Chapter 17 And I’m Hannah Montana

Chapter 17 And I’m Hannah Montana
IRIS

“Why are you here, Iris Astor?” He asked.

Ever since I’d gotten back, I’d held hope that at least one person was just like me. Someone who had gone back in time.

And with how successful Ashford Global Holding had become, even more infamous than in the future, I’d suspected that Nicholas was a good bet.

But any hope I had about that possibility vanished as I stared at the man in front of me, unsmiling and intimidating.

He was Nicholas and yet wasn’t. 

This wasn’t the man that had told me a joke and spoke about his mamushka with an almost boyish grin, almost bashful.

If I wasn’t desperate, I’d have left without a second thought.

But if I did, then it’d be for naught that I’d endured three hours of waiting for Nicholas who had been in a meeting.

There was also the conversation I’d had with a distrustful and condescending receptionist who had laughed to my face when I’d told her that I wanted to see the CEO.

I had blinked taken aback, aware that there was no way I’d phrased my inquiry in any way that could be misunderstood as a joke, fatigued as I was.

“Do you know how many people have walked in here demanding to see the CEO, misled by their sense of self importance and yet had been turned away by security?” The receptionist had asked, a girl in her early twenties bedecked in designers from head to toe. “I’ve lost count after ten. So please leave before I call the security.” 

I’d the good sense of realizing that meeting the CEO as a walk-in might be met with difficulty, but that was after I’d alighted from the taxi and was looking up at the sprawling monstrosity of a building that housed Ashford Global Holdings.

But I was quickly discovering that difficulty had been more than an understatement. It’d be impossible.

“Who do I talk to if I need to make an appointment?” I asked, ignoring her dig. 

She was right, although rude. Of course, not anybody could see Nicholas.

“Nobody makes an appointment with the CEO on my desk,” she said with a shrug. “That’s a lot above my pay grade. And even if it was, who are you to meet the CEO?”

“Does the name Astor Cosmetics mean anything to you?” I asked deciding to name drop even though the vestige of unease I felt in my last life as a result of my last name had not worn out. “I’m the…” I’ve never said it never aloud, had barely understood what it meant. In my past life I’d rejected it and in this new life I didn’t know how to accept it. “I’m the new owner of Astor Cosmetics.”

“And I’m Hannah Montana.” She deadpanned drily. 

Aware that since the news of my father’s will had gotten out, the media had ran with it almost in state of frenzy, although the public didn’t know my face, my name was mentioned often enough to be familiar.

I took out my ID and slid it over the desk. “Hope that is good enough for you.” I snapped irritated.

The receptionist eyed me and although she still looked distrustful, there was a careful reconsideration in her eyes after a brief glance at my ID. “Please take a seat. I’d contact the executive office.” Her voice was now pleasant and professional, but it only upset my stomach.

Scarlett was not the only reason I hated New York, I could never quite get used to the classism embedded in the circle of people I moved in.  

I grabbed my ID that was still in her hand and with a scowl, “I’d stand.”

She made the call quickly. Mentioned my name while giving me a brief look, told whoever was on the other line that my ID checked out and then dropped the call.

It took more than a few minutes before the elevator doors opened and a man draped in a tailored suit, without a hair out of place on his head stepped out.

He had a severe expression on his face and it didn’t soften even as he introduced himself. 

He was Silas and the executive assistant. A tall man in his mid thirties with thick glasses that would have made him look like a nerd if not that there was something unnerving about him. 

His perfect put together appearance didn’t help.

“You’re asking to meet the CEO.” It was a statement. 

His face was blank and if he had personal reservations about my request, he did a good job of hiding it when I nodded. 

“And you are Iris Astor?” He asked.

“Yes.” I met his gaze.

“Can I take a message? The CEO is unfortunately busy.” 

“I can wait,” I said, not really looking forward to going back home without achieving what I’d come here for after all I’d stomached.

“Okay then, follow me.”

The receptionist was now looking anywhere but at me as I entered the elevator behind him.

And after hours, I was finally standing in front of the man that I’d passed through hoops to see and yet, my thoughts scrambled at his question.

He stood behind a table as huge and intimidating as his office. It was a splash of white and a few paintings hung on its wall that I could tell cost a little fortune although impersonal to the man who owned the space.

He had deigned me a statement after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence while he pinned his face on his monitor’s screen.

“Let me ask you a question that might be easy enough for you to understand, in what capacity are you here as?” He asked, leaning into his seat leisurely. 

I’d have called his careful tone patronizing but he had to have an ounce of emotions to project that.

I stared at features that had once held warmth while looking at me and couldn’t believe that it could look that cruel and harsh, just sharp lines of detachment. 

I never knew that blue could be so empty and colorless until I stared into his eyes, it was ice.

His nose belonged in the air, he looked down on me, perhaps even more than his receptionist. He had taken in my duffel bag, the oversized zipper sweater and wide leg pants I’d on and found me unworthy. 

His lips were set in a thin line.

“The future owner of Astor Cosmetics.” 

I could tell that I’d lost him the minute the word had left my lips unsure and like a question.

“You,” he said aloud, his eyes on mine making me shiver and wish that he was back to looking at the screen. 

He was a cruel man. I could immediately tell. “What was your father thinking?” He scoffed. “If I were Scarlett I’d contest the will on the grounds of insanity.” He stated. “You’re not fit to be the owner of anything. You’re sheep.” He deadpanned.

And it hurt. Not only because I knew that he was just stating fact and did not care enough about me to intend to hurt me, but because it was the truth.