Page 3 of Holiday Hoax

“Morning,” I call back as I clasp my watch. After cursory glance in the mirror over my dresser to make sure everything is perfect, I slip on my loafers and head down the hall.

“Your coffee is almost ready,” Marta informs me as she slips on a pair of rubber gloves to begin her day of deep cleaning my barely lived in and mostly empty space. “Is there anything you need done today?”

“I have some dry cleaning ready to be sent downstairs but otherwise no.”

Marta’s been with me since I graduated from Yale and moved back to Chicago. She had just been widowed and never had children, so she was looking for a full-time job with limited experience. It was a perfect match, made more perfect by her close attention to detail. I generally keep a tidy home, but she catches every smudge on the glass or speck of dust in the den that I would miss.

She’s also a bit of a mother hen and never afraid to give me her opinion on the things happening in my life. I appreciate that about her. My own mother is overbearing but in the most superficial of ways. To be blunt, she’s a snob. I love her, but it’s hard to handle when she’s so focused on her own legacy and agenda.

I grab a banana from the fruit basket on the counter and hear Marta tsk behind me.

“You need more than a banana and black coffee,” she grumbles. More often than not I’ll come home in the evening to a meal prepared and left in the refrigerator with heating instructions. If I let her, she’d probably make all my meals from a full breakfast to packing me lunches.

I open the fridge and pull out a greek yogurt, holding it up for her approval.

She gives me a tepid look. “Better but still not enough.”

I smile as I turn and put it in my bag for when I get to the office. An alert on my phone informs me that my driver is two minutes out, so I tell Marta goodbye and get on the elevator to go down to the lobby. Thankfully the penthouse came with its ownprivate elevator and entrance, so I never have to make awkward small talk or crowd into the same tight space with others.

The car pulls up right as I step out of the building. The sun is just rising over Lake Michigan, lighting the streets with peachy light. A copy of the Wall Street Journal rests on the seat beside me. Call me a purist, but there’s something about reading an actual print newspaper that just feels right.

I skim the main headlines, paying most attention to international business headlines. Jameson Industries is one of the biggest names most people depend on but have never heard. Our company has its hand in so many corners of the market. The paper my copy of the WSJ was printed on is likely distributed via one of our trucks at some point. Imported designer goods lining the windows of the stores on Michigan Avenue were likely brought over on one of our ships or at the very least in one of the shipping containers we manufacture. There’s not much we don’t have a part in when it comes to business, so it’s imperative I keep my eyes on every corner of the world.

Traffic is light this morning, so I don’t finish my perusal of the paper before we pull up to the glass and steel building our offices occupy the top twelve floors of. I pass through security easily, giving each of the guards a nod of acknowledgment. My assistant stands from his desk as I walk past and follows me into my office to read my schedule for the day while I get settled in.

“Good morning, Sir.” Derrick sits down and opens the schedule on his tablet. “You have a meeting with Mr. Dobson and Ms. Clark at eight-thirty. Then a lunch meeting with the logistics team at eleven.”

“Catered?” I ask. The other VPs all have terrible habits of scheduling meetings to fit in their schedule, including over meal times, without providing catering. Nothing irritates me more.

“Yes, I double checked. Saul’s Sandwiches and Salads.”

“Perfect.” I wave my hand for him to continue.

“This afternoon Mr. Jameson wanted me to block you off for a meeting.”

My eyes flash up to his. “Did he say what it’s regarding?”

“No, sir.”

Fuck.

“Thank you,” I say as he stands and walks back out to his desk, the door quietly closing behind him.

I spin in my chair and look out into the city. Lights from other office buildings are slowly coming on as people filter out of their homes and into work. I can only imagine what my dad needs to talk to me about that needs an entire afternoon blocked off. Knowing him we’ll end up on a golf course or, worse, back at their house.

He’s had a few medical problems over the past few months that have slowed him down. It’s one of the reasons I’m feeling so much pressure about ascending into his place as CEO. Everyone thought I’d have at least a few more years before he’d retire.

With a deep sigh I tear my gaze from the window and turn back to my desk. I should be able to get some work done before my day of meetings begins in an hour.

CHAPTER 2

MIA

There’snothing like watching art go on the walls for an artist’s debut show. I live for the awe on their faces when they see the lighting hit just right on the work they wrung themselves dry for to bring into the world. Today it’s the work of a forty-year-old woman who made the brave decision to break away from her corporate job to finally follow her passion when her daughter started college.

Her paintings bleed hope and renewal. My favorite of the bunch is an abstract of the Chicago skyline. The wild strokes of blues and grays with random dots of color are so visually striking that my eyes are drawn to the work every time I look up.

It should be easy to sell, especially with a low five-figure price tag. Her show isn’t until Thursday night, but I have a few appointments today, so I might give them a sneak peek.

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