A little memento from Jacob.
I quickly tugged my hair free from the bun, the curly tendrils masking the redness. Not that it mattered, since my cheeks were more than picking up the slack in that department.
"Cut it out," I muttered, yanking my hair behind my ears and standing a little taller. The doors opened and I didn't teeter, despite the four inch heels. Despite the fact that my Saturday morning with Jacob had gone from best. Saturday. Ever! to Womp womp.
I walked down the sleek executive corridor, my heels clicking on the floor. I gave Jacob's secretary, Natasha Lancaster, a crisp nod. We wouldn't be having any slumber parties since she had treated me like a gnat in her martini from the day Jacob brought me to his office, but we'd called a ceasefire of sorts, keeping things as cordial and professional as possible.
Most days.
"Miss Montgomery—" she feigned frustration, letting out a heavy sigh. "I mean Mrs. Whitmore." When I glared at her, she shrugged a petite shoulder and flipped her white blonde hair. "I apologize. I guess I'm still getting used to it."
"Understandable," I said bitingly, not returning her fake little smile. "It has been only a year." And on the rare moments when she spared actual words for me, she called me 'Miss Montgomery', conveniently negating my marriage to Jacob and name change. "If there's nothing else, I have a busy morning ahead of me."
"And it just got busier," she continued, turning her attention back to her computer. "Robert Lenoir is having his daughter sent over this morning."
"What time?"
Her fingernails clacked on the keyboard. "What time is it?"
I glanced down at my cell. "9:07."
"Any minute now." That phony little smirk curled her lips. "If you could handle Mia Kent, I'm sure you'll do just fine."
She didn't mean it as a compliment, but I decided to let it go. Mia was doing well. She decided to take some time out of the public eye and when we talked a month ago, she was getting pretty serious with someone that wasn't toxic.
But Jessica Lenoir was a totally different story.
She was twenty-eight years old, but you'd think she was eighteen. Fresh out of some convent or uptight boarding school, drunk off the first taste of freedom. The tabloids were splashed with headlines about the heir to the Lenoir fortune. If she wasn't on a yacht, barely clothed, she was drugged out in some bathroom in New York or LA. She was far from the first party girl heiress spending thousands of dollars a night at the most exclusive clubs in the world...but she was the only one that would become the CEO of a billion dollar multinational corporation any day now.
Her father, Robert Lenoir, was terminally ill. He had no other children. And despite the advice of his board, he wanted his daughter to take over the company.
Jessica had a big image problem...and I was in charge of taking her from Hot Mess to Bad Ass Businesswoman. And apparently, that task was starting any minute now.
I dropped my satchel near the door and opened the blinds, letting the sunshine in. I hated that the first thought that sprung into my mind was how warm the sun felt on my skin on the balcony. How it stroked the heat between my thighs. A heat my husband created, then snuffed out. The wave of rejection crashed into all the questions. I asked him if everything was okay, and he looked at me with those bright eyes. He thought my question signified that I wasn't okay, and somehow it became about me and not in the way I wanted. I couldn't form the words to explain to him that I felt rejected. That for the first time since we met, I felt hollow after we'd been together.
I snapped the blinds shut, trying to block out the unwelcome dread that was doing numbers on my stomach. Not here. I had to check this stuff at the door. Wait until the clock ticked 5pm to meltdown.
"Are you Leila?"
I spun on my heels, trying to keep my annoyance on its intended target. Like Natasha who had a penchant for just letting people stroll into my office.
But when I faced Jessica Lenoir, I didn't feel remotely guilty for the scowl on my face. It went perfectly with the haughty expression on hers. I'd been expecting the woman from the gossip columns; bleary eyed, still dressed in her wrinkled dress from the night before, smudged makeup, teetering all over the place because she was still a little drunk.
The woman before me looked like she wouldn't just dominate a boardroom, but she'd chew it up and spit it out. She wore a blood red blazer with a ivory blouse beneath and tailored black slacks. Her heels knocked against the hardwood floor as she made herself at home, behind my desk.
She tossed a curtain of deep brown hair, jade green eyes cutting me off at the knees until I felt two feet tall. "So I'm here. Now what?"
I may have felt slightly off kilter by her abrupt entrance, not prepared to help build up someone that obviously had their shit together, but I wouldn't let her know that. I could tell from the way she didn't even blink that she was used to intimidating people. Walking all over them. Well, I had a killer poker face too.
"For starters, you can get out of my seat."
She made herself comfortable, sinking into the leather with a sigh. "You're my publicist, right? Which means you work for me. Which means technically-"
"You can get out of my seat, or I can call security and they'll remove you from this building."
Her fiery glare scorched the earth. I didn't back down but I was hoping she didn't call my bluff. I'd seen publicists do all but wipe the client's ass to keep them happy and hopefully, scandal free. But I had a feeling that this was a pivotal moment. It would determine how effective I could be. Someone like Jessica wouldn't respect someone that kissed her feet. What could I offer her, how could I help her if I was just like everyone else in her employ?
I had to separate myself. Show her that I was a fighter, and I'd fight to ensure that the world and investors saw that she was born to sit at the head of the table.
She blinked, then silently pulled herself to her feet. I bit back a smile as she circled back to the front of the desk, head still high like she was doing me a royal favor.
I didn't rub her nose in it, taking my place and getting right to it. "Why the charade?"
Her mouth twisted in confusion. "Excuse me?"
"Not a single hair out of place. Your makeup is perfection, enhancing your beauty without shouting it from the rooftops. Your outfit says young, sophisticated professional, and you walked into my office like a CEO would." I didn't mince words. "You've got the whole world believing that you're some spoiled brat who can't stay sober enough to stumble into your mansion without flashing the world a view of your coochie. No one takes you seriously, and I can tell from the way you're flaying me with your eyes right now that it drives you crazy." I folded my hands on my desk and gave her my full attention, because I was sure this would be one hell of a story. "So I'll ask again: why the charade?"