Page 25 of Bad Boss

“Evelyn,” he says, jerking his chin for me to enter the room. “Have a seat.”

“When I asked to renegotiate my contract, I meant at the end of the day, of course. Here, you should eat.” I step forward while digging through my bag for the lunch box containing his breakfast. “It’s orange slices and toast today,” I tell him. “I also made oatmeal, and if you’d like, I can get you some coffee from—”

“Have a seat.” Something in his expression makes me stop dead in my tracks. He isn’t wearing his usual early-morning scowl—no, this is so much worse. His face is blank, each carefully chiseled muscle arranged into an expressionless mask. Those eyes are a sizzling, electric blue, however. Apparently, his temper hasn’t cooled overnight.

It’s detonated.

“Is something wrong?” I croak.

He merely gestures toward a chair with a wave of his hand. “Sit.”

I do, unintentionally taking the seat furthest from him in the process. I don’t miss how his eyes scan me as I scoot further onto the hard-backed leather chair—they narrow over my blouse and follow the curve of my body to my modest-length black skirt. Is another impromptu shopping excursion on the horizon? God, I hope not.

“Mr. Bellamy.” I turn to find Branden in the doorway. His eyes cut warily in my direction before he rushes forward and places a white envelope before Mr. Bellamy.

“Thank you,” Bellamy says, prompting Branden to scurry out again—but something about the exchange seems all wrong. Unnatural, even.I’mthe one who fetches his mail and scours it to filter out any missives from those he doesn’t like. I’m the one he calls in to meet him at seven-thirty-five in the morning when he can’t sleep—which he obviously hasn’t, judging from the dark circles around both of his eyes.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Bellamy?” My stomach tightens into knots. I shove one hand into my canvas bag and search for the three pens I keep inside it. I identify them one by one through touch. A cheap BIC for quick note-taking. The finer, silver-tipped one that I use to write in my planner. The fuzzy purple pen that a roommate in college got me as a joke.

“Is something wrong?” I repeat, the million-dollar question, it seems, given the way Bellamy nearly rolls his eyes.

“You could say that, Evelyn,” he retorts. “Here.”

He slides the white envelope in my direction. My name is written on it. Even more alarming, my name is written in Sarah’s handwriting. Human Resources Sarah, who spells my name with an I and always puts tiny spirals on the end of her Es.

My fingers shake as I open it. Inside is a check. My name is on the line indicating the recipient. The amount is more than twice what I make in a year. Given as the reason someone scribbled…

What? I blink, desperate for my eyes to adjust. I must still be half asleep. After a few seconds, however, those words never change.Termination of employment.

“I… I don’t.” I shake my head to clear it. “What?”

“Ann will help you gather your things,” Mr. Bellamy says. “And James will escort you out.”

My mouth opens wordlessly. On impulse, I bite my lip, but when the pain doesn’t startle me awake, I pinch myself. I seize a chunk of flesh from my forearm, dig my nails in as hard as possible, and pinch myself. For all my effort, I break the skin, draw a bead of blood, and leave a ruby smear on the check when I lift it again, checking for authenticity. I don’t find any hint of a joke tucked within the official wording. No camera crew rushes in, reassuring me that this is all staged.

I don’t wake up.

“You’re… you’re firing me?”

“In explicit terms, I suppose that’s what this is.” Mr. Bellamy shrugs and runs a finger on the collar of his suit. I’ve never seen him wear it before—dove gray with a royal blue button-up shirt underneath. “I hope the severance pay is enough.”

“You…” I shake my head, unsure of just what I’m objecting to. “But… why?”

He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow as if the answer is obvious. “I think it’s best if we go our separate ways.”

It’s because of yesterday. The breakfast. For all I know, his sugar could have dropped during the night. He might have spent the early morning hours in the hospital being fed glucose intravenously through an IV. I hadn’t done my job, all because of one stupid anomaly that I hadn’t been able to prepare for—Adrian Riley.

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself croak. “I can—”

“James will escort you from the premises.” He stands and marches past me for the door. I only seem capable of watching him go, still trying to decipher whether or not any of this is real.

That painful clenching in my gut like I’ve been kicked? That feels real. The burning sensation behind my eyes which forces me to blink them rapidly, definitely seems real. And Graeme Bellamy, turning the corner without so much as a glance in my direction…thatis the most corporeal occurrence of all.

CHAPTER11

evie

Ann helps me pack my belongings into a single cardboard box. There isn’t enough time to organize my notebooks by size and color or carefully arrange my pens. Everything is just unceremoniously shoved into an artless heap that I’m forced to hold in place with my chin as I creep into an elevator.

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