The rest of the day unfolds in fragments. Sorting. Logging. Delivering.
At four-thirty, the phone for the mail room rings and I answer.
“Mail room, Leo speaking.”
“Leo, Mr. Taylor would like to see you immediately in his office,” a harsh toned female voice says down the phone.
“I’ll be right up,” I say, before putting the phone down, allowing panic to take over. My throat tightens as my mouth goes dry. This can’t be good.
“Danny, I just gotta go upstairs, I’ve left one of the mail trays up there and they want it removed,” I say to him as I walk out the door, avoiding any comeback questions.
I ride the elevator to the top floor like someone heading directly into the sky. I go up to his office and knock on the door before entering.
Ethan stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, city stretching out beneath him like a diagram.
“Come in,” he says.
I walk inside, my mouth dry, trying to think what I may have done or said earlier that would have annoyed him in some way.
“Why are you frowning? You look…concerned,” he observes.
“I wasn’t expecting to be called up again. Did I do something?”
“No.”
Silence.
“I’ve been thinking about your metal work.”
“Really? You haven’t seen it.”
“I’ve seen your hands.”
I flinch.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s enough.”
He moves over to his seat and relaxes back into the high back leather chair. Even seated he has a dominating aura.
“I host private dinners,” he says. “Collectors and investors. People who like to believe money is its own personality.”
I manage a small, uncertain smile.
“I’d like you to attend.”
I freeze. He wants me to what?
“What? Sorry, I don’t understand. Why?”
“You should stop questioning so much. I think you should attend.”
“With… my sculptures?”
“With your presence.”
The words land heavier than they should.
