Bonus The Isle Teaser
Olivia:
With the window rolled down, a pistol emerged—a silencer threaded to the barrel.
I watched the scenario unfold in slow motion.
The assailant, wearing leather gloves, pulled the trigger twice in quick succession.
SNAP!
SNAP!
Wait. Let me start a few hours earlier…
That twinge of guilt began to fester, which irritated me. I had no reason to feel guilty—not after what he’d done.
I knew who was calling.
I didn’t need to look.
My phone kept vibrating my purse as I hustled across the lobby of the Whitestone Tower, my Christian Louboutin heels clacking against the tile amid the sea of office drones. People hurrying here, hurrying there. The same routine, day in, day out.
What started as a small irritation grew. By the time I made it across the lobby, I had pulled out my phone, put on a cheery smile, and said, “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, kiddo. Are we still on for lunch?”
I winced. “Did you get my text?”
“No. What’s up?”
“I feel terrible about this, but I need to cancel. I’m not going to be able to make it.”
Disappointment filled his voice. “Aw, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“There’s just this crisis at work,” I explained. “I’ve got to get across town, put out some fires, and reassure the client.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I totally understand,” he said, trying to make it sound like he wasn’t bummed, which only made me feel even more pathetic. “Work is a priority. Your old man can wait.”
“I’m really sorry. I know this is last minute.
” I stepped outside onto the bustling Manhattan sidewalk and tried to flag down a cab.
Cars rumbled by, horns honked, and the smell of exhaust swirled.
“I know how valuable your time is. I just don’t know if I’m going to be able to get to my client, then back to Midtown in time.
” I cringed as I said it. I over-explained. I didn’t need to over-explain.
“Where’s your client?”
“Chelsea.”
“Well, that’s just around the corner. How about you text me when you’re finished? I know how much you hate to talk on the phone. Meet me at the loft, and we can order in, or there’s a great little restaurant around the corner.”
I cringed again. “I really don’t know how long this is going to take.”
“That’s okay. This is important. I want to see you. We have some things to discuss.”
Dread twisted my stomach. “Like what?”
“Things I’d rather not talk about over the phone.”
“Nothing illegal, I hope,” I said in a dry voice.
That frustrated exhale of his filtered through. “Is it a crime for a father to want to have lunch with his daughter?”
“Depends on what we discuss.”
He paused before saying, “We’re not plotting some grand conspiracy. There are just some things we need to talk about.”
After my frantic waving, a yellow cab pulled to the curb. I yanked open the door and slipped inside. The sounds of the city drifted in through the driver’s open window. He looked at me in the rearview for a destination. I gave him an address, and Ahmed pulled into traffic amid honking horns.
I said to my father, “Okay. I’ll text you just as I’m finishing up.”
“Great. Look forward to seeing you. Hope you get everything sorted.”
“Me too.”
I ended the call, closed my eyes, and exhaled, trying to center myself.
This day had spiraled into a shitshow, and I had limited bandwidth to deal with anything more.
Least of all, an important meeting with my father.
He had something up his sleeve. Some angle he was playing.
But there was nothing he could ever say or do that would make things right.
It was too late for that now. I didn’t need or want anything from him.
Not his money, not his connections, and certainly not his love, if he was even capable of such a thing.
It made the concerned nice guy act all the more nauseating.
I didn’t realize at the time just how much worse this day was going to get.
With slow, deep breaths, I tried to calm my mind and focus on the task at hand. The back of a New York City cab is not the best place to meditate, but you’ve got to find peace where you can.
Priority one—stop the meltdown.
Kind of hard to do when the new CEO insists on rebranding the company and alienating their core customer base. It had resulted in a social media uproar. The backlash had already tanked the stock 20% and it wasn’t even noon yet. Several hundred million in market cap, gone.
Heads were going to roll.
Mine was on the chopping block.
Somebody had to take the blame. This was going to be pinned on the PR agency, though I had strongly advised against this course of action.
In a masterstroke of genius, the CEO doubled down on stupid by making incendiary tweets.
It took everything just to get her to stop tweeting.
She kept engaging the trolls. You can’t beat these people. They’re professionals.
Put the phone down and walk away.
This wasn’t something I would be able to fix in an hour with a cleverly crafted statement. If we both had jobs at the end of the day, it would be a miracle.
