Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Kaylee

I can barely hear over the crackling in my ears.

The sound grows stronger as the elevator climbs. All the way to the top of Borden Enterprises. I’m holding a slim leather folder in my hand. The only thing inside is a fake resume for someone named Sarah Grimm, crafted by my father’s lawyers.

Why am I doing this?

My eyes tick down to the emergency stop button, a string in my gut pulling taut.

Push it. Go home. You owe nothing to your father’s company.

But that’s not entirely true, is it?

After all, if I go home, I’ll be returning to the apartment he’s paying for. My new duplex on the East River with studio space for my projects. My college courses are paid for, not a single loan to my name, unlike so many of my fellow students. I’ve never done anything to earn what my father has given me. And I’ve been to countless therapists who tell me I shouldn’t have this constant guilt germinating inside of me. But I do. What did I do to deserve so much luck?

I’m not accomplished in anything.

Can’t manage a note on the piano.

Real estate is ugly and confusing and cutthroat—I want no part of the family business.

I am unforgivably awkward around my mother’s friends.

I’m not the daughter they were promised by the God of Rich People.

When my father asked me to infiltrate his competitor’s operation, my knee-jerk reaction was to say no way. Absolutely not. But then…I caved. I caved because he looked desperate. Caved because my father stopped asking me to show some potential long ago. Just gave up. I’m their silly daughter who designs dollhouses and doesn’t have any close friends. Meanwhile the daughters of their associates are champion show jumpers or already occupy a board seat. I’m a disappointment.

This is my chance to make up for that.

Make up for…myself. Who I am.

And the fact that I think this makes me angry.

I’m angry at myself for being so pathetically eager to please parents who don’t even like me. I can’t help it, though. For the first time in my life, my father told me he needed me, so here I am. Doing his bidding. Hoping for a pat on the head and a crumb of praise afterward. There is nothing I can do to keep myself from needing that reinforcement—and it makes me so mad. Hundreds of thousands of dollars and hours of therapy. Wasted. And not a dime of it came from my pocket. It was all theirs.

The elevator slows to a stop, the twin metal doors pulling apart soundlessly to reveal a sun-drenched office. State of the art Mac desktops and floor to ceiling windows, and impeccably dressed professionals talking in terms I don’t understand. Inspection contingency and comparative market analysis.

My black pumps pause on their way out of the elevator, my fingers nervously tugging down my pure white skirt. I thought it would be pretty easy getting hired as a temp. I’m a lowly undergrad at NYU in real life, but on my resume, I’m a Columbia finance major looking for first-hand experience. I’m a rock star, top of her class. Just looking for a side hustle while studying for her degree. Essentially, the girl detailed on my resume is the daughter my parents were hoping for—and didn’t receive.

With that unfortunate thought giving me impetus, I approach the reception desk. “Hello.” I smile at the sharply-dressed man behind the desk. “I’m—"

He says something into the headset he’s wearing and I apologize, stepping back to give him privacy, until he ends the call and gestures me forward. “Hi. Yes?”

“I’m Sarah Grimm. I was sent here by the staffing agency. To interview for the possible temp position?”

The receptionist gives me an interested once over. “Really,” he says dryly. “You’re here for a job.” That last word is accompanied by air quotes.

My face starts to burn. He seems skeptical that I’m here to work. Has he already guessed my true identity? Does he know that I’m here to dig around in CEO Matthew Borden’s business? Is my cover already blown? My father assured me only his closest associates are aware of this totally unethical mission.

“I, um…I don’t understand.”

The man behind the desk rolls his eyes. “A lot of women come in here hoping for a little tête-à-tête with Borden. Something about him being a single billionaire is really appealing, I guess? Who knew.” He chuckles without any change to his glib expression. “It’s a waste of time, sweetie. He’s a robot.”

“I am not here to…tête-à-tête with anyone.”

“You don’t want to tête-à-tête with my boss? Have you seen my boss?”

Of course I’ve seen him. I’ve been studying his routine and business practices for two weeks. When I agreed to spy on the competition for my father, this all seemed pretty far in the future. Some abstract idea that would never really come to fruition. It still doesn’t seem real. I’m here inside this massive corporate office to spy on a real estate mogul who—by all accounts—is a ruthless asshole who gets what he wants by any means necessary.

I suppose he’s good looking, too, based on the pictures I’ve seen.

