely’s right snorted. “Give me a break, Phillips. You’ve never wanted to resolve anything amicably in your life.”
Phil met the other man’s snarling face and gave him a genial smile. “Arthur. Long time. How’re Trudy and the kids?”
Arthur’s face went bright red. He opened his mouth to retort, but Blakely put his arm up.
“Gentlemen,” he said, voice low. “Please.”
Clara entered a moment later, defusing the last of the tension. She pushed a trolley into the room, then grabbed a pitcher of water off it and set it in the middle of the table, followed by glasses for everyone. Then she walked around and gave Phil his coffee. He thanked her politely and she gave him a curt nod.
The final item she moved from the trolley to the table was a carved crystal bowl full of foil-wrapped somethings. I peered at them, recognizing the brand of imported Belgian chocolate.
As I glanced up, I caught him watching me intently. His jaw was tight and his eyes slightly narrowed, like he was holding himself back from showing his anger.
But why was he angry?
And why the chocolates? A bribe? Something to throw me off?
Well—joke was on him because I’d been thrown off for days.
I leaned back in my seat and shifted uncomfortably, waiting for someone to speak.
Blakely arched a brow, faint amusement twinkling in his eyes. He reached a long arm across his side of the table and plucked one of the chocolates from the bowl. The only noise in the room was the crinkling of the foil paper. He held my gaze as he inspected the truffle, then popped it in his mouth.
My mouth watered despite myself. I didn’t know if it was the sight of Rome Blakely staring at me like he wished he was eating me instead of the chocolate, or if my poor nerves had finally decided to lay down their arms after a long and arduous war.
I just wanted to get this over with.
Phil spoke into the heavy silence. “My client mentioned that you wanted to speak to her about options. Might we know what options you had in mind?”
Blakely patted his lips with a small square cocktail napkin, then nodded at the lawyer to his right. Arthur pushed a packet of papers across the table to me, then another set across to Phil.
When I read the words CONTRACT OF EMPLOYMENTat the top of the page, I frowned.
“When it came to my attention that Ms. Jordan had been let go after the unfortunate incident with the Garcia campaign last week, I felt compelled to look into her background,” Blakely started, talking to Phil. He shifted his gaze to me. “You’ve worked in fashion for the better part of a decade, and you’ve completed a certificate in business management.”
My palms were clammy. I nodded. “That’s right. I was the primary buyer for a vintage clothing store.”
“We can use someone with your expertise,” he replied, which was crazy. What expertise was that? Vintage brands? Old manufacturing techniques? Textile quality?
Maybe. But it didn’t seem likely. None of this made sense.
Phil was busy reading through the contract beside me. He made a strange noise, like a mix between a grunt and a choking gurgle. “Companion? What exactly does that mean?” His frown was severe as he lifted his gaze to glare at Blakely.
Rome Blakely leaned back, smiling slightly. “Exactly what the contract says.” His glittering blue eyes shifted to me. “Your job duties would include accompanying me to social functions and events to act as my on-call plus-one. You’d have to know my clients’ details and be ready to make appropriate conversation. You’d represent me, and the company, to various stakeholders.”
It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, then I was on my feet. My chair shot back and crashed into the windows behind me. “I am not an escort. What is this? What are you trying to do? Did you bring me here to humiliate me in front of your legal team?”
My cheeks stung, and I knew they were stained red. My broken finger throbbed. I wanted to grab the pitcher of water in the middle of the table and smash it over Rome Blakely’s head. Then I’d take a handful of those fancy chocolates and shove them down his gob.
“Please, Ms. Jordan,” the other side’s lawyer said, placating. He’d calmed down after his confrontation with Phil, and his face was back to its normal beige color. “Turn your attention to section 7.2.1 of the contract. ‘No physical or sexual contact is to occur between Employer and Companion, beyond what could be considered normal professional conduct. Refer to the Blakely Advertising Agency Code of Conduct,’” he read, then added, “Which we’ve included in Appendix B.”
I realized I was breathing heavily. Halfway through the older man’s speech, I’d stopped glaring at Blakely and started glaring at him. I dropped my eyes to the page, which Phil was helpfully pointing out. It read exactly like he said.
