Chapter 5
Over a year later…
Phone, check.
Reports, check.
Cynthia Kumar paused at the front doors of the Desmond Business Center and glanced down at the top of her favorite black pumps—Kate Spade, pointed toe, no scuff marks in sight—and nodded to herself.
Don’t-fuck-with-me heels, check.
At her usual brisk clip, she breezed through the front entrance.
Everything about the professional downtown space that housed Kumar Construction, with its gleaming floor-to-ceiling windows and bustling lobby of harried-looking tenants, was meant to project a sense of power and class.
Most of the building was home to law firms, financial advisors, and, if the rumors were true, a collaboration of private medical practitioners that catered to the one percent.
The elevator required a special fob to gain access to that floor.
Even though Cynthia’s workday often commenced long before she stepped into the building—usually in pajamas and slippers in the comfort of her bed—the polished marble floors always served as a reminder to compose herself.
This was Kumar Construction’s home, and she was a Kumar.
Sure, the Desmond Business Center was snooty and elitist, but it was also a testament to everything her father had built, of his achievements as an ambitious, hardworking immigrant.
The city of Kelowna knew the Kumar name, had read about its many accomplishments in both newspapers and publications from the surrounding towns. Kumar , as far as Cynthia was concerned, was synonymous with success .
She stood up straighter. Shoulders back, check.
“Afternoon, Ms.Kumar,” Malik, the security manager, greeted from his post at the front desk.
“Malik,” she returned, placing an unmarked brown paper bag in front of him.
Clad in a black Hugo Boss suit—the mandatory uniform for the building’s security guards—Malik responded with a curt nod as she flew past. The exchange was so brisk and devoid of any emotion that no one would suspect that Cynthia had just delivered a cinnamon raisin bagel with extra blueberry cream cheese, Malik’s favorite.
They’d become friends, of sorts, in an unremarkable way that meant nothing to the average passerby and everything to Cynthia.
One late afternoon, the hulking, stoic security guard hadn’t hesitated to help her gather the fabric samples that had spilled from a cardboard box she’d been lugging to her car when the bottom dropped out.
People had sidestepped around her to avoid the furiously blushing girl scrambling to clean up her mess, but Malik was different.
He’d stooped right down to the floor in his pristine black suit to help her.
In the five years since Kumar Construction had started leasing the thirtieth floor in the business center, Cynthia had learned of his incorrigible sweet tooth and always tried to swipe him something on her way in.
But she never lingered at his desk, nor did she crack a smile when his wrinkled hands tore open the treat with childlike haste.
She had places to be and too much to do.
And a reputation to uphold. Her father, too, doled out kindness with the same kind of fluidity—often unnoticed and behind the scenes.
At the elevator bay, Cynthia’s assistant was waiting and from the restless way Jilly shifted her weight, it was clear she’d been situated there for some time.
“Jilly, you don’t have to wait down here for me,” Cynthia reminded her. “You can leave messages for me on my desk. Or send me a text if they’re urgent.”
Jilly responded with a nervous nod. With her wide-eyed stare and tendency to twitch, she often reminded Cynthia of a frazzled squirrel and had the short-term memory to match. “Right, Ms.Kumar.”
“Cynthia.”
“Wh-what?”
“You can call me Cynthia.” Cynthia kept her tone level and polite, even though this was also something she’d reminded Jilly of several times in the past. She jabbed the elevator button a little more forcefully than necessary and reminded herself to be patient.
She’d hired Jilly two years ago as a favor to her father because some cousin of a friend’s daughter was having trouble holding down a job. And thus, Jilly the assistant was born.
And despite Jilly’s tendency to accidentally hang up on clients when receiving two or more calls at once, her inability to decipher the carefully honed color-coded filing system Cynthia lived by, and her penchant for long lunch breaks, Cynthia kept her on because that was what her father would do.
He hired people, not skill sets, and had infinite patience when it came to giving employees the benefit of a doubt.
If her father treated the staff at Kumar Construction like his second family, then she must, too.
In the crowded elevator, Jilly was a silent ball of anxious energy at Cynthia’s side, which did nothing to tame Cynthia’s own growing apprehension as the elevator glided upward.
She dreaded the first and third Tuesdays of the month, when the senior leadership team at Kumar Construction—plus her—met to discuss business operations.
