Page 9 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

She clicks the call off, then twists her body to look at me. “Doesn’t mean he’s going to fire you.”

“Really? It totally means that.” If he was assigning me a project, he would do it through Leila.

“Just go in and be sorry about whatever it is. Confident. Be yourself, but … more me.” Her chuckle wavers, fades away. “We should be drinking celebratory champagne right now.” She bobs her head from one shoulder to the other like she’s weighing out different ideas of what Peyton could possibly want me for. “Look, he probably just wants to congratulate you on your wedding. Or—or—or maybe he wants to shake your hand for landing this client. Totally normal. Totally fine.”

Right. And maybe flying fairies will bring me my crown when they proclaim me queen of tech security.

“Yeah.” I nod, which makes both of us the kind of optimistic women who know how to lie to themselves.

* * *

The drive back to the office is mercilessly long. Between traffic and nerves, I’m motion sick and green when we walk into the building. And, because there’s a very good chance I’m going to throw up on the CEO of the company if I don’t, I stop at the bathroom, wash my face, and breathe in and out until the nausea passes.

One last look in the mirror—thank God makeup hides my nervous blotches—then I pull my shoulders back and walk down the hall to his corner office.

We’re ten floors up. His view is amazing. I concentrate on it while I wait for him to notice me. Peyton has earphones on and he’s standing at his workstation, shoulders bouncing to a beat I can’t hear. I look at his desk and see a conspicuous green folder on top of his keyboard. It has “FLASH BOMB” stamped across the front in big, important letters. I frown—usually, green folders are for lucrative new projects, but I haven’t heard of anything called Flash Bomb.

But before I can snoop any further, Peyton does a Michael Jackson spin and turns to find me standing there. He laughs at nothing whatsoever and pulls his earphones down to hang around his neck.

“Hey, Corinne! Have a seat.” He motions to the chair in front of his desk, sits down, and folds his hands. “Great job today. Your work’s been stellar and I knew when Leila said you could handle the presentation that she was right.” He clears his throat and pulls a bag from under his desk then walks around to hand it to me. “Early wedding present.”

I barely trust my voice not to dissolve into sobbing pleas not to fire me, but he’s clearly waiting for me to say something back. “You didn’t have to.”

“Come on. When someone who works for me gets married, the least I can do is give a gift that …” I pull out a brand spanking new laptop as he continues talking, “can help do the work for you. This new client means you’re going to be really busy after your honeymoon.” His grin is charming and vibrant.

It’s a top-of-the-line machine. Something I could never buy for myself. This gift is miles better than any gravy boat or sketchy timeshare in the Caribbean that Alvin and I have been given so far.

“Oh my God. Thank you so much!” This smile, unlike the one I was wearing when I first walked in, is one hundred percent genuine.

“Hey, you deserve it,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. “I hope your fiancé doesn’t mind that the gift is for you and not him, but …” He pushes off the desk and lifts his eyebrows.Meeting’s over, his posture says.

I want to scream at him for getting me all worked up and terrified over a big, fat nothingburger of a meeting, but he did just give me a brand-freakin’-new workhorse of a machine, so I guess we have to call it even. I close the laptop and slide it back into the box like it might shatter into a trillion little pieces if I breathe on it too hard.

I can’t wait to get back to my office and test this baby out. Plus, I didn’t get fired. I’m walking on air.

* * *

At six-thirty when the phone rings, I’m loving my new machine. I look down at my phone to see Alvin’s name on the caller ID, and my stomach drops.

Shit.

I’m supposed to be at dinner with Alvin and my parents. No damn way am I leaving my new toy in the office. Dinner shouldn’t take more than a couple hours and then I’ll have until dawn to keep playing with this shiny new toy.

I drive like my ass is on fire to the restaurant, then I change into the person they all expect me to be before I walk in the door. My hair is pulled back, flat and smooth against my scalp, and my face is clean of the heavy makeup I wore today. My smile is toothpaste commercial white and my fingernails are trimmed and neat. This version of me never swears, never doesn’t smile.

This is what I call the Little Miss Muffet version of Corinne.

Dad and Alvin stand when I walk in. Alvin pulls out my chair as I lean in to kiss Mom’s cheek. We do this once a week, so I know the routine and they know they’re going to end up waiting a few minutes for me to arrive. No one’s angry that they’ve been forced to twiddle their thumbs while I sped across town.

Except they didn’t do much twiddling, apparently.

“I ordered you the mushroom risotto,” Alvin announces.

Meh. I don’t like mushrooms. After two years and me saying a thousand and one times that I don’t like mushrooms, it saddens me that he doesn’t know that.

Can’t say it surprises me, though.

He isn’t the most attentive fiancé. Or the most affectionate. Or passionate. Or sensual. And, I suspect, if I hadn’t picked out his wedding attire, he would end up wearing one of those tuxedo t-shirt nightmare creations.

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