No, I’m spiraling. Mrs. Reed didn’t seem any different from her usual curt and condescending self. Maybe this is nothing. I’m freaking out for nothing.
Convincing myself this is the case, I leave everything behind me and, after one last look at Paola, pass the door Mrs. Reed was at. I’m practically holding my breath as I arrive at the kitchen. To my relief, there’s no one but her and the cook. The latter seems to be cleaning up, while Mrs. Reed waits by two trays that have drool-worthy lunches on them. Having a personal chef is quite amazing, isn’t it?
Looking down at me with her usual sternness, Mrs. Reed directs, “Turn around,” while miming the act with her finger.
I comply, a little confused, and once I’m done, she nods with a “You’ll do. Mr. Becker and his associate will have their lunch in the private parlor. You’ll follow me with the second tray.”
It takes everything not to show how panicked I am at the prospect. I was never supposed to come across Becker, and while I doubt he’d recognize me, I’d rather avoid it entirely.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t have four arms, do I? Come on, let’s get this done. I have better things to handle, and Mr. Becker wouldn’t want to make the senator wait.”
The senator? Jesus fuck, just how deep does that man’s influence reach?
It’s as though the camera in my bra is burning me up, reminding me I can’t get fired yet. Not when this is all I have left to do to make our mission not only possible but also a success.
So, dismissing the lump in my throat and the fear in my heart, I grab the silver tray Mrs. Reed left behind and follow her. The things on it clink together slightly as my hands tremble the whole way there. By the time we reach the open double doors of the parlor, I’m still not doing any better.
In there, Becker sits in the middle of one of the massive leather Chesterfield couches, and in an identical one in front of him, I see the back of who must be the senator.
The men interrupt their conversation when they notice us—something about an upcoming campaign—and I walk in, aiming for the senator, since Mrs. Reed walks up to Becker.
I’m not well-versed in politics, so I don’t know who that man is. Becker, however, I’ve seen in pictures, dozens of them, as well as the feeds from his CCTV. I could easily have recognized him in a crowd. But seeing the man in the flesh is entirely different.
Norman Becker is an attractive man, but not in a classic way. There’s something about him that is purely primal, like a raw magnetism few men have. But there’s also an unsettling darkness behind his eyes. He looks like a villain from a James Bond movie, or one of those cannibalistic serial killers that appear charming at first.
Still, between his wealth and looks, he could get any woman he wants. Why would such a man do what he did to Lorelei Madsen? Thousands of women in this city would love to become his sex slaves, let him flog them, hurt them, make them bleed…
But the man before me is a deranged bastard. A twisted fuck wrapped in an outside that doesn’t quite match his putrid inside.
My anxiety is at an all-time peak as I set the tray on the table in front of the senator.
“You really have a knack for finding the pretty ones,” the man says. My skin crawls as soon as I glimpse left and see the way he’s looking at me. Since they’re speaking in English and I’m not supposed to understand, I steel myself and put on my best poker face.
“I can’t take credit for this one,” Becker replies. “It’s the first time I’ve seen her.”
“She’s one of the extra maids I’ve hired for the week,” Mrs. Reed explains.
“Ah, a shame she won’t be here long,” the senator says.
“Let’s see if we can find her a more permanent position here, shall we, Mrs. Reed?” Becker suggests.
“Of course, sir. I’ll make sure to do so.”
I’m uncomfortable as fuck, eager to get out of this room and the whole fucking penthouse. Thankfully, Mrs. Reed motions for me to follow her, and we exit the room. “Go help Paola with the office,” she says as soon as we’re out. “Then meet me in mine.”
“Of course, Señora Reed.”
After a quick bow of my head, I practically speed-walk to the office. When I enter it, Paola is working on the shelves behind the desk. “What did she want?” she quickly asks.
“Nothing, just to carry a tray to Becker and his guest.”
She blows out a reassured breath. “This partnership is not good for my heart,” she says, visibly stressed.
“But it’s great for your wallet,” I joke in reply.
“Very much so, yes.”
