Chapter Four
Oliver
I stare at myself in the mirror, my heart in my throat.
I’ve had plenty of first days before, and nerves aren’t something new for me, but a part of me knows this is beyond that.
I mean, sure… we all pretend to be the best versions of ourselves during interviews and first days.
But this feels different. I’m still not entirely sure that Robbie’s plan will work.
It’s a long shot. Hell, his entire plan is hinging on me pulling the guy’s attention.
The insinuation that I can make a man like Sloane Pierce turn his head is flattering, but I’m not sure I believe in me the way Robbie does.
I’m average at best on a good day. I never quite grew out of the awkward and nerdy phase.
I just got taller and traded my glasses for contacts.
At the very least, it’s a job. And if all else fails, I will do whatever I can to keep it.
Even if that means I have to lie about who I am.
At least my work ethic and dedication aren’t something I’ll have to fake.
Robbie is right about that—I am detail-oriented and organized, but that stuff is just second nature to me.
I’ve always been that way. I like order.
I like knowing things have their place and are where I need them, when I need them.
It gives me a sense of purpose. I pray that my actual skills—and not the persona I’m supposed to be embodying—will be enough, at least to get me through today.
I spray myself with a spritz of cologne and take one last gander.
Normally, I’d wear a button-down and khakis to work, and if I was feeling fancy, maybe a printed button-down with a fun pattern like bananas or rubber duckies.
But Robbie and I both knew that my usual library-friendly attire would make me stand out like a sore thumb at a place like Veil’s corporate headquarters.
Though I wasn’t about to charge a couple hundred dollars on a suit that I might never get to wear again, which would likely have no resale value.
Thankfully, I was able to thrift some gently used shirts and slacks from the consignment shop in the city, even though Robbie said I should have splurged for the image.
But a good iron and some nice accessories go a long way.
I turn off the bathroom light and head for the kitchen to make sure I have everything. Phone, wallet, keys…
The last shred of my sanity.
Robbie’s on the couch, computer precariously balanced on his bare chest, the LED light illuminating him in its eerie glow. I can’t tell what he’s working on, but whatever it is, it’s got him zeroed in.
“Hey.” I clear my throat, but he doesn’t look at me. “Robbie…”
“What?” he bites, the irritation evident in his voice. He looks up at me.
“I’m heading out,” I say, trying not to sound pissed off.
This past week he’s been up my ass about every little detail, from my clothes to the cologne he bought—without my approval—and told me to wear.
I told him he shouldn’t have spent the money, but he argued that I’d saved on the clothes and needed something to build my allure if I wasn't going to play dress up in clothes out of my budget.
And though I could have done this alone—at my apartment this morning—I thought it was important that he be here for this. Considering it was his idea and all…
Not to mention, most of our time together this week was spent going over all of Sloane’s profiles and biographies.
Though I must say, it was nice to spend time with him, even if it was to build up my persona or whatever.
It was nice to see my boyfriend interested in something that wasn’t the bottom of his glass.
But his nonchalance, his annoyance right now, is grating on more than just my nerves.
“Okay,” he says, like it’s no big deal. I sigh, crossing my arms.
“Okay?” I snap. My nerves are already sky high, and he’s acting like I’m an inconvenience.
I’m doing this for him. Yes, I’m also doing it for myself, but at the very least he could not be an asshole and wish me a good day or something.
“Are you serious right now?” I ask.
Robbie looks at me with apathy.
“Oh my God, Oliver, what? Spit it out already.”
I shake my head. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late, and I don’t need to be late on my first day, especially if I want to make a good impression.
“Nevermind,” I say, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door. “I’ll call you later,” I call, but once again, he’s lost in his computer.
When I shut the door, I don’t feel good. Not the way I should.
I hate arguing with anyone, but arguing with my boyfriend leaves me feeling extra shitty, which is not what I need today of all days.
So, I push aside the nagging little voice in my head that wants to replay all the ways I screwed up today—and every other day in my life—and focus on catching the bus into the city.
Driving into Seattle is a disaster, and I avoid it as much as I can. I’m fairly certain pulling up to Veil Technologies in my clunky little sedan will not help sell my image one bit.
