# Reaching Lily

Vivacia K Ahwen

Dorian is Lily’s new boss and he wants to rule her, own her, control her, and awaken Lily to the sensuality she never knew she possessed.Let him in, or run away?Dorian Holder arrives at work to clean house and change everything, including his dealings with intern, Lily DeWitt. Soon, he’s demanding Lily be subservient both in the office and in his luxury suite.Lily once believed that sometimes giving in, and being someone’s Everything For Now, could be the ultimate power. But relinquishing total control is altogether more than she bargained for, and falling in love was not part of their agreement.

## Reaching Lily. Vivacia K. Ahwen


## Copyright

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.mischiefbooks.com

Copyright © Vivacia K. Ahwen 2014

Vivacia K. Ahwen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780008124007

Version: 2014-11-24

‘Very whitely still

The lilies of our lives may reassure

Their blossoms from their roots, accessible

Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer;

Growing straight out of man’s reach, on the hill.

God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.’

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue: Fear of Flying

Chapter One: Strangers On A Train

Chapter Two: Holder Tight

Chapter Three: Intern Flat

Chapter Four: Blackberry Curve

Chapter Five: The Other Side

Chapter Six: Metamorphosis

Chapter Seven: Raising the Bar

Chapter Eight: Run, Baby Run

Chapter Nine: Do Not Disturb

Chapter Ten: Just Desserts

Chapter Eleven: The Legend of Jerry Fitz

Chapter Twelve: Time and Tide

Chapter Thirteen: Save A Prayer

Chapter Fourteen: Oh! Pretty Woman

Chapter Fifteen: Naughty and Nice

Chapter Sixteen: Sleeping Beauty

Chapter Seventeen: Ripples and Waves

Chapter Eighteen: A Close Shave

Chapter Nineteen: Revere

More from Mischief

About Mischief

About the Publisher

## Prologue. Fear of Flying

I always carry too much baggage. Though I managed to cram a couple of weeks’ worth of sassy tropical vacation clothes into one gigantic carry-on, stuffing it into the small compartment over my seat proves well nigh impossible.

‘Dammit.’ I punch the pink canvas bulging out of the cubby.

‘Miss? Do you need help?’ asks a silky male voice.

Startled, I whip around to see who my concerned fellow passenger is, hoping his sonorous intonation is matched by an equally attractive face.

Alas, not a meet-cute. Just some retiree in golf duds, who looks like a plump version of Woody Allen and clearly has had some vocal training. His eyes drop to my chest.

‘Thanks.’ Though I try to keep my voice pleasant, three sleepless nightstend to affect one’s delivery. Sweet, complacent Lily Dewitt is still at a bitsy flat on Agassiz Street, curled up in an even bitsier ball on her futon, crying her eyes out about the man who never loved her back.

She can stay there.

‘I’m fine.’

Woody shoves horn-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to look up from my tits. ‘If you’re sure …’

Hands on hips, I ask, ‘Are you going to be sitting next to me this entire flight?’

‘No, though that would be delightful.’ He stops ogling long enough to meet my eyes. ‘Would you like me to join you?’

‘Wow, really?’

He looks away. ‘I could switch with someone.’

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

‘Seems you’re holding up the line.’ I give an encouraging, not so subtle shrug. ‘I got this.’

Several passengers waiting behind him nod and mumble their support to me. Thanks, team. He sighs, quite put out by my obvious lack of gratitude and snooty demeanour. I turn my back on him and go on shoving my bag into the reluctant overhead. But it’s like trying to squeeze my bum into skinny jeans halfway through winter. Ain’t gonna happen.

Well … perhaps my annual garment squish isn’t the greatest comparison, since my build has changed. My drawstring linen pants are hanging off my hips, and spring has only just sprung. This is the smallest I’ve been since high school, and it doesn’t suit me one bit. I’m supposed to be a curvy girl, no two ways about it. But a few weeks of stress, Olympic-athlete sex, a few ballet lessons, a lot of falling in love, topped with a dollop of utter devastation? Winning combo. Makes for a quick and simple crash diet.

Simple, but not easy.

I’ve got Dorian Holder to thank for my Doctor Oz non-approved weight-loss plan.

Thanks, Dorian.

He’s probably already got a patent on it already. The man owns fucking everything, and breaking hearts is his trademark, after all.

Just thinking of Dorian sends such a surge of angry adrenalin through my veins that one solid punch is enough to propel my bag into the small gap. Good luck pulling it out, Lily. I glance over my shoulder, and am pleased to find the nosy little man behind me has moved on.

Think I scared him.

Good.

Ow. That seriously hurt my knuckles. Punching isn’t my forte.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Lily. God, please let me have these three seats to myself so I can stretch out and sleep.

As though on cue, a glowing – they are so obviously newlywed – young couple, not much older than I, bustle from the line and wedge themselves into my row. She stumbles, because she can’t take her eyes off of her husband, but he steadies her. ‘Careful, Mrs Greene.’

‘Thank you, Mr Greene,’ she says, and giggles. ‘Sweet husband of mine.’

So much for that nap.

See, God and I haven’t been on speaking terms for awhile, and apparently he doesn’t do reservations.

The passengers are not only disgustingly twitterpated with each other, but they’re frequent-flyer smart; clearly seasoned travellers. They knew enough to check in luggage and don’t fight for space, but just claim it. ‘Mr and Mrs Greene’ are lost in each other, smiling, giggling, kissing and half-falling into the two seats beside me, as though I were invisible. They get into some inane discussion about why there was that wacky mix-up in which they were supposed to be flying first class but got stuck in coach. And how they would somehow make it through, because they are ‘together and that’s all that matters’.

I hate them.

But to be fair, at least they’ve the decency to not say hello to me, because faking a smile and stuttering pleasantries at happy strangers is not something I’ve got energy for at the moment. They do see me, sense my solitude, and don’t want to catch any of it.

Loneliness is like cooties.

They are stepping it up now, to the inevitable lip-lock and hands groping all over each other, as though there weren’t another soul in the cabin. Ain’t love grand. Feeling like I’m crashing a party in someone else’s living room, I sit down, turn my back to them and try to look interested in all the nothing going on outside the tiny window.

Wow. My hands are shaking.

Much as I’d like to blame Dorian Holder for the shivers, not to mention the butterflies in my stomach and pounding of my heart, I’m afraid what could turn into a full-fledged anxiety attack is all down to me and my lack of worldliness.

This is my first flight.

Yes, I’m 24 years old, and the only time I’ve ever been on a plane was a field trip in the third grade when they just drove us back and forth on a landing strip in a passenger plane. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to fly anywhere, just that the opportunity never presented itself until yesterday.

There is a static crackle, and a froggy voice says, ‘Welcome aboard Virgin America Airlines flight A300 to the Cyril E. King Airport. Flying time from Boston to St Thomas is four hours and forty minutes.’

Five hours? That’s going to feel like for ever. Why can’t we fast-forward time? I want to get off this plane.

‘Meals and refreshments will be served during the flight …’ The pilot-in-command’s voice fades away as I rest my head against the cool Plexiglas of the tiny window, out of which I will try not to look again for the next several hours. My mind is too cluttered to absorb all the stimuli around me. I busy myself buckling up, as Captain Peterson is now saying something about keeping our seatbelts fastened at all times when some light is on, following with a bunch of stuff about cellphones, safety procedures, upright positions and so forth, while flight attendants are doing some kind of interpretive dance. Holy shit, this is real.

I am leaving.

The bride beside me is unaware that she’s jabbing her elbow into my back while cooing in her new husband’s ear, but I don’t feel the urge to shove her away. Any human contact is to be cherished, right now, and perhaps even a touch of someone who loves someone who loves her back close by will rub off, and I will be safe and loved by proxy. Reverse social cooties!

Nobody knows I am taking off.

Not Gwen, though she hopes and suspects. Not my mom, who would be even more terrified for me than I am. Not even Dorian Holder knows I’m flying away.

There is a roar, a rumble, my insides are pulled backwards and my forehead vibrates against the window. Despite my best intentions, I open my eyes to see Boston shrink and disappear below me as we lift into the sky.

I hate to watch my little world shrink, and squinch my eyes shut once again.

But now all I can see is Dorian’s face, which is hardly reassuring. His chiselled features are so clear in my mind, his wolf-like eyes, his angelic face. It’s as though I could reach out and touch him. He was remarkable, and there’s no escaping him; there’s no changing history. Dorian Holder completely and irrevocably possessed me, and I will forever be a haunted woman.

We were so close. Or at least I was so close.

Dorian. His face, his voice, his touch, his sculpted body, his cruelty, his compassion, his strength, his vulnerability. His secrets. His lies.

I can still feel his touch. My body has memorised and internalised him.

What I wouldn’t give to forget that unreadable expression on his beautiful face when I said the words I will never be able to take back.

How his full lips moved, as though to respond, before he thought better of it.

How I hoped his lips would claim mine in the deepest, most delicious kiss, the way they used to, and how they never did.

How they never would again.

How he looked askance, turned around and walked away without a second glance.

Here’s what else I absolutely need to forget:

Those same full lips, sucking my nipples. Dorian’s tongue flicking across their tips, nibbling, sometimes a little too hard … just how I liked it. His mouth trailing between my breasts, between my ribs, licking my belly, kissing, sucking, inching his way towards my mons. Torturing me. Cupping my ass in his enormous hands, pulling my pelvis closer, burrowing his face into me, slipping his tongue at the very tip of my slit, finally delving deeper, sliding, finding me. Slicking against the left side of my clit, licking faster still, while I pictured hummingbirds and could have sworn I tasted sugar-water in my mouth. Because when Dorian Holder took me, my world transformed. Touch became taste, sound became vision. He fucked me into a straight-up synaesthete.

When Dorian Holder took me, my body sang.

How he tortured me, letting me come so close, then dropped me to the mattress, laughing while I tried to squirm back to him, aching for more. How he pushed my abdomen down, slid two fingers the length of my pussy’s lips. And how he brushed his middle finger ever so lightly against my pink jewel, and I literally begged him to let me come.

He loved it when I’d beg.

I didn’t imagine that part.

I used to imagine a lot of things about Dorian and me, but how he awakened my body is undeniable.

How he awakened my heart is unforgivable.

Oh! Then he would whisper sweet and breathy in my ear, something like ‘Hush’. Or ‘Are you OK, Lily?’ He’d laugh at my frantic nodding, and desperate struggling to free myself. If he was feeling mean, he’d ask, ‘Should I stop?’, knowing full well what the answer was. When he drove me to that mindspace, I became incapable of speech, and I could only shake my head: no.

Sometimes Dorian liked to pull back and watch me weep, particularly when my arms were spread wide in an embrace he would neither answer nor return. Embraces I could never complete while my wrists were tied to opposite bedposts. How badly I wanted to swipe at my tears of frustration as they ran down into my ears, all itchy, but of course I could not.

I was bound.

Then Dorian would start all over again, while I writhed, begging him to please, please, please let me finish.

Eventually, he would acquiesce.

As long as I did what I was told.

I remember.

