Chapter Two JACKIE
Chapter Two
JACKIE
“What the hell!” Blanca’s voice hits a pitch that could shatter glass. It could be weaponized if somebody figured out how to capture the frequency. “You were nearly blown up, and didn’t even call me!”
I chuckle at how fundamentally Blanca her reaction is. It’s not far off from the little blonde girl, with the perfect ponytail and mini pink deux-piece, who stiffly declared she’d never heard of my family, then casually shared the contents of a lunch box packed by her personal chef.
“Sorry, been kinda busy doing damage control,” I mumble into the phone, turning in place while I try to find the best spot in my office for the obsidian crystal Lilly gave me.
Supposedly for “good luck and protection”.
She fully hyperventilated when the news broke.
The voicemails she left me after the attack had me crying for her distress. I didn’t have the heart to refuse it.
“I really don’t get you,” Blanca sighs. “You could be settled nicely by now, planning fundraisers with your husband’s money, doing the social circuit with me.”
“That’s an idea,” I say absentmindedly.
Lilly might have said something about putting it on the front left corner of the desk.
I nudge a pile of files aside and place the stone down carefully.
Even if it’s the wrong corner, it’s not like I’ll accidentally summon a demon from another dimension.
Hopefully. That’s the last thing I need right now.
“Get married already and let somebody else deal with all these problems,” she huffs. I know she means well, but as usual, she’s relentless when going on one of her get a husband while you still can rants.
Blanca reminds me of my dad in that way. Impossible to argue with, sticking to their single-point plan, convinced I need saving from myself. I had to beg him to give me my first job here.
“Business analyst?” he’d said. “Sweetie, that’s no place for a delicate flower like you. Better ask your mother if she needs help with that luncheon instead.”
I bet he never said that to Carter.
Dad’s been gone for four years, and now I’m the one sitting in his former office. It should bring me some sense of satisfaction. Except I find it hard to enjoy the view with all these death threats hanging over my head. They tend to sour any good mood I have left.
“One day I’ll wear you down,” Blanca says cheerfully, “and you’ll let me find you a rich husband. This year’s lineup is particularly impressive.”
As if her taste in men wasn’t enough to put me off the entire concept. She might be loyal and sweet, but her high-school crushes were a stress test to our friendship.
Arguing with Blanca is something I’ve learned to avoid, though. I’ve spent too many years watching her cry over her family’s callousness, and I can’t stomach upsetting her. Not when she spent our entire childhood baring her teeth at every kid who even looked at me sideways.
“Sure,” I say. “Will let you know.”
“You have to come to the Hamptons this weekend! The ladies are literally dying to see you after everything.”
Blanca and her forever unfortunate word choices.
I don’t have flaws. Not really, from a statistical point of view.
But even if I did, being stupid certainly wouldn’t be one of them.
The ultra-exclusive sorority Blanca ran like a benevolent dictator in college didn’t pick me for my great personality or ravishing looks.
They recruited me because she all but threatened them, and for my last name.
By then, the Rawlings were no longer nouveau-riche.
After twenty years, there was no one who didn’t know the tech empire my dad had built.
I’d had zero interest in taking the pledge. But between Blanca’s endless pleas and my mother’s near meltdown —“It would be social suicide to blow them off”— resistance felt pointless.
Plopping into my comfy leather chair in the most unladylike manner, I weigh my options. I’d rather swim in shark-infested waters than suffer through a weekend sipping rosé and listening to backhanded compliments and passive-aggressive jabs delivered with sugary smiles.
It’s such a shame, because the wine is usually exquisite.
“I’ll check my schedule and get back to you,” I say. “Speaking of which, I’d better go. I have to talk to my assistant.”
“If you say so,” she replies, her tone oozing disapproval. “It could be like the good old days. You, me, and the girls.”
She was a lot less persistent when I lived on the other side of the Atlantic.
Since I’ve been back from London, I’ve perfected giving the illusion of interest by strategically showing up at a handful of the sorority events, but it’s starting to wear me thin.
I love Blanca, but the girls are the reason I dry swallow a propranolol before stepping out of the limo.
