"I'm watching it set right now, Charles, and I'm not your darling anymore, remember?"
"In person, Brys, not through that UV-blocking bulletproof glass."
I sigh. "Charles. Really."
"Youreally, Brys. Iknowyou. You only get migraines like that when you haven't slept more than two hours a night in the past week. Now, tell me truthfully…if you leave the work you have piled up on your desk until Monday—or even tomorrow—will the company go under?"
"No, but—"
“And will the board suddenly vote you out?"
"No, and they can't. I own the controlling shares."
“You know what I mean."
I sigh. "Charles, I…" I turn in the chair and glance at the reports I have to go through, all sixty-four trillion of them, it feels like.
And I discover that I'd rather stick a hot fork in my eyeball than dig into them right now. But do I want to get all gussied up and spend the evening with my ex? Not that there's any enmity between us; we merely realized we were better off as friends than lovers, so our romantic split was amicable enough that I do consider him still a friend.
"Anything is better than spending one more minute in this building, I suppose," I grumble. "I'll just pop home and change."
"Wonderful. Pritchard will pick you up outside your building at seven. Is that enough time? You'll have to meet us for drinks."
I glance at the time on the phone screen: 6:07 pm. "Barely, but yes. And Charles?" I pause, and he hums an interrogatory noise. "This isbusiness. As friends. Yes?"
"Of course, Brys.” He pauses. Clears his throat. “As a matter of fact, my date, the one who canceled…we're, ah…actually rather serious. She came down with a stomach bug this afternoon."
"Does she know you've calledmeto replace her?"
"Of course she does," he says, chuckling. "What kind of an idiot do you take me for?"
"And she’s not jealous? That your ex is going with you instead?”
He sighs. "No, no. She knows your and my relationship is…erm…unique."
"As long as she doesn't show up here accusing me of trying to steal you from her," I say, only half joking.
"Shauna isn't like that, Brys. She's wonderful. You'd hate spending time with her, though. You'd say she lacks motivation and energy. But she balances me out. Keeps me calm. Anchors me."
“Honestly, Charles, she sounds perfect for you. We're far too much alike, you and I. For romantic partners, at least." I'm on my feet as I talk, gathering my things, stepping into my heels, and shrugging into my blazer.
"I think she is. Well, you'd better get going, Brys. And, ah, if I may?" A pause. "The one with the sparkly bits on the shoulder. The one that only has one sleeve, or whatever you call it."
“You're wearing your silver tie, I take it?"
"Indeed. With Grandfather's cufflinks and Father's Patek Philippe.”
"Got it," I answer, already mentally sorting out my shoes and other accessories to go with the dress he mentioned. "I'm off, now. See you shortly."
"Thanks, Brys, you're a real gem, you know?"
"I do, but thanks for telling me. Never hurts to hear it."
* * *
"….Heard of Acheron, as a matter of fact," Roger says; Roger is the CEO of the tech company Charles is courting this whole evening. "They'll fold in six months at best, I believe. They've no product. Great ideas, and some bankable talent on their roster, but you made the right call, Ms. Bennett."
I force a smile at him—he's been condescending all evening. He's called me 'sweetheart' at least twice, mansplained a facet of my own industry to me—a technical element of recent telecom hardware advancements that I have personally helped pioneer—and 85% of his comments to me are addressed to my cleavage. Which, admittedly, is rather impressive in this dress. But still—rude.