## Chapter One. Strangers On A Train

‘And lilies are still lilies,

Pulled by smutty hands,

Though spotted from their white.’

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

‘You’re late, Lily.’

‘I know, I’m sorry. It was just –’

‘Tell me later.’ Gwen slipped her Charlie card into the slot and held the gate open for me, like we always did. Rebels. We pushed our way through the crowd, dashed down the dirty grey steps and waited for the next Orange Line to 4024 Boylston, home to Apollyon LLC.

Yep, that Apollyon. The fitness emporium that put SFX Incorporated out of business, not to mention taking down smaller equipment chains along the way. We have a chain of gyms along the East Coast, and a couple years back bought out Planet Fitness. Apollyon’s ruthless approach to finance – search, destroy and takeover – led us to be tagged the ‘Wal-Mart of Workout’ in Forbes’ January issue, which, rumour had it, had a negative impact on sales. Go fig. Owned by Holder Enterprises, some monstrous Dark Force of finance in Denver. Among many other things, I was a copywriter for the evil empire of exercise equipment. I also dabbled a bit in the PR department.

‘No more Patron, ever.’ I couldn’t stand tequila, anyway. ‘So much of never. Hangover, day two. Totally missed the first train.’

‘Get over it, and I apologise for the bitchy message. Obviously I overdisclosed to you on your very own life. My badness. Hey, what would you have done with Troy even if he had gone home with you?’ She smacked my arm. ‘Prude-y Princess. Lily-White.’

‘I’m not a prude.’ I glared at her. ‘Chastity is a choice. Why did I ever tell you, anyway?’

‘Good question.’

I knew exactly why. A few months prior Gwendolyn and I had an unfortunate conversation about the longest we’d gone without doing the nasty.

I won.

This is not a brag. Far from it. Just a fact. I made her swear never to mention ‘Father Gerald’ again to me, and she didn’t, though she was annoyed I’d kept him a secret for so long.

‘Are we really talking about my lack of a sex life at eight in the morning?’

‘Yes, except it’s eight thirty, and double-yes, your whole “celibacy is power” thing is creepy.’ Gwen glanced over at an older gent who appeared far too interested in our conversation. ‘You got something to say about it, Midlife Crisis?’

He averted his eyes.

‘We’ll discuss another time, Gwen.’ I ducked my head. ‘Like, say, never.’

‘That’s cool.’ She fiddled with her moonstone necklace. Gwen worked in graphic design and wore whatever the fuck she wanted. Over the past two years I had never once seen her in anything serious. Nor have I seen her without some sort of boyfriend on her arm, also never anything serious. She wore whatever the fuck she wanted, she fucked whatever the fuck she wanted as well. And yes, for the record, I was totally jealous. ‘Sorry, Lil.’

‘Forget it,’ I said, then pointed to a Boston Ballet poster hanging on the opposite wall. ‘Gwen! Oh, my word. The Sleeping Beauty. My all-time favourite.’

‘Of course it is.’ She glanced at her watch, then back at the poster. ‘So let’s go. Buy yourself a belated birthday present. I can be your plus one.’

‘I wish. Like I can afford.’

She pointed at the date. ‘Just started last weekend, and runs all summer. You can save.’

‘Broke as a joke. End of story.’

‘Hey, don’t I owe you a birthday present better than a two-day migraine?’ She gave my bicep a squeeze.

‘Gwen, you don’t get to buy me a ticket.’

‘Oh, shit. Run.’ She grabbed my arm, yanked me as the T rolled in, and we practically dived as the doors squeaked open, along with all the other tardies. Squish. A bunch of alewives, swimming upstream into Monday.

Gwen and I each grabbed a loop, staggering as the train sped away from the leftover people I always felt so sorry for. We fell silent, out of respect for the unspoken rule that no one interacts on the ride to work, rather stares coldly and glumly at nothing in particular. Gwen pulled my braid again, smiled and raised her eyebrows.

So I followed her stare to find a perfectly built gentleman in an Armani suit, leafing through the Wall Street Journal, long legs crossed most elegantly. Since his head was buried in the newspaper, I couldn’t even see his full profile. But from what was visible, I kind of wanted to.

Very much wanted to.

What? I mouthed at her, knowing full well what.

‘Seeley Booth,’ she whispered, bugging her eyes. ‘Wait till he looks up.’

‘Shut up.’ I always had a thing for David Boreanaz, ever since his Vampire days, for which I blame my mom. On her night off, we watched Buffy religiously, though I was far too young to be up so late. Or watch anything as scary as latex-faced monsters, for that matter. She loved Spike, and I loved Angel.

So, in case you haven’t noticed, Gwen has this foolish thing where she’s convinced she sees celebrities everywhere. Case in point: ‘Jack White’ was playing at Zuzu’s, right?

But what if she was right this time? David Boreanaz. Right here in Boston.

‘Look. Look now!’ This time she didn’t keep her voice down, and I spun around again.

Dear God.

OK, he wasn’t Angel or Agent Booth, because he was even hotter.

No, really.

And about five years younger. Maybe ten? I can never tell how old people are after they hit 30, and I was pretty sure he’d hit that at some point.

To this day, I still can’t figure out how old Dorian Holder is.

Not that it matters.

Not that I care.

Evil shapeshifter is what he is.

Anyway, so there we were on the T, eyeballing this beautiful man who practically had a magical glowing aura around him. Apparently, we were staring too hard. Sensing Gwen’s and my unladylike leering, the object of our admiration glanced up, neatly folding his newspaper as though choreographed.

He smiled.

Wow.

Not a smile so much, if I’m to be honest, but one corner of his mouth definitely lifted into a flirty smirk. Not a cruel smirk, because he had an adorable dimple, which softened the seriousness of his square jaw, high cheekbones and flashing eyes. Deep down, Adonis was very sweet, I was certain. It was a flirty smirk, and was already embedded in my memory bank, an image I planned to revisit over the few precious minutes before falling asleep at day’s end.

Our eyes met.

No shit.

His – brown eyes? Hazel eyes? Green eyes? I couldn’t tell. Anyway, his eyes twinkled for a moment, as though to say, Yeah, I know, lady. Take a good look. Maybe that’s what his eyes said. They glittered, letting me know they tell this story often, the story of women who cannot help but ogle. That he would be tolerant of our girlish fancies.

I preferred my fantasy that there was a sweetness about him. Maybe it was the dimple action that fooled me?

‘He’s totally checking you out,’ Gwen insisted, her voice a shade too loud.

Now our handsome stranger full-on grinned, ran a hand through his casual yet professional tousled brown hair and stood to his full height, which was around six foot two. I felt nothing short of blessed to see this guy, and have him notice me.

This man, rather. We all know guys.

The vision before me was no guy. He was a Man, with a capital M.

Now, I’m not talking about age, which can be irrelevant when it comes to separating guys from men. There’s a Man Thing, that thing where you just know he’s been there, done that, seen this, possibly won that. A winner. Charisma.

He was beautiful; there’s no other word for it. Sorry if it sounds corny, but sometimes you see someone, and you’re never quite the same afterwards. Maybe you don’t know why, and maybe you’ll never find out. But that’s OK. You’ve seen him. Whatever. And now you’re changed. It may not be sexual, though it’s way cooler if that factor comes into play.

Adonis of the Trains exuded physicality, sensuality and a certain something I still could never explain in words. Most of us could spend a lifetime seeking it, a certain kind of magic that only a small percentage of the population possess. After all, why do girls love rock stars when we’re changing into young women? What do we seek when looking at any man? That elusive something. If we’re lucky, we get a glimpse.

So there was my glimpse, and facing the day at the office was less horrible.

He’s a sign from God, I thought. This is where my 24th year begins, and it will be the best one ever. This is the year I reach womanhood, the year I blossom, the year my luck changes.

The man stepped forward, a determined expression on his face, just as the train jerked to a gut-wrenching halt.

What? Was he heading towards me? I wondered. No way.

A throng of people shoved into us; we assimilated and blended into the masses. The collective propelled Gwen and me forward like a couple of bowling pins, and we were swept out through the folding doors into the deep blue sea of anxious young urban professionals, into another working week, some of us unchanged and still stuck in the Groundhog Day mindset. Either they did not see Adonis, or they were like Gwen and me, blowing sideways through life.

But I saw him.

He saw me.

That happened.

Maybe that would be enough.

Godammit. Where was he?

Adonis Trainman was lost in the crowd, despite his notable height and despicable beauty. Gwen and I half stumbled, half fell out of the train into the day’s next moment.

They are only moments, after all, and that one was mine. I already looked forward to remembering Adonis, whoever he was.

‘Wait for him,’ commanded Gwen, her voice high with excitement. ‘He’ll be out in a second. This is going to happen. Lily! This is going to happen, do you hear me?’

She jumped in a circle, while I nodded dumbly and let her grab my elbow. We waited by the train like a couple of teenage mall chicks in line for a Miley Cyrus concert.

Are girls still paying attention to Miley? Or did she go out like a wrecking ball? I never listen to the radio.

Anyway.

Figuratively speaking, I missed my train. The last of the passengers exited, and Adonis was not one of them.

But, like I said, sometimes a moment is enough. Though a ‘meet-cute’ wouldn’t have killed me, a ‘look-intensely’ would do just fine. Today. Because ten minutes earlier, today wanted to suck. But after seeing the man I would come to love – and then to hate – I felt a little gorgeous myself.

Is beauty contagious?

My throat dry as a gulch, I swallowed hard enough that it hurt while looking at Gwen, waiting for her to say her inevitable right thing.

‘Aw, shucks, kid.’ She punched me on the arm. ‘But, fuckin’ A, you two totally had the “five-minute marriage”, I’m telling you.’

‘That works. Thanks, Gwen.’

I thought so, too, and I guess she didn’t need to tell me whether I imagined that smouldering exchange. But yes, she did need to, because at the time I was even more insecure than I am now, and I would likely ask her to tell me again later in a weak moment. Normally I second-guessed anything which brought me a bit of joy, since life continually proved me wrong, every chance my silly little life got.

‘Come on.’ Gwen snapped her fingers. I was staring ahead, lost in my head and surely looking catatonic. ‘Let’s go, Lily.’

We headed toward the steps as the tube squeaked forward. I turned my head one last time, hoping for a final glimpse.

Not disappointed.

Because there stood the stranger, hanging onto a tall, steel pole. He looked out the window, and caught my eye once again.

There was a good, solid, old-school I see you and see you seeing me see you moment.

Then he grasped the pole tighter as the train jerked ahead with a warm, sympathetic, whoosh.

And then he was gone.

‘Lily’s got a boyfriend,’ Gwen singsonged.

Nothing’s changed, Lily, said a horrible voice inside my mind. Don’t go getting all happy and cocky. Go look in a mirror, and see if you still imagine that sexy thing would look twice. He was looking at Gwen, not you.

But this time I refused to listen to, or feed, the troll of my own self-doubt. I shook my head, trying to empty my mind and go back to my joyful space, which I should be allowed to feel. Because I was different, and liked myself a little better than I did, out sitting on the steps at South Station, hanging with the pigeons. They were special, too, I guess. In their little pigeony way.

