Chapter 17 Business
POV: Catherine
I’m at my desk at eight o’clock sharp. Because if I’m late, I’m screwed.
Oh shit, he’s here.
“Breathe, Catherine,” I mutter between my teeth, low enough that no one hears the panic under the polish. “You’re not a teenager in front of your high school crush.
Black Burberry coat. Hangs to his knees. Underneath, a three piece charcoal suit tailored to the millimeter. The leather briefcase shines brighter than my future and my hopes combined. He walks down the hall like he owns the building. He does, actually.
Our eyes collide.
My stomach twists.
“Good morning, Mr. Wood.”
Voice steady. Professional smile. Lips stretched just enough. Gold medal for fake detachment, with honors from the jury.
He nods. One sharp movement. Zero degrees Celsius. He pushes his office door open without another word and disappears.
I collapse into my chair. Air rushes back into my lungs with a hiss. Victory. No one would guess I spent the night staring at the cracks in the ceiling, wondering if Anastasia would have me committed if she knew I was renting my body to the devil.
A devil in a ten thousand dollar suit who knows exactly what sound I make when he—
Stop. Office. Work.
Don’t think about how he growled your name against the black armchair by the window.
Don’t. Think.
Ping!
The sound makes me jump. I almost knock over my coffee.
ERIC: Today’s schedule on my desk in five minutes.
I grab the schedule already printed on the corner of my desk.
I knock twice.
I walk in. “Here you go, sir.”
He takes the sheet without looking up from his screen.
Perfect. Routine. Boss, assistant. Clean transaction. That’s what this is. That’s all this is.
He scans the schedule with the tip of his pen. The pen that signed my contract.
“Move my noon appointment to Thursday. And get me lunch from Commander’s Palace today.”
I jot it down in my notebook. The ink smears a little. My fingers are damp. “Should I block something for one thirty as well?”
“No. Jenny will join me for lunch.”
My pen skids across the paper. A long black slash through the page. Jenny.
Jenny Laurent. Tall. Blonde. Rich. Influencer-model-socialite-heiress. One of his gala dolls with white teeth and perfect nails.
I look up.
He’s already staring at his screen. Jaw tight. Focused. Like he just told me it’s raining.
I could blow up the contract right here, right now. Throw it on his mahogany desk and yell: _You’re having lunch with her? Seriously? Didn’t we say exclusive? Wasn’t that clause number three, in bold, underlined twice? What the hell, Eric?_
But if I ask, he’ll know.
He’ll know it’s killing me, that I’m getting attached. That I’m pathetic. Clingy.
I can’t give him that weapon.
“Will that be all, sir?”
My voice is velvet. Cold, smooth, detached. It comes out of my throat without shaking. Oscar for Best Actress in a Supporting Dramatic Role. Category: Assistant who gets her heart stomped on in silence.
“That will be all.”
I walk out. The door clicks softly shut behind me.
My heart does stupid tap dances in my chest.
This isn’t a romance.
This is business.
Repeat it until you believe it, Catherine.
The rest of the day races by like a runaway train. Emails. Coffees. Calls. Excel sheets. Anything that keeps me from thinking.
Then 2:12 p.m. Jenny walks in.
Louboutin heels clicking on the marble like gunshots. Perfume that costs my rent. Laugh too loud, too sharp, too fake. She doesn’t look at me. I’m furniture. A houseplant. The girl who takes her coat.
I stay perfectly professional even though I want to gut her with Mr. Wood’s silver letter opener. I take her mink coat. I set it on the back of the chair. I smile. I’m the perfect assistant.
6:32 p.m. I slam my laptop shut harder than I need to. I grab my bag. I nod at the security guard. Outside, New Orleans is damp, heavy, clinging to my skin like a second layer of regret.
On the bus, I press my forehead to the window. The glass is grimy, warm. Matches my mood.
Fuck.
Here I am, dying because he’s having lunch with another woman.
I step through my front door and yell, louder than I need to, like volume could drown out the mess in my head:
“Gumbo?”
Liam looks up from his math homework, suspicious. He’s fourteen but he’s got old cop eyes. Like I just told him we’re moving to Mars without him.
I set the bag from Dooky Chase on the Formica table. The smell of andouille sausage, shrimp, celery, onions, and dark roux floods the tiny kitchen. For a second, it covers the stink of mildew and stale beer. For a second, we’re rich.
“Your favorite. With rice, cornbread, the whole thing.”
He narrows his eyes. He puts his pencil down. Analyzing. “What’s the occasion?”
I hate that he’s fourteen and already calculating scams. That he already knows good things have a price. That he knows his sister doesn’t bring Dooky Chase home on a Tuesday night for no reason.
“None. I felt like treating us. It happens, you know.” I force a smile. He doesn’t buy it.
He relaxes a millimeter. A millimeter is huge for Liam. “Last week you were mad at Dad and you said you were broke.”
Got me.
I slide an arm around his bony shoulders. He lets me for two seconds before playing tough and pulling away. “Trust me. Deal?”
He shrugs, but I see the smile he’s hiding as he goes back to his fractions. “Deal.”
My dad picks that moment to emerge from his room. Ripped T-shirt, wrinkled jeans, Bud Light in hand. He sniffs.
“Dooky Chase? Since when are we rolling in money?”
I have my line ready. Rehearsed three times on the bus. “Deal. Two for the price of one. Got some for tomorrow too.”
Liam gets the chipped bowls while I serve. My dad just moves his wrist to finish his beer. He doesn’t get up. He doesn’t offer to help. He waits.
“I thought you were broke.”
I shoot him a look. A look that says _shut up in front of Liam_. “I am. But Liam deserves better than cornflakes every night.”
“Hmm.” He crushes his can. The sound makes me wince. “So it’s got nothing to do with your new... boss?” He spits the word like a cherry pit. Like an insult.
I ignore him and turn to Liam, steaming bowl in my hands. “I need to tell you something. I’m gonna be doing a lot of overtime these next few months. You might be home alone more often. Do your homework, go to basketball practice, and if you need anything you text me, I’ll take care of it. You good with that?”
My dad crosses his arms, smirk on his face that makes me want to throw the gumbo at him. “If he says no, you change your mind?”
I. Don’t. Bite.
I look at Liam. Only Liam. “Liam?”
“I’m good, Cathy.” He looks me straight in the eyes. Brown eyes, honest, too old for his age. “As long as you’re not too tired.”
My heart clenches. Damn, this kid. He sees everything. He understands everything. And he protects me.
My dad snickers. The sound scrapes my nerves. “Overtime, huh? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
All through dinner, my dad throws jabs. About my job. About Eric. About women who sell themselves. I dodge. I laugh. I redirect to Liam, to the basketball game tomorrow, to the math teacher who gave him an A. Anything.
I’ll lie for the rest of my life if I have to. I’ll smile until my cheeks crack. Because he’ll never know about the money. He’ll never know about the contract. He’ll never know I’m selling my body so Liam can have new cleats and not be embarrassed in the cafeteria.
He’s ruined our lives enough with his bitterness, his alcohol, and his failures.