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He looks at me in shock, and it pisses me off.
“Who do you work for?” I ask again, louder this time. “Me or my mother?”
“You,” he answers, his reply just as loud, his anger as apparent. “Of course you.” He tries to soothe tempered waters, his paycheck as vital to him as his life. “I only brought up your mother because she contacted me last night.” Stupidly, he steps closer. “She said you told her to back off and that you need space.”
“Because I do!”
I’ve never spoken a bad word about my mother in my life. If she says something, even something I disagree with, I keep my mouth shut. It isn’t that I trust her word and know she would never lead me astray. It is because she knows all my deepest, darkest secrets.
Pacifying her pacifies my worry that she will destroy any chance I have of power. Not the power some men wrongly believe they have. The ultimate power. The top tier of the ladder. I want to rule the nation because those on the top perch will never be shit on again.
But I couldn’t do that Friday night. My mother doesn’t know a thing about Mara, her background, or the fight she displays with nothing but a glance, yet she tore her to shreds by assessing her credibility through a paparazzi image.
I went to war. I fought for a woman who scares me as much as she intrigues me, and I was winning… until my mother noticed Mara wasn’t the only female in the photograph.
Tillie’s whitened face is barely visible in the image the paparazzo took of us in the back of the cab, but once you notice her in the crook of her mother’s arm, you can’t miss her. Her face is as precious as her mother’s, and her eyes are just as soul-stealing.
Not even my mother could deny those facts. She used them against me multiple times throughout her two-hour tirade. Her belief that I am moments away from becoming the monster from my nightmares was so on-point not even a fifth of whiskey and a recently replenished bathroom could take the edge off.
I stewed over her claim for hours and see myself doing the same again now when I dismiss Fyodor from my office as if his disrespect doesn’t warrant further punishment.
He’s almost out the door when I hand him the final nail for his coffin. It’s up to him what he does with it. “Speaking with my mother behind my back again will see you standing at the end of an unemployment line. Do I make myself clear?”
Guilt colors his tone when he answers, “Profoundly, sir.”
18
MARA
Things feel tense when I enter Ark’s apartment. The mood is somber, and the air is heavy with sentiment. Anyone would swear the article in the newspaper Darius was reading when Tillie and I slipped into the back of his town car this morning had Ark’s approval rating falling instead of steadily rising.
His team should be celebrating, so I’m perplexed about what happened.
Ark didn’t have a change of mind, did he?
I didn’t hear from him over the weekend, so I assume the schedule a courier handed me Saturday afternoon is still valid. And I’m not late. It only takes fifteen minutes to walk from Tillie’s school to the Chrysler building, but since Darius said my collection and drop-off from work includes a detour to Tillie’s school, I’ve arrived for my shift thirty minutes early instead of the usual fifteen.
“Hey, Mara.”
A touch of pinkness impinges on my cheeks from the way Rafael greets me. It reminds me of Rio fromGood Girls, another of Mrs. Lichard’s favorite shows. Tillie isn’t allowed to watchthat one, so Mrs. Lichard saves it for the nights Tillie doesn’t beg for a sleepover. Tillie is as obsessed with Mrs. Lichard’s cooking as she is with John Pearce.
“How was your weekend?”
“Um. G-good. You?” It is embarrassing how boring my life is, so I won’t bore Rafael with the details.
“It wasn’t bad. I managed to find that salon you told me about. Got Ark enough stock to get him through at least a week.” He smiles at me when heat flashes in my cheeks. “Didn’t see you at the restaurant Friday night. Did something more appetizing catch your eye?”
“Ah…” How am I meant to respond to that? Did Ark not tell him what happened? They seem close, so I’m surprised. Though I guess I shouldn’t be. Rafael ate dessert with the who’s who of Russia. Ark ate me. That isn’t close to the same thing. “Where should I s-start?”
Rafael pouts as if disappointed I didn’t tumble headfirst into the trap he set before he nudges his head to Ark’s third-floor office. “Ark wants you to start in his office.” He walks away, rubbing his hands together. “Something about his knob needing polishing.” I can barely hear him through his snickers. “Or bookshelves. Perhaps he said his bookshelves need dusting. Whatever it is, he wants you to start in his office.” He twists back to face me, his smile blinding. “Do you need me to show you the way, or is Goldilocks okay wandering in the bear’s forest unaccompanied?”
I love that he uses Goldilocks as a reference. It is one of the rare few nursery rhymes that aren’t about death and despair but more about respecting a person’s boundaries and belongings.
“I’ll be f-fine. Thank you.”
He dips his chin as if my praise is genuine before he disappears down a long corridor. I take a deep breath while heading in the opposite direction.
My steps halve in size when I veer past the bedroom closest to Ark’s office. The nasally voice announcing she isn’t going anywhere until she gets all the bang for her buck is recognizable even with me only associating with her for mere minutes.