Gwen and I ran up the steps together, excited to be out of the dark, back in the sunshine, where beautiful girls belong.

## Chapter Two. Holder Tight

We arrived on the eighteenth floor at 9.07, only to find our tiny corner of Apollyon apocalyptically empty.

‘Fuhhck,’ I said. ‘Where are we supposed to be?’

‘Next floor up. Important And Mysterious Meeting,’ Gwen said, smacking her forehead. ‘Scheduled for Monday morning at nine sharp, and three email reminders last week. Thank God I persuaded you to be a responsible adult.’

‘No doubt.’ I peered around at all the abandoned cubicles. ‘Better to be fashionably late than not show at all, right?’

‘Time will tell.’

* * *

President Colossimo had a thing about punctuality – I suppose most bosses do – and since the Important And Mysterious Meeting appeared to be about something unpleasant to Mr Colossimo, he would be neither pleased nor amused by our tardiness. Gwen and I were both due for another written warning, and I was betting that this was our not-so-lucky day.

Gwen turned to me, fingers to lips. ‘Shh …’

‘Duh,’ I whispered. Stagefright. My stomach churned, and I was rethinking that breakfast burrito.

‘OK.’ Gwen shifted on her feet. Despite her devil-may-care bravado, she was one of the most scared people I’ve ever met.

Still is.

Brave but scared.

‘We so fucked up,’ Gwen said, as we trotted down the hall toward Conference Room Three.

‘I fucked up. You came and found me. And made me get on the train.’

‘True story.’ She gestured towards the door. ‘That means you go in first, buttercup.’

‘Yeah, OK.’ I surreptitiously opened the door of the conference room, where Mr Colossimo was holding court. He stopped, mid-sentence, and his bloated face was less than welcoming.

‘Ladies,’ he said, voice dripping with Mean Old Man sarcasm. ‘So glad you could join us.’

All heads turned – because late-comers who make the punctuality of others look awesome are fascinating – but our mumbled apologies were ignored by all-powerful Mr Colossimo. He cleared his rattly, jowly throat and continued. ‘As I began to say, by way of introduction: on my left is Joey Danforth, a.k.a. “New Kid On the Block”.’

He delivered that with ‘air quotes’, of course, and there was fake chuckling around the long table. What a bunch of suckups. But the heat was off Gwen and me now, and 35 curious faces took a look at the nervous new gofer, thankful for the distraction and reprieve.

‘Joey’s joining the Apollyon HR team, so Joey is always ready to –’ Mr Colossimo looked quickly at his legal pad ‘– lend an ear. Maybe he’s the “New Kid”, but we’re the – hold on.’ We waited while he looked back at his notes. ‘Funky bunch.’

Did Mr Colossimo really need to check his notes for this unfunny patter? Jesus. I hated him in a very unwholesome way right then. Anyway, poor Joey The New Kid. I waited for Gwen to text me. Sure enough:

new guy jo=totaly mark walbrg, undrcvr, RIGHT ;)

While adorable, Joey Danforth was no Marky-Mark. Really, Gwen. Luckily my phone was on vibrate.

Under the table I typed back:

STFU&no more txt

‘Dawna Jamison, tell us about the DVDs.’ Mr Colossimo gave a full-denture smile, or his closest reasonable facsimile. The attempt looked more as though he were gritting his falsies. ‘It seems we’ve had a good month?’

Dawna was in marketing. She seemed cool, far as I was concerned, though Gwen called her Team Slut. But when Gwen got all snarky on coworkers like Dawna, who came and went, I always said, ‘Not a slut, she just likes suggestive clothing.’ Trashing other girls isn’t my thing. For the most part.

Seeing as, if one were to be fair, I might have fallen into the slut category.

A slut on hiatus, but a slut nevertheless.

A secret slut.

‘Fabulous,’ Dawna Jamison said, beaming. ‘The Golden Ticket for the Pretty’n Pink free weights we put out with Joni Smith’s “Lite-Weight-Late-Nite-She-Bop”? It was retro-brilliant?’

Please ask me how much I like it when people end a statement with a question mark.

‘Go on?’ Mr Colossimo hunched forward on fisty, meaty knuckles, Denny Craning his neck.

‘Two birds with one stone,’ she said, smiling at us, ‘because what we started calling those “Freer-Than-Free-Weights” weren’t exactly flying off the shelves before this month? Like as soon as the video came out? Well, not to toot my own horn?’

Hmm. I mean, HMMM? For the record, I came up with the Willy Wonka concept, which was so not part of my job, and wrote the copy. Gwen designed the Golden Ticket and made it look all awesome. Basically if you bought the speed yoga DVD, you got a free set of pink dumbbells, and then a discount on all future free weight purchases. For the double record? Me, myself and I wrote the workout ‘You go, girl’ patter, to which perky speed yoga babe Joni Smith kept forgetting all my hooky one-liners. Grr.

Sorry, we all have our sticking points. I worked so hard to sell Apollyon shit, yet never so much as saw my name in a pretty font in the rolling credits. Furthermore, Ms Famous Fitness Guru Joni Smith miscounted reps. Now, I’ve done that speed yoga/free weight workout. Fuck, from the hours I spent in front of the flatscreen (refuse gym, prefer private fitness, despite the awesome bennies and personal trainer all Apollyonians have as an option), I knew from what. Learn to count, Joni.

Jealous, much, Lily? Why, yes, I was.

‘Great,’ said Mr Colossimo, his booming voice bringing me back to earth. ‘Let’s start putting those Golden Tickets in all the DVDs.’

Whatevz.

‘Let’s not forget about the killer copy on the back cover, and the script, which was occasionally forgotten by Joni Smith. Or rather, set aside by Joni Smith, if we want to give her the benefit of the doubt,’ piped up Jay-Jay Tanaka. Jay-Jay was the most agreeable fellow in my department. He loved me to death, for no reason that I could fathom. ‘Lily, your writing was nothing short of scrumptious.’

‘Jay-Jay,’ I mumbled, and wished he would stop. I was fine with Mr Colossimo refusing to remember my name, or ever having the word scrumptious planted in his mind regarding anything about any part of me.

‘Lily, you are the goddess of copy.’ Jay-Jay shoved his black-rimmed glasses up his small nose. ‘And, if memory serves, the Golden Ticket was your idea.’

I winked at him, while clearing my throat. Jay-Jay had never said a word at any of our meetings before. Apparently that was a wise decision, if this was his idea of how to conduct himself around a conference table. ‘Thanks, Jay-Jay.’

‘Since we currently have no creative director, coming up with ideas is every department’s job. We don’t have time to be patting ourselves on the back.’ Mr Colossimo gave me a brief glance. ‘You’re all Idea Men, now.’

Wow, really? I was an Idea Man. Just what every girl wants to be. Jesus. Why did Jay-Jay have to open his big gay mouth?

I ask that politically incorrect rhetorical question with total love and affection, btw.

‘Before we get on to other business, I need to tell you quickly why I called this meeting for nine, rather than ten. I apologise if it inconvenienced any of you –’ his eyes shot daggers at Gwen and me ‘– but there are about to be some changes around the office, not all of which are to my liking. And if they’re not to my liking, chances are they won’t be to yours, either.’

I sat up higher in my chair, already liking the ‘changes’ that supposedly wouldn’t be to my liking. Oh, boy! Maybe Mr Colossimo was going to take another one-month leave of absence to a ‘health club,’ also known as the psych ward, and get some shock-treatment therapy. Boo-ya! It had happened twice since I started at Apollyon. I reckoned he was due for another breakdown.

Yes, my boss was certifiable.

‘Apparently, Corporate is talking about me behind my back,’ he continued.

Here we go. Paranoia is how it all begins. Monday was improving with every passing minute.

‘They’re sending one of their “guys” from Denver to come see what we’re doing “wrong” –’ he gestured a few more air quotes ‘– and “suggest” some “changes”. Meaning, tell us how to do our jobs.’

Lots of serious nods and murmurs of ‘How could they?’ ‘How dare they?’ For the record, the entire office loved it when Mr Colossimo went all Blanche Dubois and left us to our own devices. We all performed better, no two ways about it.

‘Well, team Apollyon, I say we’re doing just fine.’ He paused, looked at us and thumped a rather flaccid fist upon the marble tabletop. ‘Can I have a round of applause for the May numbers? There was only the slightest drop. Slightest. Marginal, even. As opposed to April’s slightly more than minor setback. Which was a mistake in the books, in my humble opinion. Which, trust me, I will take up with accounting.’

Yeah, like there was humble anything about Mr Colossimo. We all clapped, anyway, because Apollyon associates are sheep. Clapping, applauding sheep. Fact is, Mr Colossimo just couldn’t think of any other positive news to report besides the success of our new DVD. That was just sad. What was a ‘slight drop’, anyway? A drop was a drop, we were looking at summer, when people obsessively exercise for bikini season, and our sales should have been rising. Significantly rising. Our club memberships were too expensive, our equipment was too expensive, we hadn’t done anything remotely cool in a gazillion years, and … now we were just another jungle-gym, yo.

Sorry, just channelling the Funky Bunch.

‘… despite what I see as a heckofalotta positive change.’ Colossimo sighed, drumming the table. ‘Just remember that I’m your guy. There’s one supervisor in the office, and it’s Mr Colossimo. Period. The end. End of story. Finito!’

Was Mr Colossimo speaking of himself in the third person again? Uh-oh.

‘Whoever this clown is from “Corporate”, you check with me before running off to do his bidding. I am your boss. Period.’ He stood up. ‘Are we clear?’

We all nodded, except for New Joey in HR, who raised his hand. ‘Sir?’

‘What do you want?’ Mr Colossimo’s face had begun to grow red. ‘I’m trying to run a meeting here.’

‘May I be excused to use the restroom?’ His voice squeaked from what I assumed was intimidation by our asshole boss. Poor kid.

‘Whattaya think this is, grade school?’ Colossimo waved a hand dismissively. ‘Go.’

And so the next fifteen minutes crept by. Handouts with charts, photocopies of some bullshit article about ‘team-building’ and STRETCHING AFTER ONE HOUR NOW REQUIRED BY DEPARTMENT OF LABOR flyers were passed around. Each department from my floor gave its discouraging report, and I tried desperately not to nod off. Until the door swung open, and banged loudly as it smacked against the wall.

Holy hell.

Adonis – yes, that one, as in riding the morning T – strode into the room, all piss, vinegar and Armani anger.

Cool anger, though.

Oh, yeah. He’s had this one.

Gwen shot me one of her ‘I don’t friggin’ believe it’ looks.

Nor did I. Believe it, that is. Synchronicity? What –

Adonis gestured with his thumb toward the door, which must’ve nearly come off its hinges. ‘Colossimo.’

‘This is a private meeting. I don’t –’

‘Out. Now.’ Adonis Trainman clutched his briefcase tighter, and some horrid part of me hoped he would sling it at my boss. Please, Lord. I haven’t prayed in a long time, but …

Mr Colossimo stood up to his full height, which wasn’t much taller than mine, actually. ‘What? Who in the name of God do you think you are?’