Slowly, I sat down.
“It wasn’t my intention to offend you,” Rome said, his voice warm and low. “My apologies for the clumsy delivery. What I’m looking for is someone who can attend any and all events as my companion, hold her own in conversation, and represent the company appropriately.”
A refusal hung on the tip of my tongue. The last thing I wanted to do was spend more time with this man. He was arrogant and rude, and his behavior made no sense. Carrying me from the supply room in his arms while telling me to be quiet? Picking me up from the hospital after firing me? Calling me here just to intimidate me and then offer me this crazy job?
This was nothing but trouble. My life might have been on the way to the gutter, but I knew accepting this would be a terrible decision.
It was basically signing up to be a paid placeholder. It was humiliating.
The back of my throat burned, but I kept my back straight.
“If you’ll turn to pages six and seven,” Arthur continued, in his element now, “you can review the compensation for the position. I trust you’ll agree it’s more than generous.”
Eyes prickling, I tried to look at page numbers while my fingers trembled and struggled to grip the sheets. When I flipped to page six, my brain just—shut down.
The number written beside “Total Compensation” was five times what I’d been making at the vintage clothing store. Listed under “Benefits” was health insurance, dental, and a fat 401k match. I read the page three times, just to make sure the letters hadn’t magically rearranged themselves to show something that wasn’t there.
My breathing was shallow, my voice completely gone.
Then I flipped the page, and it took all my self-control to keep my face blank. The final benefit that Blakely was offering me was a clothing and beauty budget of onethousand dollars…per month!
My voice finally returned, and I pointed to the number. “Is this…” I cleared the croak from my voice and tried again. “Is this the correct number of zeroes? Per month?”
There was a tense silence. I looked up to see Rome Blakely’s eyes full of darkness as they glared at me from across the table. The muscles in his neck were stark. His hands fisted then relaxed, and he held my gaze while he angled his head toward Arthur and gave him an infinitesimal nod.
Arthur let out a huff before nodding to one of the younger women sitting at the end of the table. She tapped on the laptop in front of her, then pressed a button. No one spoke while she stepped out of the room. I focused on remembering how to breathe and hoped my heart would survive this encounter.
I had no idea what the hell was going on.
Why was he offering me a job? Why was he offering me this job?
A thousand dollars a month on clothes and beauty! But—that had obviously been a mistake. They were reviewing the contract, and a more reasonable amount would be offered. Still, a hundred bucks a month would cover nails, at least! Or I could get a blowout or makeup done before events. It would make it possible to look presentable, at least. I had a closet full of vintage clothes that could hold their own at a variety of events. I only had a handful of designer pieces, but I could do this.
If I wanted to. Which I didn’t.
The young lawyer reappeared in the doorway. She handed both me and Phil a fresh Page Seven, still warm from the printer.
And I almost keeled over.
They hadn’t taken a zero away. They’d added another one.
Ten thousand dollars per month to spend on beauty and clothes stared up at me from the warm sheet of paper, right there in black and white.
In that moment, I considered whether the giant perfume penis had in fact hit me in the head and I was now lying in a hospital bed in a coma. Maybe none of this was real. I’d wake up any minute with an even bigger hospital bill than the one coming to me, still jobless, still nearly homeless. There would be no handsome, wealthy weirdo picking me up from the hospital parking lot. There’d be no fancy lawyer, and no job offer.
I shifted my uninjured hand under the table and pinched the side of my leg. The dart of pain assured me what was happening was real.
Which meant that the stuffy suits across from me were now offering me a hundred and twenty grand per year to spend on clothing. And hair. And beauty.
I would get laser hair removal everywhere. The pesky hairs that had started sprouting on my chin when the clock struck thirty would be the first to get the zap. I would buy so many bags I could stitch them all together and live in them, and I wouldn’t need to find a new home. I would go on a shopping spree to end all shopping sprees, and I would buy every fabulous dress I’d ever salivated over.
This couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t.
