“Come on, out with it,” he goads, eyes glinting. “Let’s hear what you’ve really got on your mind.”
I meet his gaze evenly. “Connor, your attitude is shocking. Yes, it’s your money. And you do so much good with it. But can you appreciate how life-changing that sum is for most people?”
I think of my tiny shit apartment. La Maison du Leak. That necklace could buy me a nice home for Mom and Grace. A better life.
“You’re sending me to buy some jewelry that costs a house,” I continue, unable to shut up now. “It’d just be nice if you acknowledged the impact. That kind of money changes people’s lives.”
My life.
I think again of my crappy apartment with its leaky ceilings and peeling linoleum. Then picture Mom and Grace happily making dinner in a cozy, warm kitchen.
Mom’s life.
Grace’s life.
Anyone’s really, apart from the mighty Connors of the world swanning about in bespoke Armani suits without a care.
His eyes flash with anger. “Perhaps I shouldn’t trust you with the task since you’ll probably end up spending it on a Lamborghini Huracán. The new model’s just out with diamond-studded rims.”
He just doesn’t get it. Never will.
“Maybe I will,” I snap. “I deserve a treat for putting up with patronizing clients. I’ll grab Willow some piece of junk from a pawn shop since you clearly won’t notice. May as well buy her affection from the lost and found bin. Then I’ll splurge on a hot new car for myself, like the lowly gold-digging thief that I am.”
“Just get the damn necklace,” he growls, pressing a hand to his ear as if my words are physically paining him. Maybe it’s just the sound of my voice getting on his nerves. “Sort it with my finance team.”
“With pleasure,” I spit back, already imagining him choking on that quarter-mil receipt. This is what my career’s come to—playing errand girl for overbearing tycoons.
“There’s a good girl,” he sneers, adding insult to injury.
I resist grabbing that ridiculous crystal paperweight off his desk and smashing it over his arrogant head. If he calls me a “good girl” in that condescending tone one more time, I’ll show him exactly where he can shove that crystal blob instead. And it won’t be pleasant for either of us.
I exhale slowly, willing the shreds of my patience not to detonate completely, and pull out my laptop alongside his belt from my bag. “Here’s your belt back. Thank you.”
He smirks. “You could’ve kept it. I wasn’t expecting it back.”
“And why exactly would I want to keep your belt?” I sneer. “What, is it studded with diamonds I can pawn off?”
He cocks an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my snark. “Gotta say, it looks better on you.”
I make a noise between a scoff and grunt. Connor throwing compliments, no matter how half-baked, instead of his usual barbs throws me. He doesn’t get to do that after spending all night with Willow.
“Irrelevant,” I snap. “Can we discuss prepping for the interview now?” I need to get us back on safer ground. The fact that Connor can still knock me off-balance so easily is an irritation I’d rather not examine too closely.
???
I’m just escaping Connor’s office when Nurse Ratched calls. My stomach drops, knowing it’s never happy news from Brenda.
“Your mom’s had a nasty flare,” she barks, skipping any kind of hello. “Needs you here straight away.”
I jab the elevator button as my gut swoops. “Is she okay? What’s going on?”
“She’s had increased breathing struggles, chest tightness. We re-stabilized her oxygen, but she’s back on supplementary gas flow.”
Ah, the oxygen tank, Mom’s most hated accessory.
Brenda should never pen aCOPD for Dummiesguide. Too personality-deficient to use normal words for us clueless civilians. Thank god for my late-night internet deep dives into COPD.
“And now? How’s she doing?” I push, heart in my throat.