Good question! We were all ears. And all other things, as well; the entire female staff, including yours truly, were squirming in our seats, trying to dry off our Inner Goddesses.

The man stepped closer to Mr Colossimo, held out his ID tag, narrowed his eyes and proclaimed, ‘Dorian Holder, CEO.’

Dorian Holder, CEO was a good foot taller than my boss.

I frigging loved this.

‘Who –’

‘Holder Enterprises. Remember, those little people who own Apollyon?’ Dorian Holder, CEO lifted his chin. ‘Us. Me, rather.’

Oh, man. Someone got served …

‘And you’re fired.’

How could anyone say a classic Trumpism like that, yet still be so unbelievably sexy?

‘On what grounds?’ blustered Mr Colossimo. ‘This is wrongful termination!’

‘Insubordination, motherfucker.’

Yeah, my Adonis totally did this, and then looked at the rest of the Apollyonians, as though seeing us for the first time.

And then his eyes rested on me.

No, really.

I gulped.

He raised one eyebrow.

At least, I think he did.

‘Pardon my language,’ he said, not sounding sorry. OK. That there was a wink. And that wink was at me, no question. Absolutely positively true story. He knew I found him amazing. Not that every other woman in the room didn’t feel the same way, but I must have looked particularly starry-eyed.

Oh, and know what? That was the first time ‘motherfucker’ was ever uttered within the walls of the Apollyon conference room. I loved this shit. Dorian Holder, CEO was so totally our hero. This time we did applaud, unprompted, accidental and no brownie-hounding about it, starting with that slow-clap thing you see in the movies. It happened, and it was brilliant.

But Dorian Holder, CEO didn’t seem to notice. Or care. ‘Are you going to leave willingly, or will I have to call security?’

‘That … that …’ Mr Colossimo pointed vaguely at the wall. ‘It was the new HR guy, wasn’t it? He was a mole.’

‘Are you speaking of Joey Danforth? Yeah, he was. He is, rather. I’ll certainly be keeping him around.’ Dorian Holder, CEO actually grinned, just like on the subway. ‘You hired him, friend. Now get out of my conference room.’

Mr Colossimo gave us one last glance. His face was beet red, and his eyes were pink as a bunny rabbit. ‘Traitors,’ he snapped. Then he shrugged into his polyester-blend sports coat, buttoned over his generous tummy and schlumped out the door, defeated. For a second I felt bad for him.

Really, it was just for a second.

Apollyon LLC? Well, we had a new commander-in-chief, and he had our full undivided.

Dorian Holder is prepossessing to the point of ridiculous. In every possible way.

But at that moment, as I hadn’t any inkling of what a Dorian Holder was, his crashing the party was enough to rock my world … almost as much as his magical glow. You know what? My bets were on Mr Holder being crazy as Colossimo, yet in a far more interesting way: smarter, hotter, scarier. Already I couldn’t wait to witness the next thing he found remotely OK to say or do.

‘Well, then.’ Mr Holder’s walk, though confident, was graceful and catlike. No, make that lionesque. The man was clearly king of the forest. When Dorian Holder reached the far end of our table, he dropped his crazily expensive briefcase, picked up Mr Colossimo’s yellow legal pad, gave the scribbled notes a brief squint, then tossed them over his shoulder.

The list of all Mr Colossimo’s News That’s Fit To Print fluttered to the floor, like a giant, dead, swallow-tailed butterfly.

‘I’m told you’ve been briefed on the new regime at Apollyon.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘While I’m only going to be here for a few weeks until we clean up this mess, there’s going to be some major changes, just as your former president promised. Permanent changes.’

Mr Dorian Holder, CEO drummed the table with all ten fingers. His fingers were extremely fast, long and thick. I leaned forward, along with the other Apollyonians sharing this space, which suddenly felt tiny, stuffy and hot.

‘Vice President Babcock – I kinda liked the guy, for the record – left you a few months ago, so there’s no second in command. For now, I am indeed going to be the captain of the ship, and some of you will get thrown overboard. Period.’

All the smiles around the table faded.

Ruh-roh, Scooby.

‘At least, until our profit margin goes back up to where it had been. It’s nothing personal, but as we are all professionals, here, that goes without saying, right?’

He waited. We all nodded, eager to please him. Fearful of upsetting him. We were already in the palm of his large hand.

‘On the bright side, we are officially looking for both a new president and vice. In-house will be the first considered, though by law we have to advertise.’

We were silent. No one wanted either job at this point in time, no matter how ambitious s/he may once have been. Dorian Holder was scary as hell.

‘Obviously, I’d like this company to survive, or I wouldn’t be here.’ No smile. ‘But if there isn’t a significant change in numbers by August, Holder Enterprises will be forced to close the Boylston Avenue doors for the last time. Despite my fondness for the Beantown office, you’re just one branch of a very, very large tree. Holder Enterprises wins. That’s what we do. Period.’

For some reason, I looked over at Jay-Jay, who was mouthing Holder Enterprises Wins, as though in a trance.

‘Meanwhile, Apollyon LLC fails, whereas our other businesses are thriving. As you should know by now, where Holder Enterprises finds a weakness in the infrastructure, we rebuild. If rebuilding takes too much time and money, we eliminate.’ He raised his hand for emphasis, and we all cowered. ‘However, Apollyon has floundered in the past, and we’ve saved the company by implementing a few simple changes. Some of you may recall when my late father cleaned house four years ago? Sales skyrocketed, we put SFX under, bought out Planet Fitness, and everyone got massive raises. Remember what a raise was? That thing you haven’t had in at least three years?’

I’d only been at Apollyon two years, but had had neither a raise nor an evaluation since they bumped me up from lowly intern. Like, ever. And I was doing my manager’s job, leading people who actually hired me, none of whom wanted to pick up the slack while she was on maternity leave. See, I had no backbone. So I took on a managerial position without a change in title or reflection of the added responsibility in my paycheck.

Anyway, I fucking adored Dorian Holder, CEO right then, even if he frightened the hell out of me.

Well played, sir.

‘Today I’m going to be up on high looking over records, crunching numbers, seeing who’s been working and who hasn’t. We’ll start having individual meetings when I get a better idea of what’s gone so horribly wrong here. Holder Enterprises is top shelf, and every one of our acquisitions should uphold our spotless image. Apollyon is a sinking ship. There’s no need for this bullshit, and it won’t remain as such. We’ll get this place back up and running.’

Until that morning, I had no idea this enormous building to which I was so scared to go five days a week was a sinking ship.

Go on, Dorian Holder.

‘There’s money to be made. And we all love money, right?’ He looked around the table, kinda mad, I thought. Or maybe this was just something he did. Like a hotter version of that Baldwin brother’s monologue in Glengarry Glen Ross. We all nodded, simultaneously hopeful and fearful.

‘Well, I love money. Love. It. Out of all the businesses Holder En – rather, I – own, Boston Apollyon is a dark, gaping money pit.’ Dorian Holder, CEO cast a glance around the table, making us feel collectively responsible for whatever the heck he was talking about. ‘While recognising that some of this is the Forbes effect, there’s also major mismanagement and missing cash flow. A few floors up, a financial recovery team are conferencing even as we speak. There are solutions, and I intend to find them.’

All the businesses he owned. Wowzers. How many were there? I should have really googled Holder Enterprises, seeing as it – he – owned me. Us. He owned us.

He didn’t own me, yet. Not then.

But he would, in the not-so-distant future.

Hindsight is always 20/20.

‘So. I start one-on-one meetings with each department head this afternoon, from the bottom up. That is, I hope to, but the contractors –’ he rolled his eyes ‘– big shock, are still putting my office together on the thirteenth. You’ll meet with me by tomorrow at the latest, but be prepared for an email within the next couple hours.’

Sorry, but I was so confused right then. What exactly did he expect? My head was spinning.

Dorian Holder, CEO looked directly at me. Again.

Is he fucking telepathic, on top of everything else?

‘Between working your asses off today, say, over your lunch breaks – which, for the record, will be cut to half an hour until things shape up around here – jot down some ideas to discuss with me. Something new. Something that makes me oh-so-very-happy that I’m spending what was supposed to be a leisurely spring relaxing with my family …’

His family? My eyes darted to his left hand. Oh, thank God.

Naked fourth finger.

‘… trying to fix everything that Colossimo managed to fuck up so royally over the past year. Show me why Apollyon should keep you, why your team is valuable and what you have to offer to Holder Enterprises.’

Why did he keep looking at me? By then I was not so sure it was an attraction thing. Quite the opposite. Did he hate me?

Dear God, please don’t let Dorian Holder, CEO hate me …

‘Writers, my apologies, but you’re always the first department I downsize during overhaul. Ms Dewitt, you’re in for Ms McCarthy over the next two months, correct?’ He paused. ‘Ms Dewitt?’

‘Erm,’ I cleared my throat, trying to digest the fact that he already knew my name, as well as calling on my department before anyone else. ‘Just as a temporary –’

‘It’s a simple question. Are. You. In. For. Paula. McCarthy?’

He spoke to me as though I were a child.

A stupid child, at that.

Everyone stared, like I’d done something wrong. My overworked staff of six looked particularly desperate. Where did this animosity come from? Maybe I was doing something wrong. Maybe I hated Mr Adonis right back. Well, of course he’d be an asshole, what was I thinking earlier about his sweet smile? No one this good-looking could possibly have a kind heart.

‘Yes.’ It was a whisper. Dammit. Where was my voice?

‘I strongly suggest you get your department together before two to generate some new plans.’

You could have heard a pin drop.

‘OK.’ I gulped.

‘OK?’ He smirked. ‘OK what?’

‘OK, Mr Holder.’

This time he out-and-out snickered. ‘You mean, “OK, the copy department will be ready with some mastermind plan so I – you, rather, being their immediate supervisor – don’t have to start laying people off”.’

Asshole, Gwen mouthed at me.

Great minds think alike.

‘Yes.’ I glowered at him. ‘That’s exactly what I meant to say … sir.’

No, I could not keep the sarcasm out of my voice. How dared he humiliate me like that? Did he recognise me from the T? Oh, look, it’s that Plain Jane who had the chutzpa to stare at me this morning while I was trying to read my very important Wall Street Journal. As though she’s got a chance in hell with a thing like me.

This time, he smiled apologetically, and there was the dimple I would grow to love so very much. ‘Good.’

What was Dorian Holder, CEO? Besides an extremely attractive, wealthy and self-important Jekyll and Hyde? What had I done that made me his target, second only to Mr Colossimo?

He pushed back his chair importantly and waved his hand at us dismissively. ‘Run along, now.’

We filed out of the room in silence.

He followed us, slamming the door shut behind him, much as he had entered. Like he was already mad at us.

Like I’m already fired.

When we reached the elevator, Gwen opened her mouth to say something, but I shook my head. ‘There’s ears everywhere,’ I whispered.

A deep, resonant voice directly behind me added, ‘Indeed.’

