5. Lissa
Lissa
Archer Grant the ceilings fifty feet above me. Huge escalators take up the entire left side of the building, giving the feel of a stock exchange rather than a law firm.
There are several stressed-out looking men running around in suits and ties, and every single receptionist is either on the phone or talking to a client.
Anxiety rises in my chest by the minute as I look at the polished, professional appearance of the place. The décor is minimalist, except for a giant light fixture above my head that shimmers, moving mechanically, twisting and spiraling in mesmerizing patterns.
I turn to leave, palpitations fluttering in my chest. My palms are sweating, breath coming fast. I need to get out of here.
But then a young woman comes through the doors ahead of me, dragging her son in her wake as she marches toward the desk. Her son is around the same age as Henry, maybe a little younger, with bright white hair and an adorable smile, which he shoots in my direction as they pass.
And just like that, I’m reminded why I’m here. I spin around and walk determinedly back toward the only free receptionist. He’s a guy in his early thirties; his striped tie knotted too tightly around his meaty neck.
“My name is Melissa Davenport,” I say as he looks up at me. “I have an appointment with Oliver Heath?”
He clicks a few buttons on his computer and hands me a badge and a form to fill out.
“Eighteenth floor,” he says briskly. “Turn right out of the elevators and keep walking all the way down to the end of the hall.”
“Thank you,” I say, scribbling in the boxes on the form, barely aware of what I’m writing before I hand it back to him. Then I make my way over to the elevators, coming to stand beside a group of people I assume are lawyers, all talking over one another.
There is an older man in front of me who runs his slimy gaze down to my shoes and back up again. I look away, hoping fervently that the meeting with Heath is private and no one knows what I am there to interview for.
I feel like a liar and a fraud standing here. My mind flits to what James would say if he knew what I was about to do, and to my surprise, a perverse little smile flutters over my face.
He wouldn’t have expected this, that’s for sure.
“Miss?”
I look up to the older gentleman who is holding the elevator door open for me. It’s just him and me inside when the doors close, and he looks at me again in a way that makes me deeply uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” he says with a wry smile, turning away. “You look exactly like my daughter. Are you a lawyer? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Executive Assistant. Or I hope so,” I say. “I’m actually here for an interview.”
“Oh? With whom?”
“Oliver Heath?” I say brightly.
“Oh.”
That’s all he says. I glance at him; his mouth twisted into a little sneer as he avoids my eyes. I turn to stare at my own reflection instead, and a ball of dread pulses in my stomach as I consider what exactly awaits me when the doors open.
When I emerge, the eighteenth-floor offices are not what I had expected. I assumed it would be an open-plan format, with lots of people running around, little to no privacy, and endless monitors and chairs spreading outward across the floor.
Instead, a dark, wood-paneled hallway greets me, along with almost total silence.
Swallowing, I step out, looking to my left and right, already having forgotten which way the guy at reception told me to go.
I stand in the middle of the hallway listening to the distant ringing of a phone, but other than that, there is no sound at all.
It feels like a tomb.
Turning around, I look to the end of the hallway and begin walking, checking behind me to make sure there isn’t anyone who has been sent to greet me.
I walk all the way to the end and come to a slightly larger space beside a huge black door. Two black desks face one another on either side against the walls, and the carpet beneath my feet is a swirling mass of grays and whites. It makes me dizzy to look at it.
“Are you Ms. Davenport?”
I turn, almost falling over on my borrowed heels. A woman stands in the center of the hallway, holding an ornate cup and saucer. She’s wearing a lilac suit with a frilled shirt beneath it that would have been more appropriate in the 80s.
Her lips are pursed, gray hair slicked back just like Francesca’s, with very bright pink lipstick that doesn’t go with any part of her outfit. Her shoes are flat, and she is looking at me as if she wants to kill me.
“Yes, hello. I’m Lissa Davenport.”
“I’m Adelaide Spencer, Mr. Heath’s other EA. Has anyone told you about his schedule today?”
