Page 2

One

Ophelia

“I want to speak to the manager!”

Alicia flicks her gaze to me, desperate for help. She’s already tearing up as the customer leans over the countertop. “Right now.”

I clench my fist, plaster on a bright, professional smile, and head over. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m Ophelia Calder, the owner. How may I help you?”

The woman turns to face me, blond bob cut swishing, and I flinch at the blotchy red patches on her skin. She has the sort of face that is ageless at a distance, but close up, there are signs even our advanced treatments can’t quite cover.

There’s a slight hang to her neck and crinkles at the corners of her lips. She’s in her fifties and looks me up and down with the disbelief I’ve grown used to in women her age. “The owner? You?”

I don’t let my smile falter, though my body stiffens with the effort. “Yes. What seems to be the problem? ”

“Are you fucking kidding me? The problem”---she points to her face—“is this”. Three-thousand dollars for skin resurfacing, and two weeks later, I still look like I’ve got leprosy.”

Cool relief takes the edge off my stress. Her mistake, not ours. “Recovery takes at least a month, ma’am. This is normal. You’ll look great once the healing process is complete.”

“Two weeks? I have a wedding this weekend. This isn’t good enough. No one explained the process to me. I want my money back.” Her lip curls, a nasty little smile forming. “Maybe you should employ some staff who actually know what they’re doing.”

Thank God for paperwork. “Ma’am, in the forms you signed when you came in for treatment, it would have clearly explained—”

“I don’t give a shit about the paperwork. I want—”

“Is there a problem here?”“

The deep voice behind my shoulder drops my stomach to my boots. Why now? Why fucking now?

The uber-bitch in front of me jumps, and her pinched face relaxes into wide-eyed amazement as she takes in my father. “Oh. Hello. Are you the man in charge around here?”

Dad graces her with his thousand-megawatt smile, white teeth gleaming. “Something like that. Is there an issue, darling?”

The woman’s blotchy face turns beaming red, and I swear she actually simpers. Nauseating.

“Well, sir—” She emphasizes “sir” with a flirty glance down. “I had a treatment two weeks ago, and it wasn’t explained right. Now I’m going to look just awful for my niece’s wedding.”

“Well, that won't do at all.” Dad’s face creases in false dismay. Does she actually believe it? “Ophelia, please provide this lovely lady with a full refund and a complimentary makeover on the day of the ceremony. And see that the staff member who made the error is dealt with.”

Just smile and say yes.

But I hesitate, and Dad’s gaze swings toward me like a laser.

Agree with him. Anything else is pointless.

The whole reception area falls silent, chattering conversation replaced by avid curiosity. My father, over six-feet tall and dressed in a sharp black suit, stands out like a beacon against the aggressively feminine lobby.

I have no say in my clinic decor. I'd go minimalist with it. Upscale, classy. But instead, rose-gold accents are everywhere, the walls have a lattice with actual honeysuckle, and the cherry on top—pink marble counters. Pink! It's a Barbie makeover studio brought to life.

“Ophelia?”

And there’s the tone. The one I got when I said I wanted to quit cheer squad for softball. Or when I suggested I move out and get my own place at twenty-three. The warning tone that means I need to fall in line.

The customer smirks behind his back, and it’s enough to tip me over the edge. “My staff did nothing wrong. She signed the paperwork and knew recovery would take longer than two weeks. There’s no reason to issue a refund.”

Black clouds roll in across my father’s face. For just that second, the mask he shows the respectable part of the world cracks, revealing the shark beneath. His gray eyes darken, and there will be hell to pay later.

It’s gone the next moment, and the smile returns. “Don’t be silly.” He turns to Alicia behind the desk, who watches him like a rabbit watches a fox. “Issue the refund, and get this lady booked in for her makeover. Now. ”

“Yes, sir,” she stammers, and I tense my muscles to keep myself steady. This clinic has my name on the deeds. I own it, and even though I never wanted to run an overpriced beauty clinic, I’m doing my best to run it well. But I’m not in charge here, and everyone knows it.

“Ophelia. Office.” Dad doesn’t bother to wait for an answer before he turns his back and strides toward my office. MY office, yet I follow him there like I’ve been called in to see the principal. My sensible heels click on the marble, and I want to throw the stupid things into the ornamental fountain. But I don’t dare. I’m in enough trouble already.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind me, Dad whirls, all traces of his smile gone. “Do you know who that ugly bitch out there is?”

Even his voice is different, a staccato edge tarnishing the cultured tone. A ghost from growing up in New York City. My nanny, Maida, who pretty much raised me, once let slip after a couple of glasses of wine that he spent thousands of dollars on elocution lessons to lose the accent.

“No idea, Daddy. Who?” I try to match his anger with nonchalance, but it comes out forced and brittle.

“She’s married to Ashton Parker.” At my blank look, he shakes his head. “Parker Pharmaceuticals? One of our biggest clients?”

The name snaps into place. Shit. Double shit. “I’m sorry. I—”

“You didn’t think. You never fucking do.”

My buried anger flares. “She was wrong, though. She was—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter what she was!” I take a half step back as Dad’s roar fills the office. Will the staff be able to hear? Are they gossiping about it right now? “You do understand what you’re doing here, right? ”

With painful clarity. Running a “legitimate business” to clean my family’s filthy money.

