Page 58 of The Billionaires' Prize

“Suit yourself.” I turn for my door and my tiny bit of sanctuary in an often turbulent sea.

She grabs a stack of memos from the corner of her desk and scurries in behind me. Always efficient, she gets my tea going and then turns to me with the messages as I’m getting settled in.

I rub a finger between my eyes and fight back a growl. Then I hold up a hand, silencing her. “Which three are most urgent?”

“Your ten and eleven o’clock canceled. Mr. Brinkley wants to see you ASAP, as does HR.” I’m not surprised that my boss is in the queue. Or human resources, for that matter. My moment in the spotlight has no doubt ruffled plenty of feathers.

“Great,” I grumble, standing in front of the windows, staring out at the skyline. “Nothing from my mother?”

“You asked for the most urgent three.”

My frown lifts.

“You’re the best,” I tell her as she brings my tea. “Would you close the door on your way out? Thanks.”

Alone in my office, I settle in my rolling chair and take a deep breath. Outside, the city is gray and dreary, a caricature that falls flat and lifeless. I wish I could pinpoint the moment that coming to the office stopped being exciting.

There was a time in my childhood when I wanted nothing more than to be exactly like my mother. Dressing to the nines, always smelling amazing, her name on everyone’s lips. She was so clever, and everyone liked her. Or so I’d thought.

Ah, the rose-colored glasses of youth.

Can I do this for the next thirty years?

My stomach clenches.

I reach for my tea, eyeing the worn carpet. I tried my best to give my little corner of the world a facelift.

My desk is new. The heavy contemporary piece was a gift to myself when I started working here because I’d hoped the combination of metal, glass and polished wood would liven the place up. Some soothing artwork and, of course, my favorite plants also help.

But that’s the problem. Everything about Chanler & Cort is old. Old-fashioned. Worse. It feels lifeless. Dying.

Does anyone else see what I see?

My mind races with ideas and plans, ways to perk things up. To breathe fresh life into a sinking ship. Grandfather was happy with things so long as he was making money. But surely he’d seen the growth drying up.

Maybe he’d been too old and out of his mind to care.

Do I care?

I don’t think I’ve ever wondered that before and it’s as if a lightbulb goes off above my head, filling me with warm heat.

Swapping my teacup for my cellphone, I pull up my texts. My mother’s name is third from the top, and my heart seizes.

That’s not a normal response. I breathe through it. One deep breath. Hold. Let it out. Hold. I can’t hide from her forever. I know that.

But I also don’t know how to move forward with her.

How do you trust a person who’s shown you who they truly are over and over again?

And at what point is enough enough?

I’m full of questions this morning and type out another to my bestie.

Katherine: did you ever think about anything other than law?

Shon’s response is immediate.

Shon: not really. . . it fits, you know?

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