“N—no,” I stammer. Adelaide nods and places her cup and saucer down on what I assume is her desk, the surface heaving with files, papers, and half-open envelopes.
“Mr. Heath doesn’t see anyone for interviews until after 5 pm.
I did tell the woman from the agency that, but clearly, wires have gotten crossed.
You have over an hour to wait. I would say you should probably leave, but if you do, you’ll have to return your lanyard downstairs, and it’ll be a nuisance to sign you in again. ”
“I don’t mind waiting,” I say truthfully. “I can sit wherever I won’t bother you.”
Adelaide pauses, glancing at me with a quirk of an eyebrow.
“Hm, well, why don’t you sit at the other desk, seeing as you’ll occupy it if you get the job. I can’t give you anything to do until you’re officially a staff member, so just sit there and don’t disturb me.”
I can only assume Adelaide is trying to sound authoritative, but the effect is ruined by a small, purple toy on her desk that looks even more out of place than her outfit.
It’s the only splash of color in an otherwise dark world, and I stare at it, the googly eyes watching me, its mouth hanging open in a silly grin.
Henry would love that thing.
Adelaide isn’t kidding when she says she doesn’t want to be disturbed. The woman is engrossed in her work almost immediately, filing and organizing some large folders stored in a box on her desk. I sit patiently, quietly watching the clock tick down to five.
I don’t want to check my phone in case it gives her a bad impression.
I hope Henry’s sitter didn’t have any problems picking him up from school. He generally settles fairly quickly, and Jenna usually looks after multiple children at once, so hopefully, he has found someone to play with at her house.
What if he throws up again, though? Or what if he’s getting worse, and I should have taken him to the hospital?
“Do you live close by?”
I look up. Adelaide is still staring at the papers in front of her, moving them around in some strange pattern I can’t decipher at all.
“Manhattan.”
“Oh. Fancy.”
I give a little huff of laughter. “Not at all?—”
A light goes on in the corner of Adelaide’s desk. It emits a soft orange glow for a few seconds, then turns off again.
“You can go in now,” she says briskly.
I frown at the little light. It’s tiny.
What happens if she doesn’t notice it? Is that the intercom?
Rising, I smooth over the beautiful suit Bethany gave me and try to calm my clamoring heartbeat.
Here goes nothing.
“Do I just walk in?” I ask.
Adelaide nods without speaking, still distracted by the paperwork, and I walk to the huge black door, turn the bronze handle, and step inside.
I’m not sure what I had expected. Maybe more of a corporate feel—a large desk on one side, glass walls, a bunch of law books and a couple of plants.
But this room is dark. The walls are painted gray, the carpet is charcoal, and every piece of furniture is black.
Above my head, the same light fixture from the lobby has been replicated, the twisting shapes of it just as mesmerizing as downstairs, but quite a bit smaller.
The door closes behind me with a soft click, and then I’m standing alone amidst endless shelves full of books and an eerie quiet that presses in on all sides.
“Come here.”
I jump at the low, deep voice that reverberates through the room, and finally, my eyes fall on a man sitting in a large chair behind an even bigger black desk.
He is enormous.
Stubble runs over his jaw, his face sharp and angular, with a straight nose and eyes set wide apart. He’s strikingly handsome, but the dim lighting makes him look like some kind of dark demon.
I take a long, discreet breath and walk toward his desk.
He doesn’t move at all; the only sign he is even alive is his chest rising and falling. He sits very straight, eyes following my every move as they lower over my body and then back up to my face.
Does he like what he sees?
I can’t imagine this is what he wanted. Surely, he would want someone tall and elegant like Bethany. But Pippa insisted I was his type. Looking at him now, I can’t believe it at all.
As I reach the desk, he leans back, assessing me. His eyes, now that I am closer to him, are a very dark brown, almost black, but not quite. As soon as he looks me in the eye, I shiver, uncertain how he has managed to make the room feel so much smaller without saying a word.
He looks at me, and it’s like the air has been sucked away. I can’t breathe, can’t think, and he just sits there, not saying a damn thing.