Page 115 of Van Cort

And then start from the beginning.

Following your successful secondment at Van Cort Industries, we’d like to offer you the opportunity to work in our New York office as Senior Analyst. This package will includerelocation expenses for a temporary position of one year. This coincides with the restructuring of East Coast operations.

I haven’t finished my time at Van Cort, and I’d hardly call it a secondment.

New York?

My mind begins to race, hurtling through thoughts that lead back to two big questions. Was this Everett’s doing? No. Why would he try to get me to New York? Maybe it’s because I’msimply working for him?

Both taint the offer in front of me, and I think back to the conversation with Mr Whitham, and the horrid interview with Pierson, Walter, Smith. If this offer had landed before working with Everett, I’d be celebrating, taking it, and running with the opportunity. So why am I second-guessing?

Can’t I be rewarded for simply doing a damn good job? For proving that my snake of a boss doesn’t have the acumen he should in his position, and is happy to cut corners to make himself look good?

Do I ask Everett if he had any involvement?

Would his answer make any difference to my response to the job offer?

Is this punishment for not telling him I was with April – sending me away?

No. Stop.

I stand and grab my jacket as I leave the office. Part of me wants to let Everett’s personal assistant, Devon, know I’m leaving, but I don’t.

Leaving the lobby, I look for a cab, needing to get across town in a rush. Van Cort would have a car service. In fact, I know Andre’s number. But wouldn’t that be a double standard? Calling on the perks, but complaining about what they can do for me in the same breath?

I head back inside and walk to the lavish reception desk with the gold emblem behind, scrawled for everyone to see. It’s the same VC stamped on the signet ring Everett wears.

“Excuse me, would you have a car available for me to make a meeting I have?” I smile.

“Why, yes, Miss Anderson. One moment.” She turns and picks up her phone and orders a car.How does she know who I am?

“Thank you.”

“Your car will be around in a moment.”

I drum my fingers on my thigh the whole way there, going over and over if this is or isn’t a good plan. But as the car pulls up, I decide I can’t make this decision without knowing the reason behind it. It’s already eating me up inside, the fear that I’m not good enough, a shadow in my mind that just won’t leave.

“I’ll be quick. Please wait for me,” I instruct the driver, as I open the door and stare up at the building. Here goes nothing.

I breeze past reception and, instead of pressing the button up to my office, call for the executive floor. This could do more damage to my career, but I have to know.

“Hi there,” I say to the assistant outside the office of Mr Whitham. “I’d like to speak to Mr Whitham. Just briefly, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I’m here regarding a position he offered. If he’s free, it will only be a minute.”

“Miss, you need an appointment—”

I feel the frustration edge into panic as I argue with her, so I play my only hand. “Please tell him that Miss Anderson is here and it’s about Van Cort.” Giving her a little nod, I turn away, my pulse racing and my hand tensing at my side.

Every part of me wants to smooth this over, not make a fuss, and apologise for barging in here and insisting, but that was before Everett Van Cort.

“Miss Anderson, you may go in,” the woman calls, and my heart sighs in relief.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I march for the door.

Mr Whitham eyes me from behind his desk, his attention split on the documents spread out before him. “Yes, Miss Anderson. I hope this is important.”