I turned around, nearly bumping into Dorian Holder, CEO. I was face-to-face with his golden necktie, which stood out like a beacon against his black suit. Was Dorian Holder really so tall, or did he wear shoe lifts? I bet he wore shoe lifts.

‘Excuse me, Mr Holder,’ I said, in what I hoped was a frosty tone.

‘You’re excused.’ His softened voice was pleasant, and – much to my annoyance – amused.

But it was neither fear nor anger that made me tense up and struggle to catch my breath. It was Mr Holder’s proximity; he hovered over me so closely. So very, very close. Granted it was crowded in there, and, I thought, sometimes small spaces shrink even smaller with tension. I mean, we were all freaked out by the meeting, and the silence of my coworkers gave a heaviness and gravity to the air. That’s all it is, I told myself. An awkward accident. But is it so tight that Mr Holder’s chest needs to be pressed up against my shoulder? He could have taken either of the other two elevators.

Except, now that I think about it, they were all heading downstairs, and he was going up.

Oh, well. Not that I care, now. His borderline frotteuring is now ancient history.

I got off on the eighteenth floor, not looking back. Just like the night I left my last lover, ‘Father Gerald’, in the dust. Didn’t want to turn into a pillar of salt, ya see. Lot’s wife would not be my lot in life. Dorian Holder didn’t deserve a second look.

But I felt his stare as I exited the lift.

He so cannot wait to fire me.

Taking a yoga breath, I sat down at my cubicle, and struggled to hold back the tears. Why was I such a weeper? No fair. Gwen caught up with me, and crouched down. ‘Look at me, Lily.’

‘OK,’ I said with a sniffle.

See, if someone tells me what to do, even if I’m not sleeping with him/her, I tend to obey. Dorian wasn’t so fucking special.

‘You gotta pull it together. Don’t let him get to you like that.’

I nodded, because were I to say anything, I’d have a full-on ugly cry, and everyone knows you don’t do that shit at the office. Especially when you aren’t wearing waterproof mascara.

‘You’ll come up with something brilliant,’ Gwen promised. ‘I have faith in you.’

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded again.

‘Too bad he turned out to be such a douchebag.’ Gwen put a hand on my arm. ‘It’s always the hotties. Funny thing, I pictured Dorian Holder as this fat, grey-faced, über-conservative dude with high blood pressure and a bad suit. Kind of like Mr Colossimo, but pinker and with a big nose.’

I struggled to smile at her, because she was trying so hard to cheer me up. But Gwen knew me better, and her features softened in response.

‘You prove to Mr Romeo Document Holder he can’t do that to you, Lily.’ She paused, gripped my shoulders and gave me a shake. ‘You hear me?’

‘Mm-hmm.’ I squinted at her. ‘What did you just call him?’

‘Romeo Document Holder. The man has a Louboutin briefcase, for fuck’s sake. That’s how into himself he is.’ Gwen was on a roll. ‘No one can mess with you, not the CEO, not Troy Matthews, and not even Father Gerald/Jerry Fitz. Unless you let them. Right?’

Louboutin. Had to be some hip word about being rich and sexy, and why did I ever tell her about Jerry? ‘Right.’

‘Because you’re Lily fucking Dewitt, right?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yes, you are.’ She stood up, looked over the expanse of cubicles and sighed. ‘Aw, shit, Lily. Sorry to be “that friend”, but there’s –’

‘It’s cool, Gwen. You’ve got stuff to do. We all do, and fast. Listen, I’ll call when I get home.’

‘Please do.’

Thankfully, she left me to my misery, and I lowered my pounding head on my desk. Hey, at least I didn’t run into Troy Matthews. There was always an upside, right? The day could be worse.

You’re fired. Dorian Holder’s voice was in my head, speaking from what I imagined to be the near future. Run along now, Ms Dewitt.

Like Gwen said, it’s always the hotties.

Proudly, I sat up, turned on the computer, and hoped for ‘something brilliant’ to come to me.

Screw him.

Ah, well. Good thing I didn’t phone it in, right?

It’s the little things.

## Chapter Three. Intern Flat

Around four o’clock I snuck down to the cafeteria to grab a quick cup of coffee. Since I’d kept my poor team in and out of the meeting room since late morning, with no lunch break whatsoever, I was dying. Wouldn’t Dorian Holder, CEO be so proud of me? As a reward, I let them take off an hour early, and over-apologised. Least I could do. We came up with some decent ideas.

Apollyon needed something New Agey; the closest we had to yoga DVDs were that Joni Speed Pilates thing I mentioned earlier, and a workout for middle-aged women called ‘Stretchin’ to the Oldies’ featuring some benevolent-looking sixtysomething coach with a long fake braid and vintage Seventies leotards leading a group in something called ‘The Alexander Technique’ while soft rock played in the background. Mr Colossimo firmly believed mind-body wellness was a passing trend. Seriously.

So let’s throw together a bunch of Yoga videos, and give them away free with a mat. We could start selling blocks and blankets, preferably blessed by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Also, we could come up with a cookbook full of veggie-juice and smoothie recipes. There was a start. Plus, outside all our weight-training gear, we didn’t have much for guys who were more into outdoorsy workouts. I figured we should come out with a vertical treadmill for climbers, then overcharge on customised bungee cords and carabiners. Our gyms could start including climbing walls. Also, there were no instructional videos of any kind for the fellas, because, as Jay-Jay pointed out, it just seemed too queer. Maybe we could hire someone who was semi-famous and in decent shape to host a series. Hiking, surfing, ice climbing.

Of course I knew this isn’t what the copy department’s job is, duh. You have no idea how boring it gets writing about the same old gear and trying to make it sound as though Apollyon invented these gadgets. I felt so sorry for the poor tech writers. Anyway, we all agreed that if there were new products that were actually fun to write about, we’d produce higher-quality copy, hence doing our part to increase sales. Why shouldn’t we weigh in on product ideas? So each of us came up with a speculative list of gear, and outlined mock-up advertisements, as though we already had them in stock.

So I figured I’d take the next fifteen minutes or so to go over our notes, type a half-decent memo which I could edit after a well-deserved night of sleep, send a polite suckup email to Mr Holder, run out the door at five sharp, no ‘staying later to impress the boss’, and pray Adonis wouldn’t be prepared to meet me until the next morning.

So it wouldn’t look like I was trying to escape, you see.

Which of course I was.

OK, so my random act of kindness – letting my team take off slightly early – wasn’t entirely unselfish, nor was it random. I needed time to collect my thoughts, needed solitude, needed to stop being a team leader. After all, there is no ‘me’ in team, right? And I desperately needed to take some me time.

The café was generally empty in the late afternoon. Being an introvert is inconvenient, as one can’t always find an escape hatch. Silence and solitude revive me. As does coffee, even the sour stuff they have at Holder Café. Won’t name brands, but I planned at some point to tell Dorian Holder, CEO we all deserved better. And did I happen to mention that I was exhausted? Still a little hungover, even. Really.

As I flipped open my vinyl binder, which was nearly as cheap as my shoes, I heard a cough nearby. ‘Lily?’

Troy Matthews. Why? It’s official: there is no God. Gawd. That Catechism was such a load of bunk.

I glanced up and removed my glasses. Then put them back on. ‘Oh. Hey, Troy.’

Poor Troy seemed almost as uncomfortable as I, which was saying something. Why didn’t he just leave, already?

‘Hi.’ Troy’s eyes darted around before he asked, ‘May I join you?’

I fiddled with my pen. ‘Uh … normally I’d say yes, but I’ve got a major deadline to meet. Be glad you aren’t an Apollyonian today.’

Troy worked in the law office on the first floor.

‘Oh.’ He seemed disappointed by my refusal of his companionship. ‘Heard the head honcho’s in town.’

‘Yep. True story.’ So word had already spread to Wingate&Wolfington. ‘Going to be a rough few months, I reckon.’

‘Sorry to hear.’ He sat down across from me. What, did men simply just not listen to me … at all? Didn’t I ask him not to join me? But I knew what he was waiting for, and owed him an apology.

‘Speaking of sorry, Troy –’ I cleared my throat ‘– listen, about Saturday night –’

‘Oh, no.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t even. It was your birthday, Lily. You deserve to cut loose now and again.’

‘Generally I’m not so “loose”. I cringed at my word choice. ‘I mean –’

‘I know what you meant.’ He took a sip of his coffee. I never like it when men use creamer in their coffee, but that is neither here nor there. ‘Lily, it was a fun night, and I’m happy Gwen invited me along. Besides, nothing happened.’

Poor Troy was such a last-second idea when we left work on Friday. He was wandering around the lobby looking all cute, single and dateless; a stray pup. As I mentioned, the whole thing was Gwen’s doing. ‘We’re partying in Cambridge tomorrow. You should come,’ she’d said.

‘Oh.’ I mulled this over. ‘That’s … that’s good. Thanks for understanding.’

‘Thing is, Lily? I noticed you a long time ago, and thought about asking you out. But you always seem to be in a hurry, and …’ Troy hung his head, his sandy hair flopped over his eyes and he took another sip of coffee. For the record, he was sort of cute. I could forgive myself for making a drunken pass at him.

‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t, now?’ I forced a smile. My facial muscles actually hurt when I fake-smile. That’s why I always looked so miserable in my Facebook pictures. Remove Tag.

‘Not really.’ His voice was all brave-like. ‘I’d love to try again, maybe with less tequila involved. You busy this weekend?’

Before I could answer, my obnoxious ringtone (‘Here in my car/I feel safest of all …’) provided a wonderful excuse to end the conversation. As a rule, I don’t pick up if I don’t recognise the number, but rules are made to be broken, so I grabbed my plastic saviour. Even if it was one of many student loan collection agencies, they bailed me for now, and I would chat them up until the cows come home. Not that I didn’t consider Troy a decent person, it was just not a good time to think about anything non-Apollyon. ‘Sorry, I totally have to get this.’

‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait.’

What? Why would I have wanted him to wait? ‘Hello?’

‘Lily Dewitt?’ A rich, deep, voice resonated in my ear. Automatically, my toes curled.

Stupid toes.

I coughed. ‘This is she.’

‘Dorian Holder.’

‘Oh. Hello, Mr Holder.’ My tone was calm, with the slightest note of unalarmed surprise.

I hoped.

Troy’s eyes bugged out, and I gave him a frantic waving gesture, which had nothing in common with my smooth telephone talk. He nodded. I nodded. He left.

Thank heaven. Back to Dorian Holder, CEO.

‘I went looking for you at your desk, but you appeared to have taken off for the day.’

‘Oh, no. I’m not – I didn’t – I just ran down to the cafeteria to grab some coffee.’ Shit. ‘I was heading right back upstairs.’

‘I know exactly where you are.’

‘You do?’ I looked around at my colourful surroundings. Chips, salad bar, coolers, bored food service workers …

‘Right over by the grill.’

Sure enough, there he stood, holding his iPhone in one hand, and a hot dog in the other. Gross. He eats hot dogs? Then he was hanging up, walking toward me, his eyes serious as pulmonary edema. Taking enormous bites of that frankfurter. All business.

