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CHARLOTTE

“Do you know why I’ve called you into my office, Ms. Ryan?” my boss, Samuel Broadhurst, asks in that condescending tone all pretentious assholes use when they’re talking to a subordinate.

Anger prickles down my spine, so I bite my lip, trying to appear thoughtful as I take steadying breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth.

“I believe I’m due for my six-month review, sir,” I bite out, an irritated flush rising to my cheeks.

“Correct,” he snips out, sniffing a little as he turns in his overstuffed swivel chair.

The man has been in the advertising business for over three decades, and it shows.

His office is like stepping into a museum of what once was cool and hip, the bright colors reminiscent of the sixties and seventies with too many textures.

The rug under my feet is shag, and the couch in the corner is some kind of crushed velvet—all in colors that make my eyes hurt.

He had an expert eye for what made a good marketing campaign, but suddenly I’m seeing his industry cataracts.

He’s not my direct supervisor. He’s my supervisor’s supervisor, so this is a big deal, or it would be a big deal if he hadn’t pinched my ass by the water cooler last week and made a comment about all the delectable meat on my bones.

“You see, Charlotte, there are a lot of areas in your portfolio that I find lacking,” he says, pulling a large manila folder out from somewhere under his desk.

He slaps it down with a performative thunk , and the contents spill onto the desk space between us.

All the ad campaigns I’ve worked on in my six short months here fill the space between us. Embarrassment heats my cheeks, but I’m proud of these photos. These are hours of hard work and overtime. My supervisor loved these, but clearly Mr. Broadhurst found them lacking.

“I don’t see the issue, Mr. Broadhurst.”

“Ah, ah. Please, call me Samuel,” he croons.

“Um…right, well, what’s wrong with my campaigns? These were all approved by Scarlett.”

“Yes, but Scarlett’s eyes and my eyes are two very different sets, and you see, she may see perfection in these, but I see a stunning lack of vision and fire.”

I jerk back in my chair, a little gasp escaping my lips at the severity of his words. These ads are already running, so there is no pulling them back and reworking them. The clients have paid and were happy, but Mr. Broadhurst is the one with the problem.

“I don’t understand, the clients all approved of these?—”

“And the client is hardly ever really right.” He scoffs. “These are fine, amateur at best, but you could really flourish if you were being mentored by me.” Mr. Broadhurst gives my body a lecherous look.

It all clicks then. This entire meeting is bullshit.

“Scarlett is my boss and mentor.” I skirt around what I really want to say. I need this job so badly it hurts.

“Well, Scarlett,” he sneers, “is my underling, and she doesn’t yet have the skills I possess.” Mr. Broadhurst tosses his arms out and braces his hands on his desk.

The sharp cut of his lime-green suit is too perfect, and it shows all the imperfections of the man underneath. The sweat stains under his arms are clear when his jacket stretches to accommodate his grandiose motions. He’s trying too hard to be high fashion for a time that has come and gone.

“Sir, this is not really something I think is necessary. I enjoy working with Scarlett.” I try to keep my tone soft and submissive when all I want to do is scream.

He’s a creep who hasn’t stopped eyeing my breasts in every meeting, who grabs at my ass and tummy when he thinks no one is looking, and who’s just out of his dang mind if he thinks I’m interested.

He stands abruptly and rounds his desk before leaning against it so his cock is level with my face. The nearly concave crotch of his pants tells me there is much to be desired in the dick department, but I swallow nervously anyway.

This is not happening. It can’t be happening. There must have been something in the smoothie I had for breakfast or some kind of hallucinogenic in the hairspray I borrowed from Kennedy.

“Well, since you are so pleased to be working with Scarlett, let’s get to the actual point of this meeting, shall we?

” he asks with a jerk of his hips in my direction.

“If you want to keep this little job of yours, you are going to need to stay later, much later, and attend to…special events on the weekends.” He gives a toothy smile that is all too white.

I fight the urge to gag as I shake my head.

