Chapter 11 The Green Effect
SCARLETT
"He's after my life. I swear he is," I groan, slumping dramatically against Beverly's partition. "I don't know how much longer I can survive this, Bev."
She winces in sympathy. "Yesterday was that bad?"
"Yes," I groan. "He put me through hell. Actual. Hell. And he didn't even let me leave until past seven!" I whisper-shrill.
Beverly's eyes go wide. "That's crazy,"
"I had to cancel on my blind date, Chris, because of him," I add miserably, dropping my forehead onto her desk. "I swear that demon named Moore is feeding off on my misery."
Beverly pats the back of my head sympathetically. "You think this is still payback for the bistro thing?" she asks. "Maybe this is his petty personal vendetta. Like… CEO-level punishment for calling him names that day."
"Bev, please," I interrupt, lifting my head. "That was a month ago. I'm still trying to forget that day, so, please, don't remind me."
She glances down the hall like Lawrence might materialise, and shrugs. "Fine. But maybe this is just his revenge arc."
"No," I whisper, remembering his laughter that day, and then the little moment we shared in the kitchenette.
The elevator. Even the gym. He'd looked at me like he didn't hate me after all.
Then yesterday happened.
What could've short-circuited in that head of his again?
"We're past that. Or we were. I don't know what changed." I say sadly. "I thought we hit some kind of truce."
Beverly looks at me with pity.
"This feels personal. Like I did something to him." I mutter thoughtfully, "And now I think he despises me on a monumental level."
Beverly's brows pinch. "I'm really sorry he's being this way to you, Scar. You don't deserve it."
I sigh and straighten up. "Thanks. I just want him gone."
"Careful," she mutters with a little smile. "Who's to say the boss they bring in after he leaves isn't worse?"
"At this point," I drawl, "I don't think there is a worse. Not after what Mr Moore has put me through."
Beverly whistles softly. "Damn, babe."
"I'd better get going," I say, heaving another sigh.
She gives me a thumbs up. "Good luck."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
I return to my desk and dive into the reports the demon spawn requested.
With every line I type, I pray that he doesn't make me redo this for something ridiculous like a comma misuse.
When I'm finally done, I gather the neatly printed stack and head to his office, forcing myself to knock politely instead of dropkicking the door and throwing the stack at his head, screaming, "Take your shit, bitch!"
Who am I kidding? He'll probably have me arrested and then bail me out just so he can fire me in person.
I step in.
"Here are the reports for the system breach analysis."
He gives a curt nod as I place them on his desk.
I turn to leave before he can find something to criticise, but his voice stops me.
"One more thing, Miss Thorn."
I freeze.
Lawrence still doesn't look up from the file he's signing, his pen gliding smoothly across the page in that relaxed posture.
"We have the GoodLife company launch gala at four. Black tie."
GoodLife company launch gala? I don't recall any event like that.
His gaze lifts, dragging down my body and back up. "You'll need to change out of… whatever that is."
'Whatever that is' happens to be a perfectly fine, well-ironed black A-line dress.
It's very professional and appropriate. But he says it like I walked in wearing a trash bag.
"Oh. Mr Moore... I wasn't aware of any gala." I glance down at the tablet in my hand. "It's not on..."
"Yes." He cuts me off. "It's not on either of our calendars. Last-minute addition."
I stare at him, mentally pulling my hair out.
It's past three, and I don't have a dress for fuck's sake. I haven't gone shopping in weeks.
And he tells me now?
I must have pissed off God in a past life because what on earth did I do to deserve a boss like Lawrence Moore?
"I'd have to go home, and taking the subway could…"
He makes a disgusted face when I mention Subway.
"Never mind." Lawrence picks up his phone. "I'll order you a dress. You can change here."
I stand there staring at him wondering how he intends to order me a dress when he doesn't even know my measurements.
The thought must flash across my face because he glances up, reads it with an accuracy that pisses me off even further, and smirks.
"Relax, Miss Thorn. Your measurements are perfectly standard."
My cheeks burn.
The fucking jerk.
He just called me standard.
There's nothing standard about this hot body I possess.
"Five-six, one-hundred-twenty-five pounds thereabout, 34C…" he continues casually. "Your measurements won't be a problem, Miss Thorn. Now, please go make the necessary preparations for the event."
"Yes, sir," I reply with a forced, professional smile, swallowing back a curse as I leave.
Twenty-two minutes later, a garment bag and three glossy black boxes are delivered by a woman who looks like she works for the Secret Service. I grab everything and flee to the restroom, with Beverly hot on my heels.
Once inside, she unzips the bag, and we both gasp.
"Scarlett. This is Valentino. Spring couture." She lifts the gown—a silky off-the-shoulder dress with a thigh-high slit. It's the same shade of green as the one I wore yesterday.
Then she opens the shoe box and turns to stare at me with wide eyes. "Louis Vuitton, crystal-embellished, arch support and all."
I open the second box and gasp again. "Oh, my God, the clutch is Chanel."
Beverly carefully sets down the shoe and rushes to open the third box. She squeals, holding up white-gold and diamond drop earrings with a matching bracelet.
I clutch my chest. "This is… this is too much."
"Not to him. Man's a billionaire, remember?"
She arranges the jewellery back in the box.
"Girl, and these are yours to keep. Oh my goodness. If this isn't a billionaire love language, I quit."
"Please," I mutter dryly. "He just doesn't want me embarrassing him in this," I gesture to the dress I'm wearing.
"Uh-huh. Yeah, right." Beverly rubs her hands together. "You're lucky I always bring make-up. I'm gonna glam you up so bad, he'll swallow his tongue when he sees you."
I giggle.
"What time is the event?"
"Four."
She checks her watch. "Oh, we don't have much time, babe. I'll ask Susan to cover for me. Let me go get my bag."
"Okay,"
She leaves excitedly.
Before I know it, it's four o'clock.
Beverly is tapping a final stroke of highlighter onto my cheekbone, and by the time she's done, I don't just walk out of the bathroom, I strut out.
Like a different woman entirely.
A powerful one.
It's ridiculous how much power clothes and accessories wield. One dress, one pair of heels, one sweep of lipstick, and suddenly my posture is straighter, my chin is higher, and I feel like I could walk into a boardroom and ruin a man's entire career with a single "Get out."