Page 42 of SKIN

I took a deep breath and counted to three before finally pushing my way inside. Marisela was standing at the wall of floor-length mirrors, her back turned to me and the noise of the rest of the office chaos muffled as soon as I clicked the door shut.

I shuffled forward a few steps, stopping when I broached the perimeter of her sleek, modernized, white and gold, marble-topped desk. And waited for her to address me as I choked on the perfumed air of her inner sanctuary.

“Do you know what it is we do here, Ms. Shaw?” Marisela’s voice had this way of wrapping around you whenever she spoke, and I didn’t mean in a motherly manner. But more like a boa constrictor slowly strangling the breath from your lungs until you were left stumbling over your words, gasping for oxygen while your brain functioned on its remaining surplus.

“I, um, well…”

“It’s a simple enough question. Did you or did you not do your research before accepting the very generous employment offer I drafted for you, Emily?” Her use of my first name had me snapping out of my stupor.

“Prescott R&D is the leading medical device developer and manufacturer in the United States, with a strong focus on innovating the way future generations will balance hands-on patient care and progressive scientific breakthroughs,” I rushed out in one long breath.

“Cruz,” she corrected in a sharp tone. “Cruz R&D. My husband already stripped me of my dignity. I will not allow him to strip me of my family’s lineage.” She finally spun around to face me, her shoulders pulled back and her posture pencil straight. “But that’s not what we do, Ms. Shaw. That’s a mission statement, a bunch of fluff words thrown onto our billboards, storefronts, and websites by the company’s PR department.”

I blinked back at her a few times, my lashes feeling heavier than the thick air filling up the room. “I’m sorry… I don’t understand…”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Marisela sighed. Though something told me she wasn’t talking to me anymore. “But you will in time…”

“Yeah, okay.” I nodded. Because I honestly didn’t know what else to do at this point. It was like I was stuck in a riddle I had no hope of solving.

“In the meantime, go see Josie in HR. She has some paperwork for you to fill out.”

And once again, this woman’s tone had a sobering effect. “Am I being fired, Mrs. Pres—Cruz?” I quickly corrected.

“Don’t be silly,” she hummed. “You’re being promoted. To my new personal assistant.”

52

EMILY

“Iwant the new logos up no later than Monday afternoon, the website live by Tuesday, the old ID badges shredded and replaced by midweek, and every current contract drafted, reviewed, and finalized by the end of the month. No exceptions.”

It was Friday evening, several weeks after Tate Prescott had been first reported missing. Though, with the way things were moving, it was almost as if the man never existed. His creepy-ass remarks nothing but phantom whispers that haunted the halls and psyches of most of the female employees. Except for Sarah, who could be found wailing in the bathroom whenever anyone was close enough for her to put on a show—like the veritable Ghost of Mistresses Past.

It was also late, much later than normal business hours, the opulence surrounding us overshadowed by the fluttering crime scene tape that still clung to most surfaces of the Prescott family home. An ongoing, open investigation, the men in the brown suits and cliché trench coats had claimed. Nothing about the lack of police presence screamed “open” to me though. Truth was, it was one of the few times having shit swept under the rug actually benefited the greater good.

I didn’t care enough to wonder what had happened to the man, and from the looks of things here, neither did anyone else. Especially his widow.

“And reach out to IT. The Wi-Fi’s been lagging. That’s unacceptable. Tell them to fix it or I will find someone who can.” Marisela’s heels click-clacked against the white tile flooring, which was a stark contrast to the bright red of her tight-fitted dress paired with a matching tailored blazer and fiery lipstick. Her voice echoing off the grandeur of her living room while my pen dashed across my notepad in quick shorthand, my sloppy scrawl trying to keep up with her rapid dictation.

It was no easy feat. The woman spoke almost as quickly as she moved across the room, her voice fluctuating each time she added and removed distance between us. I’d learned it was better to stay put instead of attempting to follow her. She never stood in one spot for long, especially when her brain was firing on all circuits. She also wouldn’t repeat herself, something her last PA had learned the hard way. Or so the rumors went. Poor guy was supposedly locked up in some nuthouse somewhere.

I hadn’t even realized she’d crept up behind me, my focus on the task at hand, until I felt her breath by my ear. Heard the soft hum that told me she was assessing my work.

“Did you catch all that, Emily?”

I quirked an incredulous eyebrow. Because she was doubting me and not because she was right.

Marisela responded with the makings of a smirk but never any words of praise. That slight twitch of her lips was the closest thing to a good job I’d ever get. And I was fine with that. I didn’t need her approval. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. It wasn’t my preferred kink anymore. I wasn’t sure it ever had been.

Whether or not I wanted to admit it, degradation had this way of sending my libido into overdrive. Which was probably some repressed trauma bullshit. But that was a problem for another day. When I could afford a therapist and wasn’t afraid of scaring 'em off or ending up in a straitjacket myself.

“Right, well, you can go now. I expect to see you first thing in the morning. Don’t be late.” Marisela waved a dismissive hand before her polished nails clanked against the stem of the wineglass she swiped off the butler’s tray. It wasn’t until she took her first sip of what I could only assume was a bubbly champagne that the woman’s mouth finally twisted into a real smile. Something that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the alcohol currently breaking through her blood-brain barrier.

I might have been a numbers girl all my life, but I’d picked up more than my fair share of medical jargon during my time at Prescott R&D—though no one dare to call it that after the rebranding.

I didn’t bother responding as I pivoted on my flats and made my way to the grand entryway of Ms. Cruz’s Downtown Abbey style mansion. Dipping my chin to the man standing by the door as he swung it open while offering me a polite “good evening, Miss Shaw.”

Then I descended the stairs, mindful to watch my step now that the sun was down and the estate was surrounded by eerie darkness. Each shadow bending and flexing with the breeze, waiting for the perfect chance to reach out and grab me. The manicured hedges resembling the sort of boogeymen that had us hiding under the covers as kids and the expansive landscaping and creaking gates like the opening credits in a horror movie just before the first jump scare. All that was missing was some creep in a mask hiding under my car or crouched in the back seat.

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