Page 2 of King of Guilt

If anyone knew how much Dean Allen worshiped his mother, it was me. For the past two years, I had been the one planning her parties and trips, helping Mr. Allen pick out her presents, and arranging for her medical checkups. From the data I had been coming across, the fifty-nine-year-old woman seemed to be in perfect health. Not a single concern tainted her history or record. So, what went wrong?

Wasn’t it enough that the poor man had to suffer the loss of his father at the tender age of fourteen?

I felt angry with the world.

Pulling a deep breath was harder than pulling a tooth, since my chest remained tight as I sat down behind my desk. Stretching my back and trying to straighten my shoulders, I reached for my coffee and took a sip. I couldn’t help the tears that had welled up in my eyes, compromising my vision as I launched Dean’s calendar to prioritize my calls based on urgency.

Devotedly, I made one cancellation and postponement call after the other, following each one with a professionally penned email for our records. The process took about an hour, with Dean still inside his office. He hadn’t called me once, nor did he step out for anything.

I was beginning to get worried.

After sending out my last email, I picked up the phone and ordered Dean’s favorite lunch—the one he had religiously ordered on all the bad days I had witnessed. I frowned while I placed the order, worrying that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it. But the man had to eat. After that, I called the fresh juice cafeteria downstairs and asked them to send up a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “It’s for the boss, so don’t you dare send me yesterday’s leftovers,” I instructed.

When the juice arrived, I stood up and took it from the messenger, thanking him before turning around and knocking on the door.

“Come in, Emma.” I heard Dean say.

Stepping in, I pushed up my chin only a notch as I approached his desk. Behind it, he sat with his legs over the shiny surface—still, no shoes. “It’s fresh.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” he objected. His hair remained in disarray. Not that he looked any less stunning; if anything, the randomness and devastation of the mess rendered him more beautiful. Boyishly so.

“I know.” I placed down the glass on a coaster and carefully slid it closer to him. “But we both know that nobody can think or act right when dehydrated and famished.” I paused, avoiding eye contact. “Your lunch is on the way.”

He let out an impatient sigh before blurting out, “Thanks, Emma. Please, don’t let anyone come in here today. I’m in no state.”

“Of course.” I took a step back, examining him as he stared blankly at the orange liquid. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

Before I turned around, my eyes landed on a half-full bottle of vodka and an empty glass on the corner of his desk. He had been drinking, but who in their right mind would judge him for it?

Without another word, I turned around and left the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

Every time someone called his internal landline, a little red light would blink on mine. Every time, I had the same response ready. “Something came up that requires his urgent attention. It will take all day, I’m afraid. I apologize on his behalf, but please do propose another day when we can make up for it.”

For an hour or so, I tended to my work as usual, responding to emails and other communications on Dean’s behalf. Thanks to our professional understanding and mutual trust, he had granted me access to his corporate messenger, and I was automatically copied in all of his correspondences.

When his lunch finally arrived, I took it and again knocked gently on the door.

“Come in, Emma,” he said.

Opening the door, I made sure my movement was slow to give him a chance to… put down the vodka, wipe his tears, whatever he needed to do. The first thing I had noticed was that his juice was still untouched. “I brought you a grilled cheese sandwich with fries,” I said as I stopped at the station in the corner, placing the food on the tray and unwrapping it. “I really do hope you eat something.”

“Thanks.”

Approaching with the tray, I saw him voluntarily clear a space for it in front of him. The desk was cramped with documents, files, open folders, and knickknacks of all sorts. It hadn’t looked like that when I had come in earlier to bring in the juice. They were doubtless things that had to do with Pearl, his mother. Quickly looking away so as not to catch anything I wasn’t supposed to, I placed down the tray and stepped back. “Is there anything I can bring you?”

His eyes slowly moved in a horizontal line, lingering on the now empty bottle of vodka. “The liquor cabinet. You’ll find another one of these.”

“But, Mr. Allen—”

“Emma, you know I can bring it myself.” His eyes shot up at me, defiant and commanding. “But you offered.”

Swallowing my words, I nodded. “Of course.”

Slowly making my way over to the massive wooden antique, I prayed that his stomach wouldn’t suffer because of this. Who knew when he had eaten last, and the last thing he needed now was to fall ill himself? My hands grudgingly followed my brain’s orders, reaching for the sealed bottle on the top shelf. As I walked back toward him, I saw him take a sip of the orange juice.

There might have been hope, after all.

The hours passed, and it was nearly five o’clock when my internal landline started ringing with the green light, indicating that it was a call from Dean himself. I swiftly picked up. “Yes, Mr. Allen?”

---