Page 5

FIVE

Kinsley

“Good morning, Miss Rhodes.” Mrs. Monroe, the head of human resources, picks up a folder from her desk, tapping it twice and stands. “No need to sit down. We won’t be long.”

Yeah, sure, no need to sit because I’m going to be fired within the next five minutes. There’s no apology in the world that will change my fate here today. I was up all night thinking about it, staring at the email. Miss Rhodes, please report to HR first thing in the morning .

It was short, not so sweet, and definitely code for “you’re fired.”

She peers at me over her thick framed red glasses, her entire presence intimidating despite her short stature. I linger in the doorway, shifting my purse from one shoulder to the other, and give her a tentative smile.

Her answering frown is all the confirmation I need. If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn't have any at all.

There was a small part of me that hoped I was wrong, that I’d been overreacting for nothing. That there was a chance, even a tiny one, the bosses had a sense of humor and would forget all about little old me.

But the longer I stand here, the quicker my heart beats, and I know that’s not the case. I’m done.

Her withering stare cuts right through me. As she stalks past me, she shoves the manila folder in my hands. “This is your amended contract which includes your new salary and an NDA which is required when you’re working directly with the senior partners.”

Wait.

What?

New salary?

Working with the senior partners?

To be fair, this lady doesn’t look like she’s one to play games, but surely I heard her wrong, right?

I scramble to follow her out of the office and down the hallway toward the elevators, her heels clicking loudly off the floor. “New salary? What is?—”

“Yes. I believe I was quite clear.” Her tone is clipped, almost as sharp as her heels. “It’s all in the paperwork.”

“So, I’m not fired?”

“Not yet; however, the day is just getting started.” She turns to face me, her smile tight, pointing to the folder clutched in my hand. “The paperwork, Miss Rhodes.”

She doesn’t give me more than a second to look at her precious papers before giving me another frown, turning on her heel, and stomping the rest of the way to the elevators. She stabs the button several times, blowing out a breath, her irritation rivaling my confusion.

Why the heck would I be getting a promotion after telling one of the three big bosses he’s a soul-sucking Dementor. If that doesn’t warrant a pink slip, I don’t know what does. Best case scenario, I’d have gotten a simple slap on the wrist, but never had I imagined this. A promotion. Yet here we are, waiting for the elevators instead of escorting me right out the front door.

Unless this is all one big hallucination. I didn’t sleep at all last night. Maybe I’m asleep at the wheel and this is all one big dream.

But if it’s not, I better open this folder before Mrs. Monroe has a coronary and—holy fucking shit. I know, language, but holy fucking shit. Not only do I get an extra week of vacation, but my salary has almost doubled. I’m talking mid six figures, and if I’m not dreaming and this is actually happening, I may be the one having a heart attack.

I clear my throat, hugging the papers to my chest, my voice tentative as I ask, “Why me? There are other legal secretaries here with more experience and seniority.”

She glances at me for a quick second, her frown deepening. “I suggest you drink some coffee before you get to the top floor, Miss Rhodes. Ellis, Ellis, and Wallace will not tolerate so many questions.”

My breath stutters, and the full gravity of my situation crashes down on me. The three partners who are supposed to be absolutely terrible are going to be my bosses.

This isn’t a promotion; it’s a death sentence.

The managing partners are supposed to be ruthless. Men with no hearts. Men who eat secretaries like me for breakfast and no, I don’t mean in the sexy way.

Margo said they can’t keep someone for more than two weeks. They’re overworked, unappreciated and, well, the girl crying into her bag of chips yesterday isn’t exactly a good omen of what’s to come.

Everyone treated her like a pariah. No one bothered to keep her company or even ask her name. And why? Because it wouldn’t matter. She’d be replaced with a new face, another person whose name wasn’t important, who didn’t matter beyond a few days.

And now that person is me.

This has to be a cruel joke.

Maybe getting fired wouldn’t be so bad.

“I thought the senior partners had a secretary.” I force myself to sound casual despite my heart thudding in my ears and the sweat trickling down my back. “I saw her at lunch yesterday.”

She scoffs, giving her head a slight shake and adjusting her glasses. “Ran out of here crying an hour later. Some people can’t handle the stress of the top floor. They lack a backbone and a work ethic.”

The look she gives me says she doesn’t think I can handle it, and right now, I’m more than ready to agree. But I won’t. I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

She has no idea I’m gripping this folder, hoping to quell the tremble in my fingers. That I’m desperately trying to ignore the dread snaking through me and twisting me into knots.

They’re going to be terrible. Not because of a vendetta or retaliation against what I said, although I’m sure that didn’t help, but because it’s who they are.

I need a spine of steel. Skin so thick nothing will bother me. I need my inner bad ass bitch.

“Regardless of your inexperience and inefficiencies, the managing partners asked for you specifically, and they get what, or in this case, who they want. Take whatever brief reprieve you need. I’d hate to have to find another replacement before lunch.”

Inefficiencies? Well, excuse me. Someone found their inner bitch but forgot the badass part.

This lady doesn’t know me from any other employee in the place. I may not be as experienced as some of the others here, but I do a damn good job. I don’t shy away from hard work like some—looking at you, Linda, the receptionist on the nineteenth floor.

I’ve done nothing to offend this woman, and she’s acting like I’m the Antichrist of the lawyering world.

You know what, Mrs. Monroe and her entire resting bitch-face can suck a dick. A small, sad, floppy dick.

I hope she gets man juice in her eye, but just the one. I’m not a monster.

The elevator door opens, and I dutifully shuffle inside, careful not to take any extra time. God forbid I hold us up for another freaking second. Wouldn’t want to highlight any more of my inefficiencies .

She's silent the entire ride to the top floor, her eyes trained on the rows of buttons. No skin off my teeth. Aside from our place of employment, I doubt we have anything in common, and she doesn’t strike me as a woman who enjoys small talk.

I have better things to do anyway. Like figure out how I can survive the worst bosses on the planet because at the end of the day, I need this job, and if they asked for me personally, I doubt I can convince them to give me my old job.

Ugh.

I just had to go and open my big fat mouth and put my foot right in it.

Seems like one of the things I’m really good at.

As soon as the elevator doors open, I follow her out, quickly nod to the receptionist, and stop short as she gestures to a glass enclosed office.

“I had the foresight to bring your”—she glances back at me, her mouth puckered, and her eyes narrowed. Oh, yeah she’s not pleased with me at all—"belongings up here. And I must say, your choice of pens is most inappropriate.”

Pens?

Well, fuck.

No wonder she doesn’t like me. She must not be a fan of Thundercunt Thursday or Motherfucking Monday.