“No? So you’re fine being fired, then? Have no desire to ever work in this industry again? My industry,” he growls and grabs at my shoulder, his spindly fingers digging into my flesh.

“Please let go of me. It’s not appropriate for you to touch me,” I plead numbly, bile rising up the back of my throat in a slow creep.

“I can touch you however the fuck I want. I own your ass as long as you’re employed here.

If you want to keep your job and your stupid little cubicle, where you do work that leaves little impact on the world in comparison to mine, you will do what’s good for you.

Pull my cock out and suck it,” he hisses, and I don’t know what comes over me.

I vomit.

I vomit all over his hideous suit and his shrimp dick that is way too close to my face.

His responding scream pierces my eardrums, but I can’t stop until my stomach is completely empty. Everything vile is purged from my stomach and seemingly my soul. I look up at him, feeling sunken in.

His face is beet red, and the fine hairs that he combs over the balding spot on his head are peeling up. “Get the fuck out! You’re fired, you fucking disgusting cow! You will never work in New York again! Get out!”

I lurch out of my seat, nearly knocking it onto the floor as I scramble out of his office, wiping the remnants of my sick from the corners of my mouth.

“Oh my fucking god!” Kennedy squeals, her feet actually kicking out because of her joy at this whole situation.

“My life being completely ruined is a big joke, huh?” I ask, but all the wind has already sputtered out of my sails.

I have to admit. It’s just a little funny that I puked all over my former boss’s boss.

“Your life isn’t ruined, don’t be such a fucking brat, Lottie,” my best friend and adoptive sister says with a snicker.

She grabs the handle of vodka sitting between us and pours herself another shot.

We’re teetering dangerously close to the middle of the bottle, but I’m feeling too good to care that much.

“I was born a brat and will die that way,” I say, sticking my tongue out at her.

She laughs so hard that she snorts and winces as a dribble of the alcohol runs out of her nose.

“Fuck! That burns, so bad, in my eyes.” She wheezes, fanning her face and trying to get herself to stop laughing.

I bite the inside of my lip so hard I taste blood, but I can’t stop myself from laughing. “I’ll get you some water.”

I shuffle into my small kitchen and pull open the fridge, ignoring the fact that two shelves are missing and that the one that is left only has two-day-old takeout and ketchup of unknown origin. I grab a small bottle of water and bring it back into the living room.

Kennedy is gasping like a fish as her hands flail out. She grabs the water and chugs the little bottle.

“That’s what you get for reveling in the loss of my livelihood,” I deadpan.

She chucks the empty container at me, and I just let it hit my tit instead of moving out of the way.

“You know they were never going to let you do what you wanted. You can get back into painting now, maybe actually sell some of those amazing pieces you make? How many do you have just sitting in your hall closet?” she asks, arching a perfectly waxed brow.

My adoptive sister is perfect in a lot of ways that I’m not. If she wasn’t the best person I knew, maybe I’d be jealous of her golden blond hair, slim figure, and model-like features. She’s annoyingly perfect, inside and out, the loveable bitch.

“I don’t really think that’s what I want to do.

” I lie through my teeth as easily as I breathe.

“I need to get my foot back in the door somewhere. I think all the ad agencies in New York are out unless some brand-new CEO comes on the scene, not knowing the last few decades of things that Broadhurst has influenced,” I grumble.

“Or, and hear me out the whole way through”—she jabs her finger at me accusingly—“you move back in with Mom and Dad, they support you while you get your career off the ground, and then we live pretty off the millions you’ll make with your art.” She says it like she has it all figured out.

When we met in kindergarten, I didn’t know the volatile ball of sunshine would become my best friend, but she was persistent.

She took me under her wing, drawn in by the shyness that radiated off little me in droves.

I had just moved to New York with my parents from Boston, and it was so strange.

Everyone was so pretty and bright, and everything was big and loud and smelled weird, but Kennedy took me under her wing and pecked the eyes out of anyone who tried to tell me I was anything other than the best. Needless to say, we remained friends through middle and high school too.