With traffic, it took 20 minutes to get to Chelsea from Madison Avenue. Twenty minutes to formulate a plan.
Ahmed kept talking, interrupting my train of thought.
“I bet you’re an attorney.”
I forced a smile. “No. Sorry. PR.”
“Must pay well.”
Somewhat annoyed, I said, “I do okay.”
“Louboutins aren’t cheap.”
My brow wrinkled with confusion. “How did you—“
He smiled in the rearview. “I’m observant. I drive people around all day. I try to guess who they are and what they do.”
“How often do you guess right?”
He shrugged. “Maybe 50%. Do you believe in ESP? Telekinesis? Psychic ability?”
“No,” I said with a chuckle.
“Pick a number between 1 and 4. Don’t tell me what it is.”
I gave him a skeptical look in the mirror.
“Just do it.”
I reluctantly agreed.
“Do you have your number?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me yet. I want you to close your eyes and visualize the number.”
I wasn’t about to close my eyes in this guy’s cab. I didn’t trust anybody in this city.
“I want you to envision your number written on a billboard. There are thousands of billboards everywhere with your number on them. Now send that mental image to me.”
I went along with it.
“Are you sending it?”
“I’m sending it.”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“You want to keep your eyes on the road!?”
He smiled and opened them. With confidence, he said, “Your number is 3.”
“No,” I said.
Ahmed looked disappointed. “Are you sure you concentrated hard?”
“I’m sure.”
He closed his eyes again for a second while the car was still moving.
“Could you stop doing that? I’d like to get to my meeting in one piece.”
He opened his eyes and smiled at me again in the rearview. “One. Your number is one.”
“No.”
His face tightened with frustration as we rolled to a stop at the light. “Two.”
“No.”
“Your number was four?”
“No.”
His face wrinkled again. “But I told you to pick between 1 and 4.”
“Guess you’re not psychic.”
His frown persisted. “You cheated.”
“No, I just eliminated chance from the experiment.”
He didn’t like that.
We managed to make it to Chelsea without an accident or more parlor games. Ahmed dropped me off in front of the Indigo Exchange. I paid the fare and gave him a nice tip.
Ahmed twisted around and looked at me. “You should be careful today. Lunch with your father will not go as planned.”
The look in his eyes was unsettling.
So was his ominous tone.
I looked at him like he was crazy before stepping out of the cab. I didn’t want to engage with him any longer. It kinda creeped me out. How did he know about lunch with my father? I hadn’t said anything about lunch when I was in the cab. Did I?
I shook it off, took a deep breath, and composed myself. Then I strutted into the lobby.
It was showtime.
I made my way up to the seventh floor and checked with the receptionist. She pointed me down a hallway to the conference room.
The boardroom was packed full of wide eyes and panicked faces. Sweat misted brows. The fear was palpable. Nervous chatter filled the air.
The whole team was assembled—PR, marketing, legal, the ad agency, the CEO, CTO, CFO, and every other three-letter figurehead.
“I hope you have a way out of this,” Susan muttered as she passed by. With a tight jaw and a stern gaze, there was no joy in her. There never was. Not even on a good day.
The others shrank in fear as she stood at the head of the conference table.
In her mid-40s with shoulder-length blonde hair, tortoiseshell glasses, and a navy pantsuit with a cream blouse, she was pure shark. She didn’t get to be CEO by being soft and cuddly. Outspoken, headstrong, and disagreeable. We’d gotten into this mess because no one dared tell her no.
I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do. I couldn’t just say, “Hey, this was your boneheaded idea.” That would not save my job. I needed to bring solutions.
“Alright, are we all here?” Susan asked, looking around the room. “Well, if you’re not here, you’re fired.”
Everybody in this room knew they might be facing their last day.
“For those of you who don’t know, this is Olivia Langston,” Susan said, motioning to me. “She’s with Stratton & Vale. She’s responsible for this mess. Hopefully, she can get us out of it.”
My cheeks flushed, and my skin slicked with sweat. The temperature elevated, and my eyes bulged. My fault? My fault!?
Rage boiled.
I had done everything possible to guide her away from this decision.
I knew she was a snake, but I wasn’t expecting to get thrown under the bus like that.
A sea of angry eyes glared at me.
Susan had just undermined my credibility. No one was going to listen to anything I said now. She had her scapegoat. Stratton & Vale would lose the account, and I’d be unemployed.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the least of my worries.