Page 1 of Fated Protector

CHAPTER1

Annabelle Boudreaux. CEO.

Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway, the nameplate outside my office glistens like gold. A brand new nameplate, outside a brand new office, for my brand new position – Chief Executive Officer of Worthington Booksellers.

I straighten my shoulders and insert the silver key, opening the door to my corporate sanctuary. The click of the metal cylinder is as sharp as a starting pistol as if to call the world to attention –Annabelle Boudreaux is here at last.

The room’s decor is minimalist, crisp whites and browns coming together in soft Scandinavian designs. My desk is clutter-free, with only an extra monitor and docking station on top. I sit down in the leather chair, laying my laptop on the desk but not opening it quite yet. Behind me, the sunrise creeps through slitted blinds, painting gold and white stripes on the blank computer screen.

So this is what it feels like to be in charge of it all. There’s a strange quiver in my stomach, and I don’t know if it’s anticipation, nerves, or perhaps… disappointment? Fear now that I’m at the top, there’s no way to go but down?

I shake my head, chastising myself. This is all nervous nonsense brought on by too many board meetings and interviews. I’ve worked hard to get here, sacrificing my twenties to hard work and long nights to be here in my thirties.

My cell phone vibrates against the wooden desk. “Hello?” I say, not bothering to check the ID. Only one person would call me this early in the morning.

“Anna,” my mother says, her clear, neutral voice echoing through the speaker. There’s no trace of her New Orleans accent, having trained it into a non-specific plain American accent. Being a woman in the corporate world is hard enough; having a thick accent is even worse. I should know – I’ve trained myself to pronounce my R’s and TH’s enough to remove a little prejudice in the boardroom, even if the occasional “Where y’at?” slips out.

“Hey, Mom,” I say warmly. “How’s your afternoon?” I quickly do the math –it’s around seven A.M. here in New York, so it’s a little after noon in London. She relocated soon after I graduated from college and enjoys every minute of her life in the city. Who knew that tea and crumpets would impress her just as much as her usual spreadsheets and stock reports?

“It’s good,” she says, but there’s a hesitancy to her voice that’s never there. Sarah Boudreaux is many things, but being hesitant is not one of them. A sense of unease brushes the back of my neck, and I shiver, despite the warmth of my office. Mom doesn’t speak for a moment, another uncharacteristic action, and my unease expands to full apprehension.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing,” she says haltingly. “Well–I think nothing. Have you heard from Aunt Sasha lately?”

“No?” I wrinkle my nose in confusion. Aunt Sasha is my mother’s twin sister. She helped my mom raise me after my father died and remained in New Orleans even after Mom and I followed our respective careers to other cities. “She and I talk on Sundays, not during the week.”

Mom blows out a nervous breath. “I can’t get a hold of her.”

That doesn’t sound like my chatterbox aunt. “Did you try the shop?”

“I tried the shop, her cell, even her landline. Yesterdayandtoday.”

“Maybe she’s at one of her conferences.” Aunt Sasha was the exact opposite of Mom and me–loud and loving, brash and boisterous, and into the mystical side of life as a toddler with a book of fairytales. It wasn’t unheard of for her to go to new age conferences or other frivolous, crystal, and sage-filled events.

“No, she would have told me. She tells me everything that’s going on, even if I don’t want to hear it.” She huffs out a laugh, but it’s a shaky, nervous sound. “If she were at some fair or conference, I’d know the dates, the locations, the speakers, what she’s packing in her suitcase, and how she’s wearing her hair every day of the event.”

“True,” I agree. “I can give her a try if you like.”

“Could you?” Mom asks a hint of desperation in her usually stoic voice. “Your time zone is closer. Let me know if you hear anything.” She clicks her tongue against her teeth, barely audible over the phone. It's a familiar habit that only makes itself known when she’s genuinely nervous. My stomach tightens at the worrisome sound.

“I will,” I promise. “I’ll try in a few hours when she’s awake. I’m sure she’s fine, though.” Aunt Sasha may firmly believe in ghosts, but she would never ghost us. At least, not on purpose.

“Thanks, honey,” says Mom. “And good luck today. My little girl is a CEO now.”

I roll my eyes, though she isn’t here to witness it. “And on that note…I have to go.” We exchange goodbyes, but the warmth we usually share is clouded with worry over my aunt. I lay my phone facedown on the desk, gazing without any clear focus across the office.

The striped light from the sunrise has risen higher in the sky, and it catches the one glitzy item in this entire office. I stand and walk to the simple side table across the room, picking up the gold-painted picture frame in one hand. My fingers trail over the glittery curlicues of the trim, my nail catching the nick on one side where I had knocked it off my dresser as a clumsy teenager. The picture was a gift from Aunt Sasha on my fifth birthday, and our family dynamic shines through every inch of it. Sasha found the tacky golden frame at one of her favorite thrift stores in Mid-City. The faded picture inside shows the three of us–Sasha, Mom, and me. Mom is wearing basic gray pants and a sensible white blouse, the epitome of sophistication and calm. Her ebony black hair is pulled back in a tight, sleek bun. On the other side, Sasha shines in a floral bohemian dress, the colors vibrantly blaring her exuberance to the world. Gold bangles cover both of her forearms, and her wild curls are tied back in a yellow scarf that clashes with the rest of her outfit. Her bright, toothy smile directly contrasts Mom’s shy but warm, thin-lipped smile.

And right in the middle of the picture is a little, five-year-old me. My black hair is plaited into two pigtail braids, respectable and neat, and I’m in a wrinkle-free plaid jumper. I look exactly how Sarah Boudreaux’s daughter would look–except around my neck is the loudest, most ridiculous purple scarf, complete with lavish gold beading. I remember that it rattled and clanked when I wiggled around, which was most of the time. My arms are linked through both women’s elbows, and we all laugh at something off-camera.

I can’t wait any longer, trepidation flowing through my blood and making it hard to breathe. I dial Aunt Sasha’s cell, hoping this is all a misunderstanding. Surely, she will pick up the phone and give me a tongue lashing–a loving but firm one–for waking her up so early. But the phone rings and rings, with no answer. I try her landline and the phone for the new age bookstore she runs just below her apartment, but no one picks up either line.

“Annabelle?” my assistant Kelly peeks her head through the partially open door, and I give her a small smile. It had taken her weeks to stop calling me Ms. Boudreaux, but now that it has finally taken hold in her mind, she seems less intimidated by me. “Mr. Watson is here for your eight am.”

“Send him in, please,” I say, setting my phone to vibrate. Kelly gives an enthusiastic nod that makes her blond curls bounce and closes the door again. I set the picture frame back on the side table, tapping its golden side as if to send a prayer through the picture and down to New Orleans.

The rest of the day goes by in mundane spurts, filled with the anxious ennui that precedes the confirmation or denial of a possible catastrophe. By the time I drag myself home and into my apartment in the Financial District, my skin is buzzing with panic, having called Aunt Sasha twice more with no success. I throw my keys and purse onto my kitchen counter. I have no appetite, so I wander over to the large windows overlooking the skyline.

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