His appearance doesn’t exactly matter, does it?

I’m here to find out how Borden has been gobbling up property before it’s listed on the market. According to my father, Borden is finding devious ways of bankrupting smaller corporations, giving them no choice but to sell their lucrative property to the very man who bled them dry. If that’s true, this man is devilish and evil. My father just needs concrete proof in order to approach authorities.

If I can get that proof, maybe I’ll have some worth in the eyes of my parents.

Dammit.

My self-disgust flares. And I must not be hiding it very well, because the receptionist sinks slowly into his chair, picks up the phone and hits a button. “Uh, yes. Mr. Borden. Your temp has arrived for approval.”

He listens for a moment, then hangs up the phone. “Follow me.”

I trail behind the receptionist through a maze of desks and up a glass staircase, holding on to the railing so I don’t slip in these heels. At the top of the stairs, I’m led across a landing suspended high above the main floor. It’s impossible not to notice that quite a few of the employees are charting my progress toward Borden’s office with smirks on their faces. For the second time, I assure myself that no one knows I’m Hale’s daughter. I’ve never been pictured with him in public. I’ve been kept separate. Away.

Building dollhouses in solitude like the absolute freak that I am.

We stop in front of the frosted-glass door. I can’t see through to the other side, but I can see that it’s darker than the rest of the gigantic space.

“You may go in,” sings the receptionist, turning on a heel and leaving.

“Okay.” I whisper. “Here we go. Project make Mommy and Daddy love me. So tragic.”

My left arm clutches the leather folder to my chest, my right hand pushing open the door. I step inside the spacious office and shiver. The temperature is noticeably lower in here…

All thoughts suspend when the man behind the desk stands up.

Matthew Borden.

Oh.

Oh, he’s taller than I was expecting. At least six three.

And the pictures didn’t quite bring across his…magnetism. His intensity.

Fine. I can understand women wanting a tête-à-tête. Who wouldn’t want to slip their fingers into that thick black hair? Mine would probably get tangled and we’d have to use peanut butter to get them loose, because I was born stupidly awkward. I’ve never been with a man in order to test my prowess with the opposite sex, but I’m just guessing this man is used to women with skill and grace. I have neither of those things.

But maybe, just maybe, I can learn how to be useful?

Maybe this will make up my lack of accomplishments to my parents?

A flash of self-directed anger rocks me down to the soles of my feet.

Matthew Borden sucks in a breath.

A long pause ensues.

He shakes himself.

“Ms. Grimm. Have a seat.”

When I was fifteen, my family went out on the yacht, hoping to have a nice afternoon before a storm hit. We didn’t get back to port in time and spent two hours pitching up and down on the waves. Matthew’s voice reminds me of the wood creaking under my feet. Smooth, cultured timber being tested.

“Yes, sir.”

I move to sit in the leather chair facing his desk, but he shakes his head. “Not there.”

I pause. “I’m sorry?”

He dips his chin, indicating a small, black leather couch in the corner of the office. Without waiting for my response, he comes out from behind the desk and crosses the room, waiting for me by the love seat. He watches me in silence while rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, movements very precise, eyebrows drawn. “Ms. Grimm.”

“Yes?”

“Have I already done something to offend you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Frankly? Because you’ve look pissed off since you walked in here.”

I jolt a little in my heels, clutch the leather case tighter in front of me, like a shield. “I’m not pissed off.” But I am. I carry the feeling around with me all the time. And it’s all self-directed. Why can’t I just stop obsessing over the fact that I’m a failure in the eyes of my parents? Why can’t I just move on with my life and be happy making tiny furniture and hanging mini chandeliers without hating myself for not being better? What they want? This angst builds and builds inside of me all the time and my only outlet is to scream into my pillow. It’s never enough, though. The pressure remains. “Just a rough subway commute.”

What happens next is kind of…alarming.

Matthew Borden points at the couch—and I go. I simply go. As if he has commanded something inside of me I didn’t know was there. My feet are moving before I know what’s happening and I’m sitting down in front of him, hands clasped together on my folder, my face level with his gold belt buckle. An odd impulse catches me off guard. I want him to cup my face. Stroke it. I want to drop everything on the ground, let my muscles go slack and let his single hand hold my entire body upright. Did I drink some bad milk with breakfast?

