20
CORA
Work drags.
I mean it truly feels like the longest day known to man.
It doesn't help that I check the clock every twelve seconds, the longer I stare at it, the slower it ticks by. I should be grateful that time has seemed to pause since soon enough I'm doomed to fulfill my obligation to Ricardo. Not to mention my truly disturbing Sunday duties of modeling for him while he jerks off.
I tremble at the thought and grow sick to my stomach.
Pulling out my phone, I glance around the office and pop open Instagram.
I type a name into the search bar and wonder if it will bring any results.
Her profile is the first one on the list and I click it immediately.
London Gardella. Three hundred eighteen thousand followers. And she follows precisely zero in return.
Her account is curated with perfectly posed selfies and model shots that would make any man’s jaw drop.
I laugh at the idea of her father saying she can't fetch a husband, because any man in his right mind would be lucky to have her. But I guess for him it's a business transaction, so finding someone with enough money is more important than allowing her to choose a partner based on love.
I don’t know why I'm surprised—the man is forcing me to have his child and according to London, tried to kill her because she turned on him. The scar on her side was brutal, and I can't imagine how terrible it must have been to be that brutally attacked by the very person who is supposed to protect you.
Skimming through her photos, I click on one here or there, zooming in on the designer clothes and fancy jewelry. It doesn't take me long to home in on the smile that doesn't quite meet the eyes and the fakeness of the persona she puts out. I guess I'm not the only one faking her way through life and putting up a front.
"Cora."
Tara, one of my co-workers, walks into my cubicle area and I nearly fall out of my seat.
I clutch my chest. "Sorry, you scared me."
She narrows her gaze. "Are you watching porn on the clock?"
"No." I click the screen dark and place it face down in my lap. "What's up?"
Tara holds out a stack of papers. "Would you mind going through these and double-checking my decisions? I feel pretty confident, but I'd love to get a second opinion."
"Yeah. Of course." I take them from her and do a quick glance at the clock.
"Obviously not today," she adds. "Sometime this week would be great. I don't have to turn the project in until Friday."
"Damn, you're ahead of the game." I thumb through the stack. "I'm sure you did great though, you always do. You should have a little more faith in yourself, Tara."
She blushes, her pale cheeks turning bright red, matching her hair. It's a different shade than London's, a bit more orange than anything, but still pretty.
I always wanted to be a redhead but never thought I'd be able to pull it off. I considered trying it but the girl who does my hair told me she'd make me shave my head if she dyed it, and I changed my mind. I guess being bald could be a vibe, too.
"Thanks, Cora. You're always so supportive. I appreciate that." She leans in closer. "You're the nicest one here. In case you didn't know."
I chuckle. "You don't have to lie to get me to check your work, babe."
"And you don't have to lie and tell me it's good." Tara leans against the flimsy cubicle wall and crosses her arms. "Do you have a hot date or something? You're looking extra good today."
"Is it too much?" I hold out the sides of the muted green blazer that matches my skirt.
"Your boobs look amazing in that top." She points to my white spaghetti-strapped crop top. "And those shoes..."
