The jarring soundof my alarm pierced through my dreams. I groaned, automatically reaching for my phone to silence it. That was when I saw not one, not two, but six missed calls from my job.Fuck.My heart sank as I bolted upright, instantly wide awake and anxious as hell.
“No, no, no,” I muttered, stumbling out of bed.
The digital clock on my nightstand flashed 9:17 a.m. in accusing red numbers. I should’ve been at my desk an hour and seventeen minutes ago.
“Mommy?” a small voice called out from down the hall.
I paused my panic for a moment and rushed to my son, Mason’s, bedroom. My four-year-old son had sat up in bed. I pressed my palm to his caramel-colored forehead. It was stillwarm with fever, but his big brown eyes were clearer than they were at three o’clock this morning when I was cooling him down with a cold compress and a dose of Tylenol.
“Hey, baby boy.” I greeted him with a half grin. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” he answered, echoing my thoughts, but coughed right after. “Can I have juice?”
I smoothed back his head of sandy brown curls. “Sure thing, Mase. Stay in bed, okay? Mrs. Wilson will be here any minute to look after you.”
My phone buzzed again in my hand. It was my supervisor, Nina. I silenced it as I darted to the kitchen, pouring some Pedialyte into Mason’s favorite rocket ship cup. After adding a crazy straw, I took it back to his room, where he took it eagerly.
“I’m going to get ready for work,” I told him, heading toward the door.
“Am I still sick?” he asked between sips.
“A little bit,” I answered, walking back over to kiss his warm forehead. “But you’re getting better by the minute.”
I dashed to the bathroom, simultaneously brushing my teeth and styling my hair into something presentable, a skill I’d mastered as a single mother. I settled on a high topknot bun, tying up my long, dark brown hair, slicking down my edges, and pulling out a couple of wisps with lighter brown highlights to frame my face. There was no time for makeup beyond a swipe of mascara to extend my lashes and fan them out over my almond-shaped eyes and some clear lip gloss on my full lips.
I pulled on the first clean blouse and pencil skirt my eyes could locate inside my mess of a tiny closet, grateful they were plain enough to match without too much effort. There was a knock on the door just as I slid into my worn-down, but sensible, two-inch work heels.
I sighed. “Oh, thank God,” I muttered, knowing I couldn’t take another thing not going my way before I even left the house.
I opened the door to find Mrs. Wilson, my elderly neighbor, who graciously watched Mason when he was too sick for daycare. For a woman pushing seventy-five, she didn’t look a day over sixty. Her soft, silver hair was neatly curled and pinned away from her face except for the single ringlet resting against her aged, milk chocolate cheek. She had a gentle face, kind eyes, and gave the kind of hugs that always gave me World’s Best Grandma vibes. It was like she had the magic touch.
“Oh, Simora, you look frazzled,” she notified me, patting my cheek as she entered.
“I’msolate,” I explained, snatching my purse from the counter. “Mason’s fever is down, but he’s still coughing. Fever medicine and his inhaler are on the counter with instructions, and I left a few bucks for lunch. I’ll call to check in as soon as I?—”
“Go,” she encouraged, shooing me off with a smile before I could complete my sentence. “We’ll be fine. We always are.”
I steepled my fingers together and dipped my chin. “Thank you a thousand times over, Mrs. Wilson. I promise when I win the lottery one day, I’ll pay you back in diamonds.”
I blew a kiss toward Mason’s room before racing through the door, nearly tripping down the four flights of stairs of our walk-up apartment building.
Outside, the September air was crisp as the autumn leaves swirled around my ankles as I sprinted to the train station. I rechecked my phone to see three more missed calls from work. My stomach churned with worry.
I was already on probation for being late three times last month when Mason had an ear infection that wouldn’t go away. Then again once last week when the train broke down. My supervisor warned me yesterday: one more strike and my asswas out. I just didn’t think my third strike would come on the heels of her warning.
Of course, the train was packed. I stood pressed between a man with too much cologne and a teenager with blaring headphones. Stress sweat pooled under my arms and down my spine as I tried calling Nina, but it went straight to voicemail. I left a message at the beep.
“Hi, Nina, it’s Simora. I’m soooo sorry. Mason had a fever all night, but I’m on my way now. I should be there in about fifteen to twenty minutes. Please,pleaseunderstand. I need this job.”
I ended the call, blinking back hot tears and fanning myself before I burst into flames. The administrative assistant position at Holland Enterprises had been the best job I’d ever had since Mason was born. The pay was decent; the hours were regular, and the health insurance covered Mason’s asthma medication. I literally couldn’t afford to lose it. My son’s life depended on it.
When I finally burst through the gleaming glass doors of Holland Enterprises, it was almost ten fifteen. The security guard nodded and gave me a sympathetic look as I flashed my badge at him and rushed to the elevator.
“Eighteenth floor’s busy today,” he warned. “Big meeting with the CEO.”
My blood instantly ran cold. Adonis Holland hardly ever came down from his penthouse office on the thirtieth floor. Everyone knew he was a reclusive workaholic who only communicated through his team of VPs.If he’s on our floor today of all days . . .
The elevator climbed too quickly, making my stomach flip with each passing floor. I silently thanked God I remembered to keep some travel-size deodorant inside my purse for stressful situations like this. When the metal doors slid open, I stepped right into chaos. The normally quiet office was buzzing with waymore activity than usual. People with tense expressions hurried back and forth carrying folders and tablets.
