"Yes, Mom!" I call back, but I do as she says, and the effect is striking. She'd helped me perfect the technique a few months ago and since then it's been my go-to going out look, making my green eyes pop.
"Can you imagine?" I call. "I received my first proposal today. I feel like a character in a Jane Austen novel. Turning down unwelcome proposals of marriage!"
Nadine pops her head into my bathroom. " Yes. And then, just like a Jane Austen protagonist, you're going out to down martinis at Temple."
"Practically afternoon tea, my dear."
"Think your suitor will come calling?" She bats long eyelashes. "Leave his calling card?"
"If that's his business card, I don't want it."
She disappears back toward my couch. Our dresses are laid out on my single bed, wedged in the corner of my tiny apartment. I return to my makeup. We work in silence for a few minutes.
"Oh my God. Cecilia. Oh my God!"
"What?" I peek out of the bathroom, only to see her standing in her underwear by the bed, her phone in hand.
"I just got an email from the Francis Hunt Gallery. They're inviting me to exhibit with them!"
"Nadine, that's amazing! Are you serious?"
"Yes. This is… yes. Oh goodness. I'm going to have to find money, though. Artists pay half of the exhibition fees."
"They do?"
"Yes. Oh, Jesus. It costs several thousand dollars to exhibit there. But it's such a good opportunity."
I sink down onto the couch. "Really?"
"Yes. Most artists will make it back, based on sales. I might? But I don't have that money." She puts a hand on her flushed cheek, breathing deep. "But somehow I'll have to get it. Extra shifts, I suppose. Collage classes all night long!"
I nod, feeling hollow inside. Because I already know the best way to make her professional dreams come true, and just maybe, go after my own in the process.
"We'll find a way," I tell her. "This is your dream."
My hands are shaking around the coffee cup. Dark roast, Colombian beans, no sugar, no cream. Just like he wants his coffee. Only this time, he'll get it with a side of victory.
I glance in the elevator mirror. My usual composed appearance gazes back at me. Brown hair brushed back into a low bun. Pink blush, brown eyeliner, nude lipstick. A gray pencil skirt and a white blouse. I look like an assistant to a high-powered man. For years, that's been my job. Helping someone else be on top.
Perhaps it's time I look like a business owner instead.
Money for my own start-up, money for Nadine's art, and one more thing. The thing he's going to hate most of all.
Mentorship.
I don't like St. Clair, but he's the best at what he does. He negotiates like it's his native tongue. He cuts costs and grows profit margins. I've learned more from him over the past year than I did from Tristan Conway before him. It just hasn't been as easy.
Mason's desk is empty opposite mine. Eleanor doesn't require him in until seven thirty, so it's just me and my early bird devil in his office. I wonder what world-conquering moves he's already made.
Fired an entire Exciteur department? Bought another company? Invaded Portugal? Tristan did things tactfully, if a bit bluntly.
St. Clair is ruthless in comparison.
I knock on his office door and it swings open. He's seated behind his desk, legs crossed and a dossier of papers in his lap. The blue shirt he's wearing is the exact color of his eyes.
He's impossible to look away from.
My hand shakes harder and I flex my fingers, gripping the coffee cup tight. This is a transaction. I don't need to think about why he's doing this. All I need to focus on is what I'll gain. I've been given a chance to change my life and that of my best friend. Nadine has been a brilliant, struggling artist for a decade.
This is her big break.
St. Clair looks up from his dossier. "Good morning, Cecilia."
I didn't think he knew my first name, and he never says good morning. This isn't a good sign. This means he's done his homework, like he always does before negotiations. Only this time I'm not the one who'd done the research for him.
"Good morning," I say. Force my legs to move and put down his coffee.
"Excellent. Thank you."
I stare at him. He's never thanked me for anything.
St. Clair looks back at me with cool determination. "Have a seat and let's continue our discussion from last week."
If I let him, he'll take control of this conversation. I've seen it happen too many times before.
I grip the back of the chair and look him straight in the eyes. "I have three conditions."
He sets his dossier down. "Name them."
In my head, I hear the sneer of gold digger . But the ruthless businessman in front of me doesn't let the opinions of others bother him. I've seen him squeeze his suppliers or customers for every dime they're worth. If he can do it, so can I.
"I want double my yearly salary, and half of it upfront."
The sharp cut of his jaw dips once in a nod. "Agreed."
So I'd asked for too little, but even this amount feels like a dizzying sum. For Nadine's art exhibit and my start-up.
"My second condition. There's an art gallery I want you to patron."
One eyebrow rises. "To patron?"
"Yes. Go to the Francis Hunt Gallery a couple of times," I say, clearing my throat. "Attend an opening and buy a few paintings, invite some of your famous friends. Create some buzz, you know."
He gives another nod. "Fine. Specify all of that in the contract and I'll look it over. Is that all?"
"One more thing," I say. "I want you to mentor me."
Victor St. Clair stares at me. "You want me to do what?"