Page 1 of The Boss' Pet

CHAPTER 1

Charlie

Leave now, Charlie. You’re going to end up getting hurt.

The little voice inside my head is going to tell me she told me so when this all goes wrong. It’s not that I can’t hear her. She’s stamping around in my head in a not-at-all-little sort of way. She’s wearing boots with big spikes sticking out of the bottom of them. With every step she takes, she pricks my conscience terribly.

I’m not listening to her, or to anybody else. I’ve come this far, and I have absolutely no intention of backing down now.

A soft chime and a moment of weightlessness indicate that I have reached my destination. As the elevator doors part before me, I take a deep breath and smooth my hands down my stomach. I am dressed conservatively, but appropriately. I’ve chosen a gray wool pencil skirt that falls just below my knees and black kitten heels. My dirty blonde hair is slicked back into an updo that I hope looks sophisticated.

As I step into a corporate oasis, I catch sight of myself frequently in the many reflective surfaces which dot the place, every time seeing some other facet of myself. Someone must spend a lot of time polishing the various features which have been placed in abundance. The sun shines through a window at the end of the foyer, making the shiny bits of decor gleam.

It is quiet, but there are plenty of people here. At least a dozen of them are either stationed behind various reception desks or moving from one office to another. Long-legged men in expensive suits make charming conversation with perfectly professional looking women whose little fingers contain more sophistication than I have in my entire body.

I don’t know the words for the way this place has been designed. It’s an office, but it’s not a utilitarian space by any stretch of the imagination. There is something faintly Olympian about this place, as if I am walking in the realm of modern gods. Everybody here is beautiful and dressed to perfection. My attire will do, but it is simple compared to the styling I see displayed on some of the other women.

This is the head office of the Waterstone Corporation. Not many people are permitted to access the ninetieth floor of the Waterstone building. You have to have a special pass, and you have to speak to a special man with a special uniform down on the first floor. He verifies your identity in a way that feels futuristic and incredibly invasive, taking your picture right there at the front desk and matching your features to the DMV database. At least, I assume that was what was going on when he was muttering intensely to himself and clicking so many keys on his keyboard, or he was doing a pretty good impression of a late 90’s hacker.

I’m here now, though. And I am immediately and completely out of place. I don’t have enough money to be here. I am too poor to breathe this rarefied air. I feel as though everybody who looks at me knows that right away. I get polite smiles from everybody, which tells me I am in a place where only important people come. If you walk into a normal office, people don’t even bother to give you a second glance. They’re busy, and strangers don’t matter. In this particular set of offices, everybody matters.

I am nervous, and that is a good thing, because I am also in danger. This looks like the last place anybody would be in danger, but that’s deliberate. If you’re going to run a multi-billion-dollar evil empire, you don’t want the place looking like a villain’s lair. You want it to look like this place does, respectable and imposing.

The Waterstone Corporation has holdings across the globe. They make everything from toothpicks to tanks, and contract out in everything from marketing to mercenaries. The company is owned by none other than Marcus Waterstone, an old-money billionaire from a beloved corporate family. The Waterstones are one of America’s few answers to the British, or any other monarchy. There are portraits of the Waterstone ancestors on the walls here and there, displayed in a tasteful and almost modern way.

I’m here to see the man himself. Marcus Waterstone.

It’s hard to believe that someone like me has actually managed to get an interview with a man like him. He does press from time to time, but usually with large mainstream media outlets, not indie journalists like me. I sent him an email, and by some wild chance, he actually responded. It all still feels like a bit of a dream.

All businessmen of his caliber are dirty in one way or another, but I suspect that Marcus Waterstone is downright filthy. The stories about this man are legendary. Some of them are so overblown, I’m sure they fall more into the category of urban legends.

I have more specific suspicions about Marcus. I think he’s much more than a businessman. I think he is essentially leading one of the biggest criminal networks that America, and perhaps the world, has ever seen. Waterstone Corp is the perfect cover for a whole lot of very shady activities that I—and some dedicated online sleuths—have been putting together for months now.

This interview probably won’t reveal much overtly, but I am hoping to get him to say something that ties him to one of the many criminal activities my friends and I think he is responsible for.

I’m almost at his personal reception desk where a large W on the wall echoes the large W on the outside of the building. Billionaires aren’t really popular now, but Marcus Waterstone has avoided the worst of the flak by being one of the most powerful men on the planet nobody has ever heard of outside of the boardrooms of America.

There’re all different kinds of famous. There’s Internet famous. That’s what counts for actual famous these days. Then there’s the niche kind of famous.

Marcus Waterstone is famous among people who are richer and more powerful than most of the people that normal people hate for being rich and powerful.

The Met Gala would seem like a downmarket meat market for the sorts of people who move in Marcus’ circles. He is elite among elite, and the fact that I am standing here is nothing short of a small miracle.

An expansive desk sits below the W. I make a beeline for it.

Marcus’ secretary is a woman who exudes a surprising amount of warmth, considering the atmosphere. She is a model of efficiency and kindness. Her gray hair is swept back in a lovely vintage fashion and kept in place with a pin. She is in her fifties, I would guess, and she seems as though she has the wherewithal to run this entire company. She did not so much as glance at the calendar. She is clearly very familiar with Mr. Waterstone’s schedule for the day and has committed it to memory.

“Hello,” I say. It feels like a weak greeting, even though it is really the only possible greeting.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Charlotte Crown,” I say. “I’m here for a ten o’clock interview with Mr. Waterstone?” My inflection rises at the end, which makes me sound uncertain. That’s deliberate. I don’t want to come across as too put together. I want to seem properly awed by this place that is designed to inspire awe.

“Miss Crown, right on time,” she says, giving me an approving smile. “Let me get you settled. Please, follow me.”

I follow her through the door that sits alluringly behind and to the side of her desk. It has a frosted glass panel at the top, through which amber light glows. If I were a fanciful sort of person, I’d say there’s something almost enchanting about this place. I’m not, of course. There’s no magic here, except that which can be performed by vast amounts of cold, hard cash.

We step through the door, and the temperature rises ever so slightly. The carpet beneath my feet feels thicker and more luxurious. The smell of leather, mahogany, and pure fucking power hangs in the air. I now realize the reception area I was just waiting in is about as refined as the subway at 125th and Lexington compared to this inner sanctum.

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