As I hang up the phone, Michelle walks into my office, like she felt my despair through the glass wall. She launches straight into business, though her short bob and familiar knee-length pleated skirt and white shirt make her look more like a student than a woman of twenty-five.
I drift in and out of the torrent of updates she’s firing off. From up here, you can’t tell that the front of the building looked like a war zone a week ago. The shattered windows have been replaced, along with the entrance doors, where Logan’s military-grade security system is now in place.
“I managed to squeeze in meetings with every board member before the general assembly,” Michelle says briskly. “You’ve got forty minutes with each.”
It looks like nothing happened here, but the empty, echoing floors and the gaping pit in my stomach tell a different story.
Everybody’s working from home for the foreseeable future, and security’s been doubled at the other facilities.
Shutting them down would paralyze operations, and right now we can’t afford it.
For a split second, when I walked in this morning, I half expected to see Dad in my chair, barking orders. He was a force to be reckoned with in times of crisis.
Even with all the redecoration Eliza and I did, it will forever be his office. Just as I remember him, sitting at his desk, scribbling in his black notebook, larger than life.
He pushed Carter to his breaking point and pawned me off on Mom to mold me as she pleased. Some would say he was a bad parent. I’ve been battling with the weight of that truth since his death.
“Daniels has fifteen minutes extra,” Michelle says, pulling me back to the present. “You know how he is—”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Jackie.” My assistant sounds worried. “Are you sure you’re ready for all this?”
I shift my attention to her, forcing myself to flash a reassuring smile. “My phone’s been going off at all hours for days. I’m already warmed up.”
Michelle nods, sympathy etched on her features. I’m lucky to have her in my corner. A hard worker, she has my back in any situation. I know she’s my employee, but she’s also become a good friend.
“OK.” She frowns slightly and hesitates for a beat. “Channel Five’s crew will be here tomorrow morning to set everything up for the interview.”
Not one I’m looking forward to. “Great.”
“Briefing points are already in your media cloud.” She taps her tablet. “I had to bribe one of Diane’s interns to get hold of some of the questions they didn’t want to share pre-interview.”
This time, my smile is genuine. “My own operative. Well done.”
She knows about my rules.
I don’t give the media the chance to spin the narrative and paint me in any shade of reckless. Everything about my public image is calculated, down to how I dress.
I never drink alcohol in public.
And I never go out with men who haven’t been thoroughly vetted for skeletons. Adam was the only exception. Thank God that never got out.
Michelle blushes, and for a second, she looks impossibly young. And tired.
“How’s your brother?” I ask gently.
Her finger pauses mid-swipe, a veil of sadness draping over her features.
“Not much has changed. My parents are getting old. We might have to move him to a long-term care facility.” She tucks a strand of shiny dark hair behind her ear.
“But the support group meetings help. Hearing how other families are coping.”
“Let me know if I can help.” It’s not an empty offer. I hope she knows me well enough by now to accept it if she needs to.
She looks like she wants to say something, shifting from one foot to the other, but shakes her head, laughing it off. “Just…don’t fire me anytime soon.”
“Never. You’re my rock.” It’s something we’ve talked about often. Her potential. The way she keeps everything running while doubting herself every step of the way. “Have you thought any more about the opening in the communications department?”
Her shoulders sag. “You know I don’t have the qualifications.”
“Says the woman who keeps me afloat on a daily basis.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” She laughs again, but it feels forced. Her gaze drops to the floor.
“Look at me, Michelle.” I wait until she does. “You have a good head on your shoulders. With a little training, you’d thrive there. You deserve more…if you want it.”
She swallows hard, like she’s afraid to even consider taking a leap of faith in herself.
“And I’d make sure our morning coffees still fit into your job description,” I add, grinning.
Michelle’s lower lip trembles, just for a moment, before she nods and turns back to her tablet, diving into my never-ending to-do list for the next three days.
If I survive them, I’m spending the weekend locked inside, binge-watching corny rom-coms and inhaling every unhealthy snack under the sun. Probably ending it with a bottle of antacids and an existential crisis.
Anything to ignore the guilt eating me up inside. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve taken the threats more seriously. Increased security. Someone could’ve been hurt, and it would’ve been all my fault.