I need to forget that I’m pregnant, at least for a while. Switch off and clear my head. And what better way to do that than by finalizing financial reports? Numbers don’t lie, don’t complicate things, don’t leave me questioning every decision I’ve ever made.
God knows, I’ve been questioning myself a lot lately…
The door to my office opens, Melissa stepping in. She’s my assistant, not long out of college. We get along. The relationship remains professional, and I prefer to keep it that way. I’m here to do my job, not to make friends.
Melissa always dresses appropriately whenever she enters the office. Her outfit of choice this morning is a chic pencil skirtand a blouse. Her auburn hair is pulled back from her face in a smooth ponytail.
“Your father wants to see you,” she says.
I push away from the desktop. Not exactly how I wanted to start my morning, but I guess it was expected. Anxiety creeps into my stomach.
Or is that just a pregnancy symptom?
Ugh, I don’t even know anymore.
Melissa walks me over to my father’s office like I don’t already know the way, and knocks on his door.
“Enter.”
She holds open the door for me and leaves me to it.
The place is as immaculate as ever. Then again, that’s the thing about my father. He’s so particular about everything. Pens must be all the same brand—Parker—and placed neatly on his desk. He doesn’t keep them in a holder because he thinks it looks messy. Instead, he has them next to his desktop, each of them placed parallel. Everything in his world has to be controlled, measured, perfect.
Even the binder folders on the shelves all sit upright, the labels all stuck on the bottom right corners. His office always smells of antiseptic, probably because he sanitizes his hands at every given opportunity. It’s cool too, the air conditioning always blowing and the windows closed. I don’t even know how he has managed to live this long without ever breathing natural air.
“Take a seat, Lauren,” he says, briefly looking up from his desk, mid-writing. His tone is clipped, businesslike, as if I’m just another appointment on his calendar.
But I’m used to it now. I drop into a chair opposite his desk and await his commands.
“I need you to prepare the presentation for the upcoming investor meeting.” He clicks off the Parker pen and neatly places it aside. I try to catch a name on the document laid out in frontof him, but he turns it over and tucks it away into one of the desk drawers.
“I already have.” At least, I’m pretty certain I have. I run through the list in my head—refined asset allocations, adjusted risk models, compiled research on each investor’s previous acquisition. Yep. The trick is to know what the client is looking for before they know themselves.
Father reclines in his ergonomic chair, nodding.
I narrow my eyes, suspecting this isn’t all.
He tilts his head, squinting. “Have you been feeling okay?”
I stiffen. “Why?” The question comes out sharper than intended, but his scrutiny always puts me on edge.
“I was informed you went to the doctor. Your regular primary care visit was only two months ago. Is there anything I should know about?”
I stiffen more. Somehow, I sense this isn’t fatherly concern for my health. He must know something is up. I know him too well.
Could he know about the pregnancy?
I’m twenty-seven years old now. Why is he still watching my every step? He has always been this way, always keeping an eye on me like a hawk. Always reminding me that he can. The invisible leash he keeps me on never seems to loosen, no matter how old I get or how capable I prove myself to be.
“It was just a stomach bug,” I bullshit. “I’m fine now.”
His eyes remain on me, watching. This is probably the longest he’s looked at me in years. Computer screens and boardroom meetings tend to take first priority over family members.
Danielle enters the office before he can say anything else, suddenly dispersing the tension. She’s three years older than me, and has been my father's secretary since before I was hired. Her cold, blue eyes are always hidden behind slender Pradaglasses, the frame the same, jet-black as the color of her hair. She always wears it down, and it’s always straight. It’s no surprise that she’s wearing a silk blouse today. She wears them every day.
Despite being just down the corridor from each other, I don’t think Melissa and Danielle speak much. Danielle always has a sly look about her, like she has her own agenda, and I sense that Melissa prefers to stay out of the way.
“Mr. Watson, Mr. Aslanov is on the phone for you.”
