Page 38 of Cruel Fate

I’m starving, but I shrug. I still feel the sting of humiliation the first time we ate here and Zarah made me believe we were leaving without paying.

“I’ll order a few things. Another martini?”

“Sure,” I say, not wanting to be a stick in the mud, but I’m thinking of this as a business dinner and we probably shouldn’t be drinking. I need to watch everything Zarah does and learn. I’ll be making valuable contacts, and the last thing I want to do is come across as tipsy and immature.

I wiggle out of my trench coat, slip my blazer off, roll the sleeves of my blouse to my elbows, and kick off my shoes. I feel immediately better, and I even look forward to the martini. I’ll sip it. Slowly.

Zarah finishes ordering our dinners and digs into a leather bag she dropped onto the chair next to me. She pulls out a sleek, silver laptop and her cell phone and places them onto the table. Sighing, she unties her coat’s belt and slides her arms out of the sleeves.

“You went to work dressed in that?” I blurt out, gawking, unable to stop myself.

She pinned her hair into an elegant chignon, but that’s where her professionalism ends. Her black cocktail dress is cut so low, her lace bra peeks out the top. Her blazer is beautifully cut, but no one would look at it...her boobs are on full display. A sparkly, and no doubt real, diamond necklace flashes at her throat.

The hem of her skirt stops mid-thigh revealing a cute garter, little pink bows decorating the snaps.

When we met in the lobby of Maddox Industries, I didn’t pay attention to her shoes, but her fuck-me heels are not office appropriate. She looks like a high-class hooker. The type of woman who hangs on a gambling whale in Vegas hoping to trade sex for a portion of the winnings.

Zarah flushes, and she stares down at the table, twisting her fingers in front of her. “Ash asked me to be a bit more revealing. He says the men dealing in the high-stakes negotiations are under a lot of pressure and it helps them relax. Plus, he likes it when I dress this way. He’s always hot for me.”

It sounds like Ash just wants Zarah around as a plaything, to keep his days from being too tedious, but shedoeslook glamorous dressed like that. Her figure is perfect for it, and her stilettos make her legs look miles long. Now I understand why she didn’t want Zane to see her. I don’t know how she’ll sneak inside the penthouse after our meeting.

“You look lovely,” I say, not wanting to ruffle her feathers. I’m not a week into this new world, and I don’t know the rules, much less what game we’re playing. Besides, I’m hardly one to talk. I started wearing garters too, to give Zane access whenever he wants it.

Zarah and I are both whores.

She keeps her stilettos on, sits at the table, and opens her laptop. It’s no wonder Ash likes looking at her.Ilike looking at her. She’s a billion dollars’ worth of sin wrapped in black lace. Embarrassment still staining her cheeks, she pulls a notebook and pen out of her bag. She crosses her legs, and I catch a glimpse of black satin.

Maybe I should tell Zane I don’t think his sister is safe in Ash’s office, but who am I to draw a conclusion like that?

Someone knocks on the door, interrupting my thoughts.

Zarah glances at me, and taking the hint, I pad across the office and open the door. Two waitresses who look just as crispand fresh as the first time I ate here serve our drinks and meals, silently placing the martini glasses and plates on the conference table. I thank them, close the door, and sit at the table, rolling my chair close to Zarah. I want to be able to see her screen and write down everything she does. I’m glad I came prepared, and I pull out a steno notebook, a pen, and the iPad that came with my desk that’s synched to my new phone out of my purse.

We munch, and between bites, Zarah calls the Lyndhurst—a glamorous hotel in King’s Crossing—to reserve the ballroom.

“We own it,” she explains nonchalantly, dragging a French fry through a puddle of ketchup. “The wedding reception we bumped will be moved to a different space.”

“Isn’t that rude?” Zane has been fabulous, treating me with respect and kindness. He doesn’t act arrogant or pompous, not like Ash. When I’m with him, sometimes I forget he’s a Maddox and worth billions of dollars.

“Not really. The banquet manager will pass on my request. We’ll give the bride and groom accommodations at one of our other properties and a steep discount for their trouble. It won’t be the Lyndhurst, but we need it more.”

Shades of the businesswoman Zarah will grow up to be are evident in her posture, the confident scrawl in her notebook, and her assertive attitude. I wish I had that kind of self-assurance, but I’m afraid I never will. Only money, breeding, and DNA can give you that.

I have none of those things.

“That’s nice of you.”

“I didn’t do it to be nice. We have a reputation to uphold. If the Maddoxes all of a sudden started doing whatever we wanted, we’d be labeled as powder kegs and no one would want to do business with us. I stole that couple’s reception venue and needed to give them something in return. It wouldn’t have happened at all if we would have had more time, but the soonereveryone knows my brother is ready to step into our father’s place, the better.”

I listen to every word she says—she’s teaching me valuable lessons. I thought she was simply being courteous, but her explanation reminds me that every move she makes, every little thing she says, she does having her name and reputation in mind. The bride’s and groom’s parents could be big players in King’s Crossing—Zane’s business associates—and just now Zarah may have made allies, not enemies. I’ll need to remember that, too. In payroll, I was a nobody. As Zane’s assistant, I represent Maddox Industries.

Next, we work on the guest list. Zarah is very generous, not holding back any information and explaining in detail the who’s who of King’s Crossing. The Blacks are on the top of the list, of course, as business associates and family friends. Zarah says Ash’s name and shivers. A little like me when I think of Zane.

“If we do a private cocktail hour, let everyone mingle, then a private dinner, and then we open the ballroom and the bar to the public...” Zarah fades, tapping a pen to her lush lips.

“How long is this going to last?” I ask, appalled. This would be no wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am party.

Zarah stares at me, incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight-thirty, open to the public at ten. Party until two in the morning. This is a big deal.”

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