“Think, Emma. Because this closet is the frying pan. Out there”—she pointed to the closed door—“is the fire.”
“Max.” I lifted my coffee cup to my lips forgetting it was empty. “I have no idea what this is about, but I can’t hide in this closet all morning.”
My dutiful work wife guided me through three calming breaths before we slipped out of the closet. My ass had barely hit my desk chair when my assistant rushed in.
“Emma. Nina wants to see you in her office ASAP.”
“Did she say what it was about?” I tried my best to look surprised, but my heart was hammering in my chest. Alicia shook her head. “Do you have any idea what it could be about?”
“I have no clue,” she said nervously. “The only thing I could think of would be the McNair revisions.”
My heart stopped. What McNair revisions? There were no revisions. An NDA doesn’t have revisions. Keep your mouth shut in exchange for money. It’s pretty cut-and-dried.
“Alicia,” I said slowly, vaguely aware that I was supporting my weight with my arms because my knees were suddenly weak. “What McNair revisions?”
“Well…” Her throat clenched and unclenched before she continued speaking. “Ms. McNair’s attorneys made revisions to the NDA. I emailed them to you for approval.”
“When did you email them, Alicia?” I was frantically digging through my purse for my phone.
“Last week…” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit.
She was right. There was an email sitting in my inbox dated five days ago. The subject line was “McNair NDA.” I must have glanced at it and assumed it was the signed documents and that Alicia had sent them to legal, simply copying me on the email to let me know it was done. This wasn’t Alicia’s fault. It was mine. This was a huge mistake, and I don’t make any mistakes, much less huge ones. I felt sick to my stomach, and I slumped into my chair. This past week was too much. I was being stretched beyond my limit and feeling ready to snap like a rubber band.
“Um… Nina…” Alicia gently reminded me.
I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. I still had no idea why Nina wanted to talk to me. Hopefully this had nothing to do with Denise McNair’s NDA and I could fix this before lunch. I stood from my desk, straightened my dress, tried yet again to take a sip of coffee from my empty cup before asking my assistant to have a fresh one waiting for me after my meeting, and walked down the hall.
Nina Laramie’s office wasn’t so much an office as it was a power statement. It was expensively and tastefully decorated but also sterile and menacing. With mostly clear glass and acrylic furniture, the only touch of softness was a plush white couch, reserved for soothing distressed clients. Situated in the corner of the building, her office occupied almost a quarter of the thirtieth floor. The walls that weren’t floor-to-ceiling windows were painted Decorator’s White and only accented with a revolving door of paintings from whatever artist was the rage at the moment.
Being called into her office was always a terrifying prospect, and one that I had yet to experience. Nina usually preferred to communicate by text, phone, and messages sent through third parties—usually terrified interns and assistants. If she wanted to look you in the eye while she excoriated you, things were dire. At least that’s what I’ve heard. No wonder Max was so nervous.
Nina was perched behind her desk holding a tablet when her assistant showed me into her office and disappeared just as quickly.
“Nina,” I called to her with way more confidence than I felt. “You wanted to see me.”
She didn’t answer me. Instead, she indicated that I should sit in one of the large acrylic chairs in front of her desk. Her frosty blue eyes followed me as I crossed the room and slowly lowered myself into a chair.
She huffed out an exasperated sigh and dropped the tablet on her desk.
“Have you ever heard of the Secret Soufflé?”
“The Secret Soufflé?” I asked in a confused voice. Did Nina really call me into her office to ask me about French desserts?
“It’s a large soufflé served at Petrossian in New York City, prepared by Chef Richard Farnabe, containing Royal Reserve Ossetra caviar and quail eggs at the center. The soufflé is smoked with applewood before being flambéed in Hennessy Richard, right before your eyes at the table. Each Secret Soufflé costs twenty-five hundred dollars and must be ordered well in advance. It is an incredibly unique and rare culinary event that few will get the chance to experience in their lifetimes.”
She paused for dramatic effect before continuing.
“Do you know why I’m telling you this, Emma?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Because last night, Mr. Laramie flew me to New York City and surprised me with a reservation at Petrossian. Guess what he preordered for our visit?”
“The Secret Soufflé?” I answered in a strained whisper because my throat was suddenly tight.
“The Secret Soufflé.” She nodded. “And just as I’d barely begun to experience the most decadent meal of my forty-seven years, I got an alarming message.” She reached behind her and grabbed her tablet. “It appears thatLimelight Magazinehas landed an exclusive interview with a Denise McNair, professionally known as”—she glanced up at me for the briefest moment before returning her gaze to her tablet—“Enchantment,” she continued with a derisive sneer, “detailing a night of drugs, drinking, debauchery, and drunk driving with Blake Malone… I thought to myself, that couldn’t possibly be true because one of my most competent reps assured me that Blake Malone’s unfortunate incident was all taken care of.”