‘After this morning’s meeting, I would hardly expect to find you down here socialising with the bottom-feeders.’ He turned his head ever so slightly towards the double doors, where poor Troy Matthews viewed our interaction with a little too much interest. Troy didn’t miss the glower and departed at once, a scared bunny rabbit.

Major turn-off.

‘That’s Troy Matthews. He’s in accounting.’ Like I needed to explain anything to Dorian Holder, CEO. Not that he cared. ‘Not for us, for the law office.’

‘Holder Enterprises owns Wingate&Wolvington, and they handle all Apollyon’s legal tangles. But you knew that, right? Ah. I’m assuming this is your proposal.’ Dorian Holder took the last bite of hot dog, slipped the phone into his pocket, picked up my notes and squinted at them. Smooth as silk.

‘You assume correct.’

‘Correctly.’

‘What?’

‘You said, “You assume correct.” Which I do not. I assume correctly.’

‘Either one works, Mr Holder.’

He examined my scribbles. ‘You have the penmanship of a high-school girl, Ms Dewitt.’

What was that supposed to mean? It’s not like I put hearts over my i’s or anything. Deciding not to rise to the bait, I responded just as coolly as the proverbial cucumber. Kind of like the one he must have in his … Oh, geez.

Eyes up, Lily.

Hope he didn’t just catch me looking at his crotch.

‘Well?’ He met my eyes, and his flashed with sparkle of merriment in them. It was hard to tell, though. Around his pupils there was a ring of gold flecks. Like a wolf’s.

I was so busted. Oh, shit.

‘I like your tie,’ I bluffed, hoping he would believe that was my distraction, rather than what was below. ‘An interesting choice.’

‘One would hope.’ He lifted it up, and leaned over me so I could get a closer look. ‘A Hoffman. That’s 24K gold woven in there.’

‘Wow. That’s … extravagant.’

‘You can touch it, should you wish.’ His voice dropped to a purr.

I reached up and pulled. A curious blend of silky and stiff filled my hand.

‘Now you can release me,’ Dorian Holder said. He brushed my hand away. ‘You have a fine grip, Ms Dewitt.’

Flustered, I said, ‘If you’d like to discuss my proposal, I can meet you in your office in about fifteen minutes. But I’ll need to type it up. Lest I subject you to my “high-school-girl penmanship” any further.’

Nor would I subject him to my high-school-girl gawking. Hands shaking, I put my glasses back on in what felt like an aggressive gesture.

‘Yes, you will.’ He almost smiled at me, pleased at my flustered state. ‘Are you throwing me out of the dining hall, Ms Dewitt?’

I shrugged, averting my eyes. Some people deserved to be handsome. Dorian Holder was not one of those people.

‘Maybe.’

‘Ms Dewitt, I own this cafeteria.’

As if he was pulling rank about the lunchroom. Like I would be ever so impressed and intimidated. Who cared? I was getting canned, anyway. ‘I am well aware. See, Mr Holder, I’m actually throwing you out of my personal space. Which, at the moment, you are standing in, and you don’t own.’

Whoops. It just popped out.

How dared he chuckle? But chuckle he did.

‘Not yet, I don’t.’

My jaw dropped, as Mr Holder stifled a yawn.

‘Mr Holder, what are you –’

‘It’s decided, then. Meet me on the top storey when you’re finished, Ms Dewitt.’

‘Done and done.’

Dorian Holder took a sip of my coffee, and his Adam’s apple took a dip as he swallowed. He winced. ‘Christ. Is this what we’re serving?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. Please don’t drink my coffee, Mr Holder. I actually paid, so you no longer own it.’

The whole thing struck me as bizarre. Couldn’t I just go home?

‘Now that was me being in your personal space.’ He set the cup down. ‘You like it sweet and creamy. I’m surprised.’

‘Would you have guessed dark and bitter?’

‘Hmm. I’ll have to speak to the staff.’ His eyes wandered to the kitchen. ‘But not now.’

I shrugged, ‘It’s good enough for me.’

‘I refuse to be served anything less than the finest,’ Dorian Holder explained. He glanced at my feet and sneered, ever so slightly. Huh? Oh, yes. Horrified by my cheap flats. Can’t blame him there.

‘Yeah, well.’ My pulse pounded. Was it lust or anger? Mix and match.

‘Nor do I like shabby presentation.’ He appraised my casual-chic frumpwear ensemble.

OK, chic was not involved in that particular outfit.

‘What size shoe do you wear, Ms Dewitt?’

Wow. Bisexual, foot fetish, or Buffalo Bill? I tried to appear unruffled.

‘Eight.’

‘Eight?’

‘Yep.’

He glanced at his watch. You got to be kidding me, he wears a Rolex? Does he think it’s 1983? ‘You said it would take you fifteen minutes?’

‘Or so.’

‘Fifteen minutes,’ he repeated, ‘is what you said. There is no “or so”.’

And then he strode away.

Definitely a strider.

* * *

While I’ve never been the world’s fastest typist, I’m not so bad. Trying to edit, revise and hammer my cryptic notes into something smart and clarified? While my hands shook and I was terrified? Not so much. To make matters worse, I couldn’t open half the attachments the team had sent. Altogether I was caught in a real-life spin on one of those anxiety dreams where someone or something is chasing you, you’re running as fast as you can but your legs are nearly immobile and, just as the Thing is about to catch you, you awaken swaddled in wet sheets with your heart throbbing.

A little blip notifying me of a new message did nothing to assuage my growing panic.

Fr: Dorian Hartley Holder

Subject: Tick-Tock

Fifteen minutes have come and gone. I’m waiting.

BTW, you won’t find a number button on the elevator. Press ‘P’ for the penthouse.

Yours,

D

I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keys.

Fr: Lily Elizabeth Dewitt

Re: Tick-Tock

Penthouse? We’ve always called it the 13th floor, but you’re the boss. I know where the top storey is, though I wasn’t aware that’s what the ‘P’ button stood for; I had other ideas.

Just five more minutes, if that’s OK. I’m almost there. Sorry to make you wait.

Respectfully,

Lily Dewitt

Yeah, I totally did that.

A few seconds passed, and there was a second blip.

Fr: Dorian Hartley Holder

Subject: Impatient

I am, indeed, the Boss.

But no, I said ‘now’. Nobody makes me do anything, you see. Just email me whatever you have, which – judging from your ‘notes’ – is worth trying to do something with. We’ll discuss the rest in person. Despite what you may or may not have heard, I’m relatively flexible.

And I like your mind.

I want you in my office. Thirteenth floor, per your correction. Penthouses are for Playboys. I’m curious about your P.

Yours,

D

Oh, do you, now? I paused, nibbled at my fingernail and began to type.

Fr: Lily Elizabeth Dewitt

Re: Impatient (Tick-Tock)

OK. I’m coming.

P is for Porcupine.

Respectfully Yours,

Lily Dewitt

P is for Prick, but you know that.

Very well, then.

I highlighted, cut, pasted and sent what little I’d typed up. None too impressive. I bit my lip in consternation.

Hopefully, I won’t get all stuttery again. Scratch that. I promise myself not to get all stuttery again. I would channel my inner coolness I faked in the cafeteria. That’s part of me, somewhere inside, straight-up Lily Dewitt. I take no guff. I will present my plan with all kinds of confidence and enthusiasm, while not sounding overly bubbly. Like a high-school girl. Right?

What did he mean by that, anyway? My penmanship is like a high-school girl? Meh. How did he know so much about high-school girls and shoes, anyway? P was for Pervert. The more I could think of Dorian Holder as just freakazoid control freak, the easier this meeting – or confrontation – would be. As my mom used to say, when I was faced with a spelling bee or whatever, ‘Pretend they’re all in their underwear, Lily. And instead of fighting off tears, you’ll fight off laughter. Don’t forget the funny.’

Sighing, I grabbed my bag, and prepared myself to lose my first decent job.

Ah, well. It was a good run, I figured.

Then I was off to Dorian Holder’s office. The thirteenth floor. The Penthouse.

P.

The top storey.

* * *

The thirteenth floor was a euphemism for ‘gentlemen’s club’, which is itself a euphemism.

Anyone who knows from what knows there’s no such thing as a thirteenth floor. It’s straight-up bad luck. Look at any control panel of elevator buttons, whether in an apartment building, hotel, skyscraper – there will never be a 13. But Apollyon LLC did the thirteenth-floor thing with pride, though it had apparently been re-christened ‘The Penthouse’ by Dorian Holder, CEO in some covert operation.

Because he could do that shit. He could do whatever he wanted.

Still can.

The thirteenth floor was actually the thirty-first floor (see what they did there?) and last I had known was a sweet little bar with a view of the city, and a couple of faux offices in which I assumed private dances happened. Maybe a random handjob or two. Seeing as Mr Colossimo’s and his ever-changing Vice Presidents’ desks had always been next to the conference room on the nineteenth, and that I was always a sucker for water-cooler gossip, that wasn’t an unreasonable call. My poor former boss was not only afraid of climbing stairs, riding the elevator apparently stressed him to the max. If it had been me, I’d have been hanging on the top floor all the frigging time.

Anyhoo.

The People Who Matter held business meetings, bachelor parties and whatnot on the mysterious thirteenth floor, but none of the businesses in our building had ever done any office nesting, per se. Or they’d done some nesting, of course, but no settling in. Nothing wholesome or businesslike.

Must admit, I was beyond curious.

When the massive metal doors spread open, I was surprised to find that whatever was once the thirteenth had been transformed into yet another generic-looking level, sans busy cubicles. That was the transformation of the businessmen’s club? A smashing disappointment. It was as though I’d just been summoned to the headmaster’s office, which, in a sense, I had.

Why did that thought turn me on? Headmaster. Not as if I would do anything about it with Mr Holder, I thought. I mumbled ‘headmaster’ three times, and pictured Dorian Holder in what were likely to be boxer-briefs. Rather than easing my fear, my anxiety went up a notch. Danger on the horizon.

* * *

Dorian Holder’s green office door was all oaken majesty and power, looming at the far end of a narrow white hallway. All the other new offices were sterile and empty, with glass doors reflecting a ghostly image of me as I trudged down the impossibly long industrial-grey carpet. But there was no turning back. The door was, like, a million feet tall, as intense and commanding as an entrance could be. He had already got a new plaque:

DORIAN H. HOLDER

CEO HOLDER ENTERPRISES

ACTING PRESIDENT, APOLLYON LLC

The contractors had been busy. As I mentioned, nobody ever utilised the mysterious thirteenth floor for anything non-recreational, so they must’ve put all of this newness together in a week. Right behind Mr Colossimo’s fat back! Well played, Mr Holder.

I rapped my knuckles against the hard wood, feeling very much as though I were in a fairy tale, sans prince. Lily in Wonderland.

Much to my surprise, a slammin’ hot blonde, whom I hadn’t seen around Apollyon ever, ushered me in. The brand-new she-creature flashed her expensive-looking teeth while looking me up and down. Her eyes stopped at my shoes, and she sneered, ever so slightly. But I caught the scorn. I was supposed to. What was up with these newcomers and their shoe fetish? I stared down at my feet, wanting to just melt into my Steve Maddens, which had never looked more awful to me.