I realized I’d been sitting there, completely still, fantasizing about raiding every designer store I could find while a room full of rich people and their minions stared at me.
I looked up. Rome Blakely looked like he was carved from stone, his expression hard as he watched me like he could read every thought written on my face. He was the one to break the silence. “Is that more to your liking, Ms. Jordan?” He bit off my name like it was an insult.
Heart hammering, I clenched my uninjured hand in my lap to hide the tremors in my finger. I lifted my other hand and pointed at the number with the end of the splint still holding my broken finger immobile. “This number…is higher than the one that was written before,” I pointed out, because I felt the need to clarify things, and my brain wasn’t exactly operating at full capacity.
It had to be a mistake. I was an honest person; I didn’t want to sign the contract under false pretenses.
And, actually, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to sign the contract at all.
But—purses! Clothing! Hair! Nails!
While my inner Julia Roberts basked in her very own Pretty Woman moment, Rome Blakely gritted his teeth at me. His eyes darkened as he watched me, then he let out a violent gust of breath and jerked his chin down at his team of lawyers again, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles at the side bulged.
The same little dance happened once more. The old man lawyer nodded at the younger woman. She tapped on her laptop, scurried out, and scurried back in.
The tension was unbearable. I felt like a huge weight was sitting on my chest, and all I wanted to do was run away from here, but I was stuck.
This would all be figured out soon. She’d come back, and they’d realize they were offering me something that was completely bananas.
The fresh sheet of paper was once again warm.
Before I could even utter a gasp, Phil cleared his throat. “I’d like a moment alone with my client,” he said, strangely solemn. The usual playful note in his voice was gone.
My mind, meanwhile, was going on a drunken rampage on Fifth Avenue, cackling evilly at the sky while dozens of bags hung off both of my arms.
The stiff, stern, scowling lawyers filed out. Blakely remained seated for a long moment, watching me. His eyes shot daggers. Withstanding the force of his stare was an effort I wasn’t sure I could muster, so I dropped my gaze to the bowl of chocolates, grabbed one, unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth.
He watched me chew for a second, glowering.
I let out a little noise as the soft center of the truffle hit my tongue. I had to give him one thing—the man knew good chocolate.
“Don’t push me too far, Ms. Jordan,” he warned, then stood and prowled out the door. It closed with a soft snick behind him, the pack of people in suits moving down the hallway and out of earshot.
“Phil,” I whispered. “Does your Page Seven say the same thing mine does?”
He pushed his sheet over so I could read. And right there in black and white, just like mine, was a number that broke my brain.
Twenty-five thousand dollars. Per month. For fashion and beauty. Plus the huge salary. Plus the benefits.
I dragged my gaze from the paper to Phil’s face, flabbergasted. Nothing made sense. I didn’t understand. What had just happened? What was going on?
All this just to go to a few fancy events on Rome Blakely’s arm? How—why—what?
It had to be too good to be true. There had to be a catch.
“Phil,” I whispered again.
“Yes, Nikki?”
“What the heck is going on?”
His eyes glittered, and the corners of his lips twitched. “We’ll go through the contract with a fine-toothed comb,” he told me. “But from what I’ve read so far, they’re offering you this in exchange for indemnity against any lawsuit you might have been planning to bring against the company.”
“What?”
His eyes twinkled. “Like I said before, this right here?” He tapped a finger on the contract pages on the table. “This is a group of people trying to cover their asses after a major fuck-up.”
Suddenly, I understood. They were buying me off. Blakely picking me up from the hospital was him probing me for information, and whatever I’d said had spooked him. Meanwhile, I’d been eating chocolate and dreaming of my bed.
I’d tripped and fallen into a swimming pool full of gold. Or maybe he’d pushed me into it.
I huffed, amazed. “What do I do?” My voice was hoarse. Imaginary me had cackled a bit too much.
The older man hummed, tilting his head. “You want to know what I would do?”
I nodded.
A smile broke over his lips. “I’d bite their hand off. Any settlement I negotiate for you will be far less than this, and it won’t include any of these benefits. Take it, Nikki, milk it for all it’s worth, and don’t look back.”