Page 1 of Burning for You

Carolyn Meyer: Two years ago

Sitting in my penthouse office, I fix my gaze on the dimming Manhattan sky. The forecast says it will be a nice night. If only I was going for a rooftop dinner or a sunset sail at New York Harbor.

My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window juxtaposes with the city views as lights start to flicker on.

The figure of a man looms behind me. Without prelude, he says, “Really, Caro? Is this the way you’re gonna get rid of me? Defending a fucking whiny clerk over someone who literally founded this company for you?”

Powerful men don’t intimidate me, but there’s something about Rupert Teller that makes me wonder if I should be afraid of him. Admittedly, without Teller, I wouldn’t be where I am today: the CEO of fashion retail empire ‘Sass by Caro’ which, against the tide in the era of online shopping, has expanded to almost forty stores in less than three years. However, I’ve recently discovered a side of him which I can no longer tolerate.

“Rupert, you’ve been warned, and you ignored me.”

I rise from my high-back leather chair. My toes are pinched in my four-inch Louboutins, but I need to be as tall as this man, whom people often call ‘Avatar’ because of his height.

But it’s not just his physicality that I have to counter. Teller is one of the best developers in New York, and he is the top retail developer, who has never put a foot wrong when it comes to location. His contact list is the envy of every person in real estate and retail alike. He can destroy me.

Shaking his head, he responds, “Harsh working conditions, impossible workloads, ruthless schedules? Same old complaints. We’re in retail. We’re hostile. We lose sleep, it’s part of our job. That clerk grew up in an Asian sweatshop. Working in this office should be heaven!”

“Rupert!” I can feel my eyes bulging out. “We all work hard. It’s you I’m having a problem with. Two more people have come forward.”

The man jerks his chin. “Those ungrateful minions are just trying to gang up on me.”

“The evidence is against you. You turned up at their doors at night, on their sick or off days, called them names, and then threatened them. They were in tears!” I say. “I can’t let that happen to anyone, whether they’ve been here five years, or a month.”

He scoffs. “In tears. God, Caro! We should stop hiring sissies. If being pushed to perform makes you cry, you’ve got no place here.”

Teller pauses, seemingly searching for his next argument. And he finds it. “How many times had your dad pushed you to the limit? Didn’t that pay off?”

That’s the side of Rupert I’m familiar with. He can never see me beyond the daughter of Albert Meyer, a hotelier and commercial developer owning almost five percent of New York City’s skyline. “What you did to Rhea and the others was out of order. There’s no excuse.”

“Did you cry? Did you run to your mom?” he sneers.

“Hell, Rupert!” I yell, so loud even the Avatar seems to be taken aback. “For your information, I also know what you’ve done with our donations to the East Coast Flying Doctors volunteer program.”

Rupert looks away.

I say, “I haven’t forgotten the good things you’ve done for me. I will turn a blind eye to that stolen money. Out of respect, I beg you, please tender your resignation.”

“I don’t believe this!”

“I know you’ve set up Highpoint Properties and Investment—I guess it would be naïve of you to think I wouldn’t find out. Maybe it’s time you put your heart and soul into it, and pursued that new gold rush in Montana.”

Rupert Teller throws his head back, laughing. “Reputation is everything to you, yes?”

“It’s your reputation at stake, not mine.”

“I can make it yours.” He turns to a framed photo on the wall, of me receiving the Young CEO of the Year award from the president of the New York City Chamber of Commerce. “An embracing character, a tenacious leader. Didn’t he say that about you?”

Then Teller spins to face me, cynicism and aggression smearing his face like lard on cheese. “I was the only reason you still have a reputation. Everyone has a weakness, Caro, and I know yours. Is the name Anton Mendez still haunting you?”

I purse my lips. “I didn’t think blackmail was your style.”

His face is within spitting distance, but I lean even closer to him—reading his every facial line and twitch. Rupert could indeed hurt me using my history with Anton. But I say to the man, “You know, Rupert, you sound like a boxer who’s run out of moves. You don’t have the balls to admit defeat, so you fight dirty.”

His nostrils expand as if he’s going to breathe out fire.

I add, “Don’t make me fire you.”

“You do that, and by next year, you and your sluts will be begging on the streets for spare change. Your daddy, your fancy degrees and cum laude won’t help you.”

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