‘Right this way,’ she said, not sounding particularly inviting. She might as well have said, ‘Get out’. After all, I was already standing in the office. Her office. If the – I glanced at her desk.

BEATRICE COLLINS, ASSISTANT TO

DORIAN HOLDER, CEO

HOLDER ENTERPRISES

OK, then. Real original, Holder, fucking the imported secretary.

Beatrice Collins looked about eighteen, though she was surely my age, just with some surgical trimmings and tuckings. Question was, how did someone get a job like hers so young, while I seemed to be in a holding pattern? Granted, ‘Assistant’ is not the greatest title, but you could bet she made several times what I did, and could work wherever she wanted. Dorian Holder would surely give the best recommendation.

Meanwhile, my life was on pause.

You know, I went to the wrong school, that’s what. Boston College doesn’t groom one for that certain something Beatrice Collins and Dorian Holder had. That confidence, that self-assuredness, that sense of entitlement. Liberal arts just make you bitter and leave you with a BA in English, concentration in Communications. Should so have gone the business track.

Or been born to a more well-to-do family. Something told me Beatrice was a daddy’s girl, and, heck, I don’t even have a daddy. My fate was sealed while I was still in utero.

‘Thank you, Beatrice.’ Taking a brief glance around, I added, ‘Been a busy day, right?’

‘Not a problem.’ Her tone was icy. ‘Ms Dewitt.’

It clearly was a problem. I wasn’t supposed to call her Beatrice without permission. ‘Thanks, anyway.’ I matched her voice. ‘Ms Collins.’

‘Mr Holder has been waiting for you.’ Beatrice Collins wrinkled her adorable nose, strutted back to her desk and pretended to shuffle papers. Without looking up again, she added, ‘For quite some time now.’

‘Got it. I apologised, remember?’

Should I just be straight up and tell her I’m hardly a threat? I wondered. Anyway, Ms Thing sat back down at her desk and pushed a button. ‘Mr Holder? A Lily Dewitt is here for your meeting.’

‘A moment, Ms Collins.’ His deep voice was smooth even through an intercom.

‘Of course, sir.’ Beatrice Collins nodded at a row of severe-looking chairs lined up by a coffee table. ‘Feel free to sit.’

‘Thank you.’ I followed her directive, but added, ‘Freedom is a good thing.’

No response. She began tapping away at her keyboard again, a shade too loud.

Anyhow, the dullest-looking magazine collection a girl could ever ask for was fanned in a perfect semi-circle on the table. Money. Forbes. Wired. Sail. Oh, wait: National Geographic Travel. That would have to do. I flicked it open and escaped from reality, immersing myself in the Virgin Islands, almost smelling the salty air. Images of turquoise waters, colourful fish and coral reefs were most soothing to my frazzled countenance. Imagining a vacation someplace I will never afford, swimming in a warm ocean, soaking up the island breeze, was even better than picturing Dorian Holder, CEO naked, as in my mother’s advice about stagefright.

Imagine he’s in his underwear.

Come to think of it, picturing him this side of naked was probably not the best coping method. Not soothing, not at all.

In fact, the coping method had somehow faded to a sexual fantasy and was causing wicked tingle-action. No fair. Maybe later, when hanging with my electronic companion before I fell asleep, that would be a soothing thing. Dorian Holder, boxer-briefs, black and white, Calvin Klein … For the record, Dorian Holder totally didn’t deserve to be thought about naked or thereabouts while I got off. Hopefully, I’d see some other, nicer, better hottie on the way home to star in my dreams. Yeah, right.

So I stared at pictures of wise-looking sea turtles, mentally transporting myself to a land far, far away …

‘Ms Dewitt?’

I gasped, dropping the magazine.

No fair. You shouldn’t just sneak up on a girl like that, especially if you’re a guy who’s hot, interesting and a domineering asshole. Like, if you happen to get lucky enough to be born Dorian Holder, CEO. Or something.

Flustered, I bent over, both to pick up the magazine and hide my burning cheeks at the same time. Of course I stood up just as he was crouching to assist me, and we unceremoniously banged heads.

‘Jesus.’ He slapped a palm against his forehead, winced, then rubbed hard and fast. ‘That kind of hurt, Dewitt.’

‘I am so s-s-sorry, Mr Holder!’ I stammered, and instinctively reached out to him.

Just as instinctively, he pulled back.

Oops. I set the offending Geographic back on the table, wishing for the second time in five minutes that I could disappear. Oh, and he called me Dewitt. How horrible. No Ms, no Lily, just …

‘You OK?’ he asked, but his politeness was strained. That bump stung his head more than a little. Well, guess what? The product in his hair maybe hurt mine. So there.

‘As much as a girl in my shoes could be.’

‘Your shoes, yes, of course. Come in.’

We stood, looked at each other evenly, looked at silent Beatrice Collins even more evenly, and he opened his office door. It was an even deeper shade of green than his Bangy’s foyer. I followed him into the Emerald City. This would be the part at BC where we’d turn on Pink Floyd, smoke pot and play that ‘Dark Side of the Oz’ game.

‘Welcome,’ said Dorian Holder, gesturing to the black leather couch across from his ostentatious desk, against which he leaned. Mr Holder’s body language was both graceful and elegant, the liquid movements of his large frame unexpected and most appealing.

We stared at each other. I knew this trick – or I’d read about it, anyway – and refused to break the silence. Whoever speaks first loses the power play. So I shifted my gaze upward, as gazing into his titian eyes was unnerving, to say the least. They tell you to never look into an eclipse of the sun, and that moment was the second time I thought of it when peering at Dorian Holder.

You’ll go blind.

Don’t stare at a golden compass.

You’ll get hypnotised.

Perhaps that was when it first became clear to me that Dorian Holder was more than a man. He had a certain magic, a power greater than his obvious advantages over the Troy Matthewses of the world. He could make anyone’s head spin, should he wish, not just because of his notable beauty, his powerful position as one of the wealthiest men in America or his casual intelligence. No, Dorian was the master of his domain, and could become the master of anyone else’s domain as well. I was no match for him.

To distract myself from the thickness in the air, I checked out the office in a manner I hoped was subtle. There was one detail it was impossible to tear my eyes away from. Near the top of each wall was a narrow shelf with a miniature train track on it. No joke. And there was a very long train directly over his desk. Though I was dying to ask about it, I’d just have to wait.

Thirty seconds passed. And yes, I was totally doing the ‘one-Massachusetts, two-Massachusetts, three-Massachusetts’ count to time it.

I had never realised how long the word ‘Massachusetts’ is.

Crickets.

So I waited, and peeked back at Dorian Holder. One corner of his mouth was curved into a half-smile, in fact he looked as though he were about to laugh. At me? Again, I looked back up at the Lionel train, and began to count cars.

The CEO of Apollyon’s model train set is composed of 32 cars, if you include the locomotive and caboose. Just sayin’.

‘You win,’ I said, at last.

‘Of course I do.’ He beamed. ‘Holders always win.’

‘Should I “feel free” to sit?’

‘Please do.’

The new leather couch made an unfriendly crackling sound as I leaned back against its sterile softness. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re most welcome. Don’t mind if I stand.’ He crossed his legs and leaned back. ‘I’ve been sitting most of the day.’

I pointed up at his toy collection. ‘So …’

‘Like it? Nineteen-forty-six model. The year they introduced the “smoke effect”.’

‘What’s that?’ This was not the conversation I had been expecting. ‘The smoke effect?’

‘Oh, you drop what looks like a little white pill into the smoke box.’

What do you say to that? And what was Dorian Holder?

‘You like trains.’

‘Yep.’

He was not offering to turn it on for me.

I looked through the window, or rather the wall of glass. ‘Beautiful view.’

The city lay below and beyond. Though I don’t recommend swimming in Boston Harbor, it makes for a stunning sight, especially from about 300 feet overhead mirroring the springtime light. Everything is stunning from up on high. Now I get it.

‘Indeed.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You should see the terrace.’

‘The terrace? I hadn’t known there was one. You can’t see much of this building from the ground.’

‘It’s quite splendid, Ms Dewitt. After we’re finished here, I’ll show you the real view. Puts this one to shame.’ He waved toward the window.

‘The sunset must be gorgeous.’

‘Hopefully. I’ll find out tonight.’

‘Oh.’ I wished he would just cut to the chase so I could go home and get my cry on. Perhaps he was enjoying watching me squirm? ‘How late are you staying?’

‘Until I’m done.’ He walked over to the windows, hunched over as though tired, then gave me a sidelong glance. ‘I have a bedroom suite up here as well, should I need to pull an all-nighter.’

Wow. The bedroom suite. Where did he keep it? I wondered. I cleared my throat and forced my eyes to wander around the office again. Anywhere but at Dorian Holder.

It was quite lovely there, and smelled very new. A few potted trees in the corner. Built-in bookshelves, void of books. Mr Holder seemed the sort who would buy some objet d’art as a conversation starter, seeing as he didn’t want to discuss his toy train set in depth. But for now the black shelves were stark and bare. The coffee table in front of me was glass-topped, with a small antique vase in the middle, also empty. No one brought him flowers.

There was an old-fashioned dessert cart with several crystal decanters of what I’m sure was the most expensive booze. And a box of Cuban cigars.

How quaint.

Dorian Holder watched me closely. I could feel him. At last, he asked, ‘Would you care for a drink, Ms Dewitt?’

I very much did, but thought it not the wisest choice. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Hope you don’t mind if I imbibe.’

‘Why would I?’

‘Indeed.’ He moved across the room with animal grace, and made quite a show of clinking the crystal as he poured about three fingers of scotch.

‘No ice?’ I asked. Oh, Lily. Sometimes I made myself so weak.

‘Never.’ He turned around to face me. ‘Why? Would you have a drink if it were chilled?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘I’ve kept the bar and restaurant, if you change your mind.’ Mr Holder sat down in one of the two throne-like leather chairs that faced the couch. How very cosy. Apparently he’d changed his mind about standing.

I want to be closer to you, Lily. I can’t help myself.

My fantasy version of Dorian Holder was so corny. But wicked hot and in love with me.

‘Really?’ I smiled at him. ‘So the infamous thirteenth floor is real? You’ve got the drinks, you’ve got beds, you’ve got the –’

‘Yes, really. Though it’s about half the size now, since we put the offices in.’ He shrugged. ‘I have to take clients someplace to dine, and don’t do the long lunches out and about.’

‘Will there still be strippers?’ I blurted.

‘No.’ The corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know.’ There was a beat, and I asked, ‘Are we going to discuss my proposal or what?’

‘Eventually. But first, I’d like to discuss you, Ms Dewitt.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ve been looking over my employee files all afternoon.’

‘Why? And you can start calling me Lily.’

‘Excellent. In the past, Lily, I’ve found that I can save hours of conference time by looking over who has been hired by one of my companies, and then I know who needs to go before I even talk to them.’ He scowled. ‘You’d be surprised how many people don’t make the cut.’