“Giving some dumb old bitch her money back doesn’t matter. Pissing off a client does.”

I don’t want to look away from his burning gaze, but I do. Coward that I am, I stare at the shiny points of my shoes as his tirade continues. “I know you enjoy playing at being the boss here, but you work for me, Ophelia. Don’t fucking forget it.”

“I know. I know. Sorry.”

I hate the meek quaver in my voice. I hate the relief when I glance up and see the storm has passed and the fury in his eyes is banked. For now. I hate that I knew exactly the right tone to take to pacify him after so many years of practice.

He nods, and his face changes in the eerie way it does, danger sliding away, replaced with an affable mask. “Good. That’s good, sweetie. I’m proud of what you’re doing here, I really am. You just have to keep the interests of the family at the front of your mind.”

Family first. Of course.

He smiles, and most people would find it charming, paired with his handsome face. “Now, the reason I dropped by. We’re going for dinner tonight with the Stormbergs, and I want you to look your best. Wear something pretty. Demure, of course, but pretty. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I don’t have the energy for another argument.

“It’s important. There’s a big contract up for grabs. Harrison will be there too, and we need a united front. Their youngest son is coming.” His eyebrow twitches in a knowing way that makes my skin crawl. “Handsome, by all accounts. Could make a good match for you. ”

Gross. Dad’s ideas about dating are Victorian in the extreme. Between him and my brother, Harrison, my love life is dead on arrival. Dad wants to see me married off to some son of a business acquaintance. A perfect marriage for his perfect princess.

My face hurts as I force a smile. “We’ll see.”

“I knew I could count on you. Now, while I’m here, let’s take a look through the books.”

It takes everything I have not to scream as I open my laptop.

***

Two grueling hours later, he finally leaves. Once the door clicks shut, I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the white leather sofa in the corner. This room was the only space I had any control over, and it’s decorated in the simple, clean style I prefer.

The frilly, overdone girliness of the main clinic is a pneumatic drill in my brain.

I grab a beer from the mini fridge in the corner and take a long swallow. Dad doesn’t approve of me drinking beer—unladylike—but I enjoy it after a long day. The cold liquid slides down my throat as I work to piece myself back together.

Dad’s evisceration of my accounts was as brutal as I’d expected. He has a head for figures, and I certainly don’t. In school, I loved biology and hated math. Dad went line by line through my figures, finding every error. Each mistake dragged the corners of his mouth lower.

When he stood to leave, he delivered his final jab. “Christ, Ophelia. Imagine if you’d actually gone to med school. With this many fuck-ups, you’d be in jail with a trail of bodies in your wake. ”

There’s no point arguing. Just like the marketing degree he persuaded me to enroll in and the salon he insisted I open, he’ll always win.

I let myself finish my beer and relish the silence for a moment longer before I slip my shoes on and head out into the noise and bustle of the clinic. As soon as I appear, staff surround me.

“Ophelia. Thank God, I thought you’d never come out. The supplier only delivered one batch of Juvéderm, and we’re almost out. Can you—”

“Ophelia, I’m so sorry. We’ve double-booked Rachel tomorrow with two Vampire facials at once. I don’t know how it happened. The computer glitched. Can you—”

“Ophelia, a customer called. She went to the emergency room last night. Some sort of reaction to her anti-wrinkle. She’s threatening legal action. Can you—”

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want to be here.

God, I sound like the worst spoiled little rich girl on the planet. Poor me. Daddy bought me a business, and it’s too hard. But those thoughts don’t help one bit. My chest tightens, the dreaded constriction hitting me all at once. My heart is too big. It’s beating too hard. It’s going—

“Excuse me.”

I push past my staff, through the double doors, and out onto the street. No one follows me, thank God, and I lean against the door frame, trying to breathe. I just need—

“Ophelia! Before I head in, can I talk to you? It’s my friend’s bachelorette this weekend, and I need Saturday off. Sorry, I forgot to put it on the system, but it’ll be okay, right? I can’t let her down.”

Can no one in this place give me a single second of peace? I whip my head round and meet Phoebe’s gaze. She’s arriving for her afternoon shift and—I check my watch—is ten minutes late.

And she’s hitting me up with this now? Saturday is my busiest day. I can’t just…

Something else catches my eye. Oh no. She hasn’t.

“What the hell is that?” I point at her nose, where a shiny stud glimmers. Dad hates piercings on women almost as much as he hates tattoos. When we set this place up, he was very clear on the dress code.

I can’t deal with this right now. I just can’t.

Phoebe covers it with her hand, then gives a nervous laugh. “Crap. I forgot we’re not meant to have them. I just got it done, so I can’t change it for a clear stud for a few weeks. It’ll be okay, right? No big deal?”

“No, it’s not fucking okay!” I hardly recognize the shrill shriek coming out of my mouth. “Take it out right now.”

Phoebe’s lips thin. “No. It cost me sixty bucks, and I’ve wanted it done forever. I can’t take it out.”

And if Dad stops by again and sees it? I’m dead meat. I straighten my spine and channel my inner Calder, bringing my voice down from shrill to icy. “That’s not my problem, Phoebe. Take it out, or you’re fired.”