Page 45 of So Close

“Amy,” Gideon says by way of greeting. He stands, as he always does, just behind his wife, in a way that has him looking over her shoulder. An easy thing for him to do because he’s so much taller than her. They’re always a united front, one unit instead of two separate people. Textbook codependency if you ask me.

Eva’s glossy nude lips curve in a cat-with-cream smile because she’s banging that fine-ass man like a war drum. Lucky bitch. “Yes, we’re starved. You look fabulous, by the way! I love your suit.”

“Thank you.”

I preen a little because I do look epic. She looks damn good, too, as always. Today her outfit is a belted black, white and gold Versace shirt dress with the unmistakable Medusa logo. He’s wearing a black three-piece suit, white shirt and a white tie with thin gold striping. They always coordinate like that. It’s disgusting. The Lord and Lady of New York with their gag-inducing portmanteau, GidEva, and their cute little dog.

There’s a horde of paparazzi out front just waiting for them to appear. By the time I walk past the Baharan reception desk a few minutes from now, the newest pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Cross will be everywhere. Style gurus will gush over Eva’s dress and accessories. YouTubers will replicate her high, long ponytail, even if they can’t quite capture that perfect shade of blond. The maker of her three-inch gold hoop earrings will bombard me with ads on social platforms using her image. For all I know, Social Creamery may be responsible for the jewelry designer’s account.

Gideon, whose suits are bespoke and too expensive for ninety-nine percent of the world’s population, isn’t so easy to monetize, but they worship him all the same. His black hair is a lustrous mane that brushes his collar, a style that is screaming-orgasm sexy and would look ridiculous on any man except Hugh Jackman or Keith Urban, who’ve rocked similar lengths. His eyes are the most incredible color, a cerulean more striking than the Armands’ pale blue, and the only time they invite you into the window of his brilliant business mind is when he’s looking at his wife.

I find it fucking impossible to imagine their entire life isn’t totally fake. No one is born with tits and ass like hers. No one looks absolutely picture-perfect every damned time they walk their dog, even in the misery that is New York during a winter storm. No normal couple lives in homes so luxurious they’re featured in architectural magazines or vacations on superyachts with names likeAngelandAce. And no married couple is in constant physical contact like they are. Maybe in the honeymoon stage, but they’ve been married four years now. The charm should’ve worn off.

Whatever. I take a step toward the open doors of the elevator car in front of me and glance at their backs as they walk away. Gideon’s hand has slid down to the curve of Eva’s hip, which sways as she walks.

He’s got to have a dick the size of my pinky, and her breast implants probably slosh like a waterbed when he rams his tiny cock into her.

I smile, picturing it.

Yep, I feel better already.

I feel even better when I exit the elevator into Baharan’s reception vestibule. Four elevator shafts exit onto the floor, one next to the car I took and two more across the way. To my right, a solid pane of glass affords views of the city with its soaring towers, billowing steam and streams of yellow cabs. To the left is the reception desk, a stainless-steel station with modern curves and room for three receptionists who are all fielding calls. The Baharan logo hangs from the ceiling with delicate-looking posts, the calligraphic font feminine and flowing, with only the word “pharmaceutical” written out in no-nonsense block letters.

Pausing, I take it all in. A frosted-glass partition behind reception offers a bit of privacy for the many cubicles beyond. The entire floor is ours, but one day, Darius and I will own a building even better than the Crossfire. Companies will fight to base their headquarters there. Movies and television shows will use shots of it to establish the Los Angeles setting. No one will care about GidEva anymore.

What will they call us? DarAmy? AmDar? I laugh, and the receptionists, three brunettes – two women and one man – look at me. I just smile back. They work for me, after all.

I stroll past the desk and head toward my office. I’d argued for a corner, but Aliyah shot me down. She told me the corner offices were for her and her three sons, but Kane sits in a cubicle, so that should’ve left a corner for me. I’m family, too.

“Of course you are,” she’d cooed. “But we can’t put a social media manager into a corner office.”

As if what I brought to Baharan wasn’t a game-changer for them. Entering a space dominated by pharmaceutical giants that have been in business for centuries wasn’t easy. More than a few startups turned to direct-to-consumer marketing, driving traffic to company websites where a stable of medical professionals consult online and prescribe, allowing for distribution through direct mail.

Knowing who to target, how best to target them, and fine-tuning the messaging and advertising creative took both skill and preexisting structure. I brought that to Baharan. I was the one who got them seen, trusted and respected. Before me, they’d had a handful of products they struggled to sell effectively.

One of these days, Aliyah will admit to my face that she’d be nothing without me. I’ve imagined how that moment will go in a million different ways. Any of them will work. I don’t really care. But she’s going to grovel. She’ll beg me to keep her relevant. And I’m going to laugh in her face.

I head to my office, which is adjacent to Darius’s. As I walk by, some of the bent heads in the cubicles lift. A few employees offer distracted smiles. A couple of the girls wave – we’ve been out for drinks before and are due to hit the town again soon. Maybe tonight. Why not? I’m ready to celebrate; as Eva said, I look fabulous. Others look away quickly when I catch them staring. Stare away, peons. I know I lookgood.

Stopping by Darius’s office, I peek through the open door but don’t see him. His assistant isn’t at her desk either. Fury spreads through me like a hot flash, misting my skin with sweat. I glance around, turning in a complete circle, looking for them. I think to ask my account manager, Clarice, but she’s not in her cubicle. Instead, an employee I’ve never seen before is on her phone.

I decide to call Darius from my office and see where he’s at. I pivot to the closed door and push it open, taking a couple of steps through when I catch a guy sitting at my desk, rifling through my drawers.

“What the fuck?!” I snap. “What are you doing in my office?”

“Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me. Get the hell out of my drawers!” I look around. “What have you done with my art? Where are my plants?”

He stands. He’s a short man, his pale brown hair already showing signs of male pattern baldness. He’s got a belly that hangs over his belt and a crooked tie with an ugly pattern. I see a name plaque on the desk:Stephen Hornsworth, Vice-President of R&D.

The room tilts to one side, and I brace myself.

“I’m sorry,” he sputters. “Who are you?”

“This is my office!”

“Uh …” He licks his lips. “Did you maybe exit the elevator on the wrong floor?”

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