These meetings were the only days that she seriously considered faking sick, and yet, every first and third Tuesday, she forced herself out of bed, shoved her feet into a pair of shoes that made her feel confident, and showed up, nary a hair out of place.
There was no taming her uneasiness, though, and by the time they reached the top floor, where the conference rooms were located, Cynthia had forgotten that her assistant was still with her until she spoke.
“Uh, Ms.Kumar?”
Cynthia didn’t bother to lift her eyes from the email she was scrolling through on her phone in her left hand. “What is it, Jilly?”
“The owner of Kashmiri Dining called and wanted to set up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon.”
“Fine. But I have a presentation to the Batleys at noon, so make sure I have time to manage the commute.” Cynthia paused midstep, causing Jilly to gasp as she came to a teetering halt next to her.
“Wait, I have a meet-and-greet with a potential client at two. See if you can reschedule Kashmiri Dining for Thursday and, if not, I can squeeze them in toward the evening.”
It would mean a twelve-hour day, at least, but that was nothing new.
Protein bar for dinner, check. With a firm nod, Cynthia resumed her swift pace.
“And the quote…for the fabrics…you ordered…came through.” Several inches shorter than Cynthia’s five-foot-seven frame, Jilly was panting to keep up, but Cynthia couldn’t bring herself to slow down.
The steady click of her four-inch heels on the natural stone floor was like the beat of a battle drum, urging her to march forward as she hung a sharp right to the conference room.
Whether it was the soothing repetition of her footfalls or the sharp precision of each heel drop, this sound had the power to carry her through even the most grueling day.
With a dexterous thumb that had long ago mastered the art of singularly crafting concise responses to the truckloads of messages she received daily, Cynthia punched out a quick response to a vendor and hit send as she came to a stop in front of a set of double doors.
Conference Room B , the gold-plated sign read. Enter at your own risk , it should have said instead.
Cynthia took a moment to suppress her fluttering nerves. She loathed this stupid mahogany door with its shiny chrome handle. She detested these meetings, especially since on the other side of this ostentatious, oversized door was the worst—
“Uh, Ms.Kumar?”
With a sigh, Cynthia slipped her phone into the pocket of her tailored gray shift dress and maneuvered the small stack of folders from under her arm into her hands. “Cynthia.”
“What?”
“You can call me Cynthia,” she said, her irritation bubbling to the surface.
She tamped down the kernel of guilt that popped to the exterior as well.
After all, hadn’t she seen her father, many times before, resort to curtness to get his point across when people were slow on the uptake?
He was not the kind of man who beat around the bush.
Yet the world had a lot less admiration for a direct woman.
“Oh, okay,” Jilly replied uncertainly. “But Ms.Kuma—I mean, Cynthia…” When Cynthia finally trained her sharp, whiskey-brown eyes onto Jilly, the shorter woman cleared her throat. “Ms.Kumar, you have a bit of…”
As Jilly trailed off, Cynthia leaned toward the conference room door ever so slightly, her ears straining to hear the voices of the half a dozen or so men who lounged inside. It was unlikely she’d pick up anything, not with Jilly’s labored breathing in the same vicinity.
Cynthia gestured at the messy stack of Post-its in Jilly’s hands. “You can leave any other messages on my desk.” As I’ve instructed you to do countless times before. “Thanks.”
“Okay. Um…”
“Yes?”
“Well…”
“What is it, Jilly?”
“You have some toilet paper stuck to your shoe,” Jilly blurted out, her pink cheeks darkening to crimson.
Cynthia glanced down, more curious than embarrassed. Sure enough, three squares trailed from her left shoe where the stiletto had speared the single ply.
With a wry smile, Cynthia freed her heel and met Jilly’s eyes again. “See, that you can text me about.”
From the confusion wrinkling Jilly’s brow, it was obvious the joke was lost on her as she slowly backed away.
Cynthia had long ago stopped hoping their working relationship might give way to friendship, and perhaps it was her fault.
Impatient by nature, she found it near impossible to slow down and match Jilly’s pace.
I’ll slow down when Kumar Construction is mine , Cynthia acknowledged.
Then everything will fall into place. As expected, the reminder served its purpose.
She smoothed the front of her dress, no longer caring that she might have to forgo a real dinner to keep her clients happy, and notched her chin upward before entering the conference room with a confidence that belied the nervous tumble in her stomach.