1
Cecilia
“The usual, for your boss?”
“Yes. Go light on the mayo this time, please.”
“He didn’t like it last time?” Ryan asks.
I give him an apologetic shrug. “For what it’s worth, I thought it tasted amazing.”
Ryan chuckles, hands a blur behind the counter. Smoked salmon, rocket, capers, cream cheese and a small amount of mayo on gluten-free bread. We chat the whole way through, about the latest addition to his family. A pug named Lucy.
“My wife loves the Beatles,” he says with a grin. “So Lucy it was.”
“Does she have a diamond-encrusted collar?”
“Do you think I’d still be making sandwiches if she did?”
I laugh. “You have a talent… so yes!”
“Oh, you flatter me.” He hands me the finished sandwich, wrapped in plastic. “Here you go. I hope he likes it.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will.” I wave him a cheery goodbye, the footlong made to Victor St. Clair’s exact specifications tucked under my arm. I stop by the corner shop and get him his coffee. Dark roast, Colombian beans, no sugar, no cream.
I make it back to Exciteur Consulting with four minutes to spare before Mr. St. Clair’s meeting ends.
Stacey, the new security guard working the lobby, is on duty by the electronic gates. Awesome.
I wave at her. “Hi!”
She smiles and motions me ahead of the line of employees waiting to pass through the electronic gates.
“Thank you. You’re the best.”
She winks. “Only for the top floor.”
The elevator I hurry into is only half-full. The chatter dies down as soon as I hit the button for the thirty-fourth.
Yes, I think. I work for executive.
The corridor on the thirty-fourth is quiet when I arrive, my heels against the stone floor the only sound as I walk past executive offices. Two are empty conference rooms. One is the CFO’s office, the other the COO’s. Two are in-house attorneys.
And then, at the very end of the corridor, is the atrium I call my home. Mason is at his desk. His fingers still on the keyboard as he sees me. “They’re not back yet.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Awesome, thank you.”
My keycard unlocks the door with the gold-rimmed sign of CEO and it swings open on automatic hinges. I put his lunch and coffee on his desk. Keyboard to the left. Lunch to the right. His neat stack of papers to read for the day are well out of the way of any potential food stains.
Perfect. Just like every other lunch I’ve prepared for Victor St. Clair over the past couple of months.
I make it back to my desk in the knick of time. The elevator dings and I look up at Mason. “Showtime,” I mouth.
They sweep through the hallway a few seconds later, side-by-side, two conquerors returning from the battlefield. Eleanor, the COO, nods a cordial hello to Mason before entering her office.
My boss does no such thing. The sharp cut of St. Clair’s jaw is all I catch before he’s gone, unlocking the door to his palatial office. It clicks closed behind him.
The corridor is silent once again.