Oh, boy. And he failed to do the You can call me Dorian. Oh, well.

I waited.

He gestured at a menacing file cabinet. ‘Now that I’ve seen how unqualified so many of you are, my workload has significantly decreased.’

‘How very convenient for you.’ Why should I waste any more of my time? ‘So, I didn’t make the cut, did I.’

It came out as a statement, rather than a question.

‘Why would you say that?’ He seemed surprised. ‘I simply wish to know why you still choose to work at Apollyon. Aren’t you hungry?’

Had he heard my stomach growl? ‘Hungry?’

‘Do you have ambition?’ he explained. ‘Your CV has so much to offer, but you choose to work for a failing company, and are willing to perform the tasks of three people without demanding a raise. Also, since when are copywriters creative directors?’

‘Well, I didn’t –’

‘What that says to me as your boss, Lily, is that you don’t take yourself seriously.’ His face was a mask. ‘If you don’t take yourself seriously, or value your work, why should I take you seriously? Or any of your co-workers? Or any of Apollyon’s clientele?’

I hung my head. This was not the conversation I’d hoped to have, though I wasn’t surprised. Well, not entirely true. The angle he took came as a total surprise; I wasn’t expecting him to cushion it so nicely. The man was good.

‘Look at me, Lily,’ he commanded.

‘All right.’ My voice came out small and choked, as I looked up at him, fully obedient. ‘You are firing me, aren’t you? It’s OK to just say yes.’

‘Let’s talk about your past.’

Please, God, help me keep it together, I prayed.

‘I can – could we please talk about the ideas I came up with?’

‘At some point. Right now I want to know more about you. What your goals once were. Starting with Boston College.’

I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘Mr Holder, I need to apologise for this afternoon. I was rude to you, and I know it. Generally I’m not … I’m not like that.’

It was worth a shot. I’m not too proud to grovel. As you’ll find out, I have no shame at all when push comes to shove. Though at that moment in his shiny office? Really, I feared everything. Dorian Holder. Life. Myself.

‘What?’ He had either forgotten my bad behaviour or was a fine actor.

‘I kind of snapped at you in the café.’ Not to mention my looking at his pants. ‘I apologise, and it won’t happen again. I’m wicked sorry, Mr Holder.’

‘Oh, please.’ He waved his hand. ‘You’re fine. I was being impolite, and deserved far worse. If that’s your idea of snapping at someone, you must comprehend what I meant about not taking yourself seriously. You command zero respect, and if you’re heading up a department, yours is no way to behave. Letting your staff leave early when you are under duress and need to meet a deadline? Poor choice.’

I watched him take a slow, languorous sip. Late-afternoon sunbeams illuminated Dorian Holder’s drink, giving the illusion that he was swallowing liquid amber.

‘Speaking of no way to behave?’ He tilted his head. ‘Did you just tell me you were “wicked sorry”?’

‘Well, I am.’

‘I see.’ He stared at me. ‘Do you think local colloquialisms make you come across as a professional? For a young lady who studied communications, it disappoints. Are you disappointed with yourself?’

Maybe he was actually a psychologist whom Holder Enterprises had hired, pretending to go in as the real boss. Think about who the former president of Apollyon was, after all. Mr Colossimo the basket case! Holder Enterprises must have got some shrink to come in here, do evaluations of the employees and winnow the wheat from the chaff. The nuts from the Guinness. The … Wait. Didn’t I say insanity begins with paranoia?

‘I’d like to talk more, Mr Holder,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘But since I am fired, after all, I’m not sure what the point is. You have my “high-school girl” notes. Jay-Jay can take over for me.’

‘What?’ He set his glass down on the tabletop. ‘Who said you were being let go? It’s not like this is Iowa.’

Iowa?

‘You aren’t –?’

‘No, I am not. And don’t ever tell me again who to hire, fire, buy or sell.’

‘Mr Holder, I’d never try to –’

‘Mr Tanaka is not up for your position. He’s underqualified to head up copy, and I don’t care that he’s next in the weak chain of command. I’m getting someone from the outside.’ He scowled. ‘And you aren’t being terminated, Lily. You’re being demoted. Starting tomorrow, you will once again be an intern.’

‘Oh.’ I wasn’t sure whether or not to be relieved. After all, I remained employed, since it was a paid internship. On the other hand, I was so fucking humiliated, and didn’t know how I could talk about this with anyone. See, I just don’t command respect …

‘I’d like to move you around a few different departments, because you’ve got more to offer than copywriting, and I feel your talent could be better utilised in another capacity. Though you are quite a talented writer. I could see you excelling in PR. Concepts. Development. My long-term view would be you as a creative director, as I mentioned, but you would obviously need more grooming over the next two years.’

‘Creative director?’

‘Not beyond the realm of possibility, given the right mentor.’

‘Mr Holder, I need to be clear about something. So I … I’m being asked to step down. That sounds too much like “fired”.’

He mulled my comment over, and took a generous gulp. ‘An understandable reaction to this conference, but not based in reality, and you continue to demonstrate poor listening skills. Still, I acknowledge your disappointment, and regret that is what you are garnering from our meeting.’

He was definitely an undercover shrink. I despised him on one hand, but wanted to tell him everything on the other.

‘I – I am pretty disappointed.’ I blinked. I will not cry, I will not cry.

‘I would be, as well, were I in your shoes, your age, having no sense of direction or comprehension of potential advancement. If I had no belief in myself. What I offer you is opportunity, but we have to start from ground zero. You’ve been poorly trained, Lily.’ His eyes dropped to my feet, WTF, and I crossed my ankles, feeling exposed. ‘Since you don’t appear to think long-term, let me get down to your level and we’ll go from there.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? On my level?’

‘On the bright side, I’m offering you a most desirable internship. Same amount of money you make now, but room for upward mobility … which you currently don’t have. Room for advancement, that is. Because what you did, Lily? You hit a wall you built for yourself. I’m helping you break down the wall. Smash the glass ceiling. However you want to put it, Lily, we’re seeing to it that you are nothing but forward motion from this moment. Did I soften the blow?’

‘A bit.’ Yes and no.

‘Good.’ He seemed satisfied. ‘First thing tomorrow, you’ll come to my office, and I would like to discuss your ideas further, believe it or not. Some of them are already being implemented behind the scenes. You’ve got fine instinct, Lily, if poor execution and articulation.’

How could one teeny kind-of compliment already be enough to make me feel like everything in the world might be OK after all? Not perfect, but OK. The only thing that mattered was that Dorian Holder, CEO thought I was smart, special. That I was a girl with good instinct. Scratch that, a woman with good instinct.

I let out my breath, not realising I’d been holding it. ‘So, tomorrow morning?’

‘I’m going to jerk off on your nipples.’ Dorian returned to my résumé, giving me a slight waving gesture.

‘Sorry, what?’

He lowered the paper. ‘I’m going to work out a few wrinkles.’

‘Oh.’ I cleared my throat.

‘Why? What did you think I said?’

‘Nothing.’ I shook my head. ‘Just, yes. Tomorrow. After you work out a few wrinkles.’

Dorian Holder, CEO, rose to his full height. He was so scary, and definitely taller than my initial guess of six-two. Why did he have to use that old-school PA thingy or whatever you call it, anyway? He leaned over his desk and pressed a button. ‘Beatrice, please come to my office.’

‘You don’t need to do that,’ I said. ‘I can find my own way out.’

‘Sit.’

I sat.

Beatrice Collins came in, carrying a fancy-looking box, winked at Mr Holder, set it down on the desk and left without a word.

He pulled off the red ribbon, opened it and beamed as though it were a Christmas present. ‘Ah. Perfect.’

He removed a pair of red-soled flats and knelt before me. In utter silence, he lifted my right leg, removed my shabby Steve Madden, and slipped the lovely new shoe on my foot. Dorian’s touch was slow and gentle, taking me utterly by surprise. ‘The Intern Flat,’ he explained. ‘Give me your other foot.’

‘OK.’ I raised my leg, and he looked at my calf appreciatively. At least my black hose didn’t have a hole in the toe. Most of my tights did.

This time, when he slid on the other slipper, he caressed my ankle, and glanced up. ‘Do you like them?’ he asked, his voice husky.

I nodded. They were remarkable. And the way this man looked at me? For a second, I felt remarkable as well. Like I did when leaving the train station. For a second.

‘Why?’ I whispered.

‘Because you clearly haven’t been making enough money to dress in a manner appropriate for the office environment. You’ve been earning it, but Apollyon hasn’t been paying. We owe you.’ He was brusque and businesslike again. He grabbed my tattered old shoes – which I kind of felt sorry for at this point, poor shoes, never hurt anyone – rose to his feet and tossed them in the trashcan behind his desk. ‘You represent me, as long as you are working here. When you return to Apollyon, I expect you to be dressed in clothing that rises to the occasion of your new Louboutins.’

There was that word again. ‘Of my what?’

He shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

‘I will,’ I told him, trying to sound knowledgeable. I wondered if maybe Louboutin wasn’t an urban term after all, but some literary reference any English major should know … though this one didn’t. Of course, I wouldn’t ask him – or Gwen – what they were talking about; that’s what Google’s for. I stood up, brave and true, because these fancy flats were a perfect fit, and my feet felt quite dainty.

‘Now that we’ve had our chat, would you care to step outside on the piazza? To get the full effect of the thirteenth floor?’

‘I should go, actually.’ I was confused as all-get-out, and refused to crumble in front of him. ‘But thank you, Mr Holder. Perhaps another time.’

‘You may call me Dorian.’ He looked down at his desk and pretended to shuffle papers. I took this as my cue to leave.

‘Fair play. Thank you, Dorian.’ I’m not sure whether I was thanking him for the lovely new footwear, not firing me, or letting someone as lowly as myself be on a first-name basis. I was grateful for all these things, and at the same time humiliated.

‘You’re most welcome.’ His voice was gruff. No more Mr Nice Guy. ‘Eight forty-five tomorrow, Lily. Not ten past nine. I have no patience for tardiness. It’s a passive-aggressive way of letting someone know his time is not valuable.’

‘I –’

He raised his eyebrows, and his forehead did this worried wrinkle that made me wonder again how old he was. I shut my mouth, because that’s what you do when Dorian Holder raises his eyebrows in a warning fashion.

‘Understood?’

‘Yes, sir. Dorian.’

‘“Sir Dorian”.’ He took one last hard look at me, and down at my feet. ‘I like it.’

‘Well. Good night, then.’

‘Good night, Lily Dewitt.’

I took my leave, and, as soon as I closed the door behind me, heard the rattling of a toy train, and its low, long whistle.

## Chapter Four. Blackberry Curve

Oh, my God. The last time I was so happy to see this place was the day I moved in. It’s not that my apartment is gross, exactly, but when you tell people you live in a loft apartment in Cambridge, this hole is not what they picture, I’m pretty sure. Yes, my flat is an old, quaint granite building. From the impressive steps leading down to the street, I’d want to marry it. Yes, I do have hardwood floors. Yes, there are high ceilings. There is even a chandelier, a real one that is most Phantom of the Opera