When he finally, finally, takes his seat beside me, I scoot back. As far away as possible. Because the impact of him is too potent. Too big. He smells expensive, like ice-cold gold. He’s large and powerful and already this interview is inappropriate. I’ve never been on a job interview and still, I’m well aware we’re not supposed to be sitting on a couch, facing each other, our knees an inch apart. What is the rapid pulse picking up speed between my thighs? Is that normal? Why is it happening now?

He’s staring at me. Frowning.

Needing a distraction, I take out my resume and place it in his hands.

He looks down, scans it in one swoop, then goes back to perusing me.

“Are you always so angry?” he asks.

“I told you I’m not angry,” I respond too quickly.

“Do you think there is something wrong with being that way, Ms. Grimm?”

“I…yes.” When I rehearsed for this interview with my father’s lawyer, our practice session went nothing like this. Is this typical interview conversation? “Obviously there is something wrong with being angry.”

“Why?”

His question is cracked like a whip and my legs scoot together automatically, throwing me off, sending a lick of fire up my back. “Anger festers. It’s ugly.”

“It can be empowering, too, if you use it correctly.”

Years of therapy and no one has ever spoken to me like this. In concrete facts. In personal opinions that actually sound like he knows what’s going on inside of me. Instead of just being paid to pretend. “Do you?” I murmur, wetting my lips. “Use your anger correctly?”

His sculpted mouth ticks up at one corner. “All the time.”

“Oh.” I inhale and exhale, terrified of the increasingly damp sensation on my panties. Is he leaning closer? Why am I reacting to him like this? “Maybe it works for you because you’re probably angry with someone else and not yourself. It’s probably easier to manage when it isn’t wrapped up in your own personal expectations. Maybe you can control anger better when it’s directed outward.”

The humor on his face is gone. “Why are you mad at yourself?”

“Is that a standard interview question?”

“I think we both knew when you walked in that this wouldn’t be a standard interview.”

I nod. He’s compelling the honesty out of me. This man is dangerous. And powerful. I should get out of here now because I’m way, way out of my depth. When he looks at me like this, like he’s trying to translate my thoughts, I forget that I’m Sarah Grimm. I’m just Kaylee Hale and I’m in awe, whether I want to be or not.

“Why is this not a standard interview?” I whisper.

A muscle pops in his cheek. “You’re not what I was expecting. Not entirely.”

“You’re not what I was expecting, either.”

His arched eyebrow betrays his surprise. “What did you expect?”

“An egomaniac who would drone on and on about his company’s accomplishments. All it would take from me is some ego stroking to get the job.”

He’s amused. “And instead?”

“Instead you’re an egomaniac who doesn’t talk about himself. You must have taken a wrong turn on the conveyor belt at the narcissist factory.”

A laugh leaves him in a huff of breath. “She’s good.”

“I’m sorry?”

His eyes shutter, as if he said something out loud he didn’t mean to say. That I’m good? I want to explore that statement more, because it’s definitely setting off alarm bells, but when he leans closer and captures my attention, my worries turn fleeting and scatter like ashes in the wind. He’s looking at my mouth. No, not looking. He’s memorizing it. He’s planning. “Why are you angry with yourself, Ms. Grimm?”

Dangerous territory. How did we get here? How did he read me so well? I need to dig up a lie, but I can’t. Not when he’s looking right into my head. I can hear every breath I take and somehow, I know he’s counting them, too. What is happening here? I’m never going to pull off this ruse. I’m incapable of pretending to be someone else around a man this shrewd. This smart. When I walked in here, my objective was to do this deceitful thing to win the affection of my parents. Now I don’t think I can. I didn’t expect this man to lay me bare with a few words and I’m reeling from the impact. After five minutes. Can I really expect to do this day to day?

“I’m angry with myself because I’m…not impressive. I’m average.” I pick up my resume and stuff it back into my leather folder. “So it’s probably better if you don’t hire me. I’ll go back to the temp agency and they’ll find something more suitable. This is—”

“Sarah.” When I start to rise, he stands with me, capturing my elbow and lowering me back down. He’s the picture of calm, but in the depths of his blue eyes, I can see that…yes, I think I’ve flustered him by trying to leave. I’ve thrown him off. “Ms. Grimm. You are the furthest thing from average. And this is my interview. I’ll decide whether or not this job is suitable for you.”