One of these days, when Damien didn’t feel like he’d been run over by the airliner he’d arrived in, Bankes was going to walk into his office to find it covered floor to ceiling in all the glitter Damien had bought to wage war with Gwynn but hadn’t been able to use. No surface would be safe. He’d glue it to the legs of Bankes’ desk, rub it into the fabric of his office chair, fill his desk drawers with it, and bedazzle Bankes’ monitor. Unlike with Gwynn, however, the carnage wouldn’t stop with glitter. Damien would find a way to give the fucker exactly what he deserved, and when he did, it would beglorious.
As Damien picked his head up from the desk and weighed the advantages of heading home for a few hours’ sleep versus passing out in his office chair for the night, his phone buzzed, likely with some late-night bullshit. Ready to unleash the full fury of a man punted from paradise into the deepest level of hell, Damien unlocked the screen to discover it wasn’t a text at all—it was a private message in his Family Newsletter chat from his twin sister, Catherine.
The Empress: Are you awake?
Mimi: It depends who’s asking
The Empress: Whitcroft’s been up your ass again?
Mimi: How did you guess?
The Empress: Your cheerful disposition.
Damien groaned. At length, he picked himself up from the desk and sat straight in his chair. Catherine couldn’t see him, but damn if he didn’t feel her judgy eyes regardless.
The Empress: If work is causing you this much grief, you can quit, you know. There’s no shame in taking the skills you’ve learned and applying them in other, less stressful fields
Mimi: I’m not quitting
The Empress: Why not?
Mimi: Because—Damien’s thumb hovered over the touchscreen keyboard. What answer could he give that would placate his sister? There were plenty of reasons for him not to quit, but none that she’d understand. Catherine was motivated in all the same ways he was—driven by success and inspired by the almighty dollar—but where Damien was soft, Catherine’s will was ironclad. Everything she did came down to what she got out of the deal. Damien couldn’t say the same. Other factors influenced his decisions.
Before he could reply, Catherine sent him another message.
The Empress: Well, I suppose you’re under no obligation to tell me. I’m just worried about you. You know that you could come home, right? Dad would take care of you.
Mimi: I don’t want him to have to do that
The Empress: Then you can come work for me. I’ll take care of you
Mimi: I don’t want that, either
Damien sighed. No matter how he spelled it out, Catherine wouldn’t understand.
The Empress: Well, if one day you decide that you’d rather knee Whitcroft in the balls than show up for another day of shitfuckery, you know how to reach me.
Mimi: Oh, he’s not the only one who’d get a crotchful of cold, hard cartilage
The Empress: Do tell
Mimi: Do you remember me talking about Bankes?
The Empress: Who?
The Empress: Oh, you mean Shitty McGee.
The Empress: Yes, I do remember him
The Empress: Unfortunately.
It was petty and juvenile, but god, was hearing Catherine rip into the world’s biggest shit stain good for his soul. The anxiety pinching Damien’s shoulders to his neck eased, and he settled back into his chair feeling relaxed for the first time since leaving Matthew’s bure.
Mimi: Do you know what the fucker did to me yesterday?
Mimi: He found out the head of the legal team I was working with had gone AWOL while drafting the final version of a tender offer and got in touch with my client to tell him, then pranced into Whitcroft’s goddamn office and told HIM. I had to cut my vacation short and fly back to NY from Fiji in order to take care of it. I’ve been up for close to forty hours straight.
The Empress: Mimi, that’s bullshit
