Page 18 of Darling Obsession

But maybe she’s right about one thing.

Maybe I should lead with an apology.

I finish my dummy cake and check the time; it’s almost ten o’clock. The fake, three-tier cake is covered in a sleek flat-black fondant, and dusted with some edible gold leaf. It’s darkly elegant. Manly, even.

It only occurs to me when I stand back and look at it what inspired me. It’s not the approach of October and Halloween season. It’s Harlan Vance. If ever there was a cake for that man, this would be it.

Too bad it’s not a real cake.

On that thought, I slide the completed dummy cake into the window display, then head into the back room again to pull a fresh cake out of the fridge. It’s a vanilla cake, already stacked, filled with white chocolate ganache and crumb coated with pale-pink strawberry buttercream.

I place the cake on my turntable and smooth it with more strawberry buttercream, to get a perfect finish, and nice, sharp edges.

While I’m working, Justin disappears into the small back office, without a word or a glance in my direction. I can tell he’s in a bad mood. He’s always stressed out at work.

I pull a tray of my signature buttercream roses from the fridge, these ones turquoise, and start adding them in a swirl across the top and down the side of the cake, watching the time as I go.

I pop my head into the office, to tell Justin I’m running a cake over to a client. He frowns distractedly, and I hurry out the back door before he can complain. I carry my pink-and-turquoise cake in a Crave-branded bakery box, and wear my cleanest white chef jacket with the Crave logo embroidered above the breast. I smell of cake batter and sweat. I wish I could shower, but at least I look official.

I’ve learned that even the grumpiest people get excited and open doors for you when they see baked goods coming.

It’s three blocks from Crave bakery to Vance Tower, along busy sidewalks and busier streets filled with workday traffic. The drive in front of the tower loops away from the street to the black glass entrance, where the name VANCE stretches in gold above the triple set of tall doors.

As I approach the grand main entrance and glance up, I can see all fifty-six floors of the tower soaring above me, a spear of black glass thrust into the sky.

I enter through one of the glass doors, recalling how nervous I was the first time I had to approach one of the doormen, and show my ID for my first training shift at Velvet.

I’m way more nervous now.

Maybe because that time I was getting hired, not fired.

This time, the doorman sends me over to an elevator bank on the far side of the enormous, polished lobby. A gorgeous woman in yoga wear walks a well-dressed chihuahua past me and out into the sun. I know most of the upper floors of the tower are residential, and several of them house the head offices of Vance Industries. The lobby and sprawling mezzanine feature luxury retailers, a fine restaurant, and of course, Velvet Lounge.

When I tell the security guard at the desk by the office elevators that I have a meeting with Harlan Vance, he calls ahead to check that I’m expected, then presses an elevator call button for me.

The one that points down.

Once I step into the elevator, he presses the LL button labelledFinancefor me, sending me down.

I didn’t even know there was a Lower Level.

As the elevator sinks, my stomach lifts. I ponder the mindset of a billionaire whose family owns a majestic tower in downtown Vancouver choosing to locate his office in the basement.

The elevator doors slide open to reveal a small, empty lobby with dark walls.

As I step off the elevator into the enclosed space, I feel like I’m entering the underworld. A security camera watches me like a dark eye from the corner.

I ask myself for at least the dozenth time since I was called in for this meeting what the hell I’m even going to say to Harlan Vance. He has to be planning to fire me or reprimand me or something. Why else would he summon me to his office?

I don’t know this man. But I do know he has power.

Which means he could be capable of anything.

I enter through the solid wood door in front of me into the office space—which is nothing like I expect it to be. It’s bright and inviting. Past the reception area, a wall of glass separates the receptionist’s desk from a sea of cubicles, the entire office bathed in daylight. The ceiling is transparent; it’s the glass floor of an exterior courtyard above.

I can see people walking on it.

Like the rest of Vance Tower, this office space is beautiful and has probably been featured in architectural magazines.

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