When my parents died in my senior year, her family welcomed me with open arms and adopted me when I turned eighteen.

So my best friend became my sister, and there has never been a moment of peace for either of us since.

“You’re such a brat,” I say, flicking her forehead as gently as humanly possible.

She pouts and flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “I’m your brat…and ocassionaly the very bratty girl to some very lucky girls, guys, and nonbinary babes.” She winks at me, and I snicker. I love how open my sister is…most times.

“And what about you? The big bad world of finance hasn’t swallowed you up and turned you into a stooped little goblin yet?”

She rolls her eyes, the brains in her head just as awe-inspiring as her beauty. “As if. I have everyone in that office wrapped around my little finger.” She wiggles her pinkie for emphasis.

“I don’t think those finance bros are used to pretty women talking to them about things on or above their intelligence level.”

“Yeah, probably not, but they aren’t all that bad.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I think I’m going to hookup with Chad again.”

I shiver at the mention of her on-and-off-again fling since college, only now he’s Kennedy’s coworker—and benefits greatly from being in her orbit.

“Are you sure? Doesn’t he actively avoid going down on you?” I ask, pulling from the countless stories she’s told me of their less-than-spectacular bedroom life.

“Yes, but that’s why I have a vibrator. Unlimited orgasms,” she says, though the bubbly excitement in her tone doesn’t match her forlorn expression.

“Kennedy, you can’t just settle for Chad. If you really want to get a house in the burbs and have two point five kids, a million guys in this city would bend over backward to be yours,” I say softly as I plop down beside her and wrap her in a tight hug.

“I’m sick and tired of being lonely, Lottie. I want a love that will take my breath away and orgasms given by another human being.” She says with a little sigh, returning my embrace and burying her face in my shoulder.

I hold my sister tight for a long time before my phone ruins the moment, ringing with the same stupid ringtone I’ve had since high school.

“Who the hell is calling you at nine p.m., on a weekday? Please tell me you’ve been hooking up with someone but have been too busy to tell me?” She pushes me back, a flush of genuine excitement on her face.

I snicker and shake my head. “As if. You know how the city is—unless you’re a size double zero, then you’re made to feel like no one out there will love you.” I sigh, reaching over and plucking my phone from under the discarded wrappers of all the snacks we’ve devoured.

I’m not ashamed of my body. I’m pretty, gorgeous even with the right outfit, and I just so happen to be fat. It’s not a dirty word, just a damn fact. I’m fat and hot as hell.

“Hello?”

The call from a private number is odd, but the whole day has been one gigantic circus.

“Is this Charlotte Ryan speaking?”

The hard-earned buzz from all the vodka and sugar evaporates at the steely, professional tone of the speaker, and I feel like I’ve been doused in cold water.

“Yes, who is this?” I ask hesitantly.

“My name is Michael Anderson. I’m with Spalder and White Associates. You are mentioned in the will of one of my clients. Are you able to make it into our office tomorrow morning at eight?”

A high-pitched whine fills my ears.

I don’t have any family left, so this must be a joke.

“I don’t understand,” I croak as all the moisture in my mouth dries up.

“You must be feeling a lot of different emotions right now, but there are some incredibly important documents and accounts I’d like to get put into your name as soon as possible. Ms. McKenna was quite clear about how she wanted things to go when the end came.”

The notes of warmth and fondness in his voice fill me with an ache of envy that makes me want to puke all over again. There was someone out there who cared enough to leave me some important things in their will but not enough to find me when I had been orphaned?

“Give me that,” Kennedy says, snatching my phone, and a few of my hairs. “Who are you and why are you upsetting my sister?”

Kennedy gasps, her mouth forming a perfect O as Michael Anderson tells her about me being in someone’s will. Someone I didn’t know existed and was out there all along, being vaguely aware of me.

She nods once and then again before hanging up.

“So I’m taking you to that appointment tomorrow. He sounds hot and like he isn’t afraid to go down,” she purrs, giving me her best bedroom eyes.