“It’s ‘yes Sir,’ ‘no Sir’, or ‘Mr. Pierce.’ You don’t look away from him, he looks away from you.”
Yeah, pretty sure my piece of shit car that’s been circling the drain would be a dead giveaway that I don’t belong in a place like Veil. Besides, plenty of businessmen take public transportation. It’s smart. Practical. Inconspicuous.
I stare up at the towering glass skyscraper, the chill morning air making my cheeks burn. Reality hits me in a way I didn’t expect.
I’ve never worked in the corporate sector, not like Robbie.
I spent most of my youth and college years working at various bookstores and libraries.
I don’t think I’ve even been in a building like this.
Robbie and I got together just after he got fired.
At the time, I didn’t think anything of it.
Even though I knew it pissed him off, I just thought he’d find another job.
He’s good-looking, smart, and if he was smart enough to work at Veil, I thought he’d have no problem finding another job elsewhere.
But as the months went on, that seemed not to be the case.
And then I lost my job at the library and…
I stand on the sidewalk, readying myself for a world I’ve never known.
One that I’ll have to work extra hard to fit into as if I belong there.
I’m not sure what I expected walking into the building, but when I get inside, I can’t help but gape around the lobby in awe at the floor-to-ceiling black glass windows, at the black marble floor.
Typically, one thinks of the color black as a void, or perhaps even suffocating, but as I look around the lobby at all the shimmering glass, I can’t help but think it looks elegant and terrifying all at the same time.
I get lost in the sight, glancing all the way up to the ceiling that looks as if it goes on forever.
The darkness is infinite and vast, but strangely beautiful.
I head through the metal detectors, holding my breath even though I know there’s nothing on me that will set them off.
Still, the security guards take their time patting me down, checking my pockets.
I stare at the ceiling, waiting for them to be done, half-convinced they’ll somehow know what is in my brain, what I plan to do…
“Mr. Green?” I realize all at once I must have spaced out, staring at the ceiling like an idiot.
I turn to see a heavyset woman who looks to be in her sixties, dressed in loose grey pants and a flouncy maroon blouse.
Her hair is that faded sort of brown, speckled with grey as if she’s forgone coloring her hair in protest. But it’s her face—her warm brown eyes and thick eyebrows, her too-tight lips and the smile lines in the corners, that instantly relax me.
“Um… yes?” I say, looking around at the spacious, almost empty lobby. A woman sits behind a large black glass desk, answering phones while men in suits with briefcases walk by on their phones or checking their watch, completely oblivious to us.
She extends her hand to me. “Chicora Deangelo. We spoke over the phone.”
Right, of course…
I take her hand and shake it politely, giving her a smile.
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Deangelo.”
She shakes it firmly and lets go, looking me over from head to toe.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Green,” she says. Some kamikaze hair decides to fall in my face, and I absentmindedly push it back, giving her a smile.
“Please, call me Oliver.”
She smirks. “Alright, Oliver. You can call me Chicora. Or Chickadee if you’re feeling fancy,” she says with a wink, and I can’t help but let out a nervous chuckle.
“O-okay, Mrs. De—I mean, Chicora.”
She grins back at me. “I won’t take up too much of your time, since Mr. Pierce has quite a full day ahead of him. Meetings this morning and afternoon, not to mention the preliminary concepts for the first annual Veil Gala.”
I nod as she motions for me to follow her.
“Gala?”
“Mhmm. Every billionaire needs an expensive gala to show off their shiny toys, do they not?” she says nonchalantly.
It’s the way she speaks, so matter-of-factly, so cavalier, as if Sloane Pierce is nothing more than a nerdy little boy who wants attention.
But, I suppose that’s fair, judging by all the interviews and articles I’ve consumed from this past year alone. It seems the guy is just about everywhere.
“Is that something I’ll have to—”
“Of course,” she says, and I swallow hard at the fact there was no hesitation. I can plan an event. I planned several at the library. Fundraisers and Spaghetti Dinners, mostly, but how hard can it be on a corporate scale? I can’t imagine it’s much different, save for the budget.
At least that’s what I tell myself so I don’t have a fucking meltdown before I even make it upstairs…