Page 2 of Deadly Rival

Ophelia

“I want to speakto the manager!”

Alicia flicks her gaze to me, desperate for help. She’s already tearing up as the customer leans over the countertop. “Right now.”

I clench my fist, plaster on a bright, professional smile, and head over. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m Ophelia Calder, the owner. How may I help you?”

The woman turns to face me, blond bob cut swishing, and I flinch at the blotchy red patches on her skin. She has the sort of face that is ageless at a distance, but close up, there are signs even our advanced treatments can’t quite cover.

There’s a slight hang to her neck and crinkles at the corners of her lips. She’s in her fifties and looks me up and down with the disbelief I’ve grown used to in women her age. “The owner? You?”

I don’t let my smile falter, though my body stiffens with the effort. “Yes. What seems to be the problem?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? The problem”---she points to her face—“is this”. Three-thousand dollars for skin resurfacing, and two weeks later, I still look like I’ve got leprosy.”

Cool relief takes the edge off my stress. Her mistake, not ours. “Recovery takes at least a month, ma’am. This is normal. You’ll look great once the healing process is complete.”

“Two weeks? I have a wedding this weekend. This isn’t good enough. No one explained the process to me. I want my money back.” Her lip curls, a nasty little smile forming. “Maybe you should employ some staff who actually know what they’re doing.”

Thank God for paperwork. “Ma’am, in the forms you signed when you came in for treatment, it would have clearly explained—”

“I don’t give a shit about the paperwork. I want—”

“Is there a problem here?”“

The deep voice behind my shoulder drops my stomach to my boots. Why now? Why fucking now?

The uber-bitch in front of me jumps, and her pinched face relaxes into wide-eyed amazement as she takes in my father. “Oh. Hello. Are you the man in charge around here?”

Dad graces her with his thousand-megawatt smile, white teeth gleaming. “Something like that. Is there an issue, darling?”

The woman’s blotchy face turns beaming red, and I swear she actually simpers. Nauseating.

“Well, sir—” She emphasizes “sir” with a flirty glance down. “I had a treatment two weeks ago, and it wasn’t explained right. Now I’m going to look just awful for my niece’s wedding.”

“Well, that won't do at all.” Dad’s face creases in false dismay. Does she actually believe it? “Ophelia, please provide this lovely lady with a full refund and a complimentary makeover on theday of the ceremony. And see that the staff member who made the error is dealt with.”

Just smile and say yes.

But I hesitate, and Dad’s gaze swings toward me like a laser.

Agree with him. Anything else is pointless.

The whole reception area falls silent, chattering conversation replaced by avid curiosity. My father, over six-feet tall and dressed in a sharp black suit, stands out like a beacon against the aggressively feminine lobby.

I have no say in my clinic decor. I'd go minimalist with it. Upscale, classy. But instead, rose-gold accents are everywhere, the walls have a lattice with actual honeysuckle, and the cherry on top—pink marble counters. Pink! It's a Barbie makeover studio brought to life.

“Ophelia?”

And there’s the tone. The one I got when I said I wanted to quit cheer squad for softball. Or when I suggested I move out and get my own place at twenty-three. The warning tone that means I need to fall in line.

The customer smirks behind his back, and it’s enough to tip me over the edge. “My staff did nothing wrong. She signed the paperwork and knew recovery would take longer than two weeks. There’s no reason to issue a refund.”

Black clouds roll in across my father’s face. For just that second, the mask he shows the respectable part of the world cracks, revealing the shark beneath. His gray eyes darken, and there will be hell to pay later.

It’s gone the next moment, and the smile returns. “Don’t be silly.” He turns to Alicia behind the desk, who watches him like a rabbit watches a fox. “Issue the refund, and get this lady booked in for her makeover. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” she stammers, and I tense my muscles to keep myself steady. This clinic has my name on the deeds. I own it, and even though I never wanted to run an overpriced beauty clinic, I’m doing my best to run it well. But I’m not in charge here, and everyone knows it.

---