Page 11 of Hard Limits

A minute later, he handed me a tray with two plated caramelised onion tarts served with vegetables, plus two crème brûlées. Either Mr. Vale had a big appetite, or I was missing something.

“Who is the second portion for?”

And, more importantly, where did I find them?

“For you. You need to eat, non? If you have allergies, you should tell me so we avoid those foods.”

I could get lunch at work? On a scale of one to a hundred, with a hundred being head of the ER and one being head toilet unblocker (bare hands only, no gloves), I’d rated this job as a solid six. But with the addition of five-star food, it might just inch up to a seven. French cuisine certainly beat the leftover pasta I’d planned to microwave.

Upstairs, Mr. Vale barely acknowledged me when I placed the tray on his desk, but the instant I returned to my own workstation, an email arrived. A dinner party? I had to organise a dinner party? In the middle of March, for nine people, which was a weird number. I also needed to procure him a bow tie for a charity gala being held on behalf of the Finlay Foundation this Friday. Something “fun.” Really? Mr. Vale didn’t strike me as a man who knew how to have fun. Oh, and Floss’s birthday was next week—I had to buy her a gift (budget three hundred bucks) and send it care of the San Francisco office. Who was Floss? There were no clues, and Dunnvale Holdings didn’t have a staff directory, at least not one that I’d managed to find. Floss could have been a seven-year-old child or a seventy-year-old woman or anything in between. Or even a pet?

Mr. Vale’s Porsche needed a service (and possibly a new side mirror), plus his dishwasher was leaving streaks on the flatware. The tree in his living room had yellowing leaves—why? A man named Joe Fulton was coming in for a preliminary meeting, and I should book a room and arrange refreshments. Senator Gold’s wife had passed away, so I needed to find out the details of the funeral, schedule Mr. Vale to attend if he was free, and send flowers and a sympathy card if not.

Okay.

Okay, I could do this.

For years, I’d watched my mother catering to my father’s unreasonable demands, so I understood the strategy. Stay out of the way whenever possible, smile and say very little when crossing paths was unavoidable. Don’t antagonise him. No more outbursts like the one outside the coffee bar. I still couldn’t believe Mr. Vale had hired me after that.

In one month, maybe two, I could quit and find a less stressful job. Yes, leaving three positions within a year would look bad on my résumé, but if I had a nervous breakdown, that would look worse. I just needed to get through the next year or three. In time, Karam would marry somebody else, and I’d slip off my father’s radar.

Short-term, survival was my only goal. As time stretched, I hoped for financial stability and possibly companionship, but right now, they seemed so far out of reach. And as for the happiness I craved, I was beginning to think it wasn’t a part of my destiny.

CHAPTER 5

BRAX

Avoidance. An interesting strategy. Brax read Meera’s fifth message of the day and caught himself smiling. The dishwasher was fixed—it had needed a new pump, apparently—and did he want more coffee? So far, nearly all of their communication had been by email. She went out of her way to avoid him, which was a welcome relief after previous assistants had spent half the day traipsing in and out of his office, asking inane questions. How do I contact the chef? What colour shirts should I order? Where do I take the car to be serviced?

In fact, he hadn’t seen Meera at all today. His coffee had been waiting, probably at the right temperature—he didn’t really care, but ridiculous demands like that weeded out the lackadaisical newbies who didn’t care enough to be fastidious—and the reports he’d asked her to print and bind last night had been sitting beside the cup.

But she couldn’t lie low forever. Tonight was the Finlay Foundation benefit, and Brax needed her with him in case there were any last-minute glitches. Something always went wrong at these things—an extra guest showing up, infighting among the band, an issue with the AV system—and he’d need an additional pair of hands to ensure everything ran smoothly while he spoke with the guests. Although the purpose of the evening was to raise money to support families affected by EAST Syndrome, nobody attended these events out of the goodness of their hearts. Politicians, celebrities, and businessmen were there to network, to see and be seen, Brax included.

Plus at some point, the new assistant would need to find out what actually went on downstairs. No, not that downstairs—the restaurant, the spa, the members’ lounge, they were all perfectly innocent, much like Meera herself. But descend a little further into The Dark, and the place took on a whole different tone.

The phone rang.

“Floss for you, Mr. Vale.”

Floss, of course, knew all about what happened in the basement. She practically lived down there, by choice, obviously. She was a lady who loved her job.

“Braaaaaax.” She dragged out the vowel. “I love the gift. Did you pick it out yourself?”

“Of course not.”

“So you finally hired an assistant with a brain? I only ask because this year, I got a gorgeous purse that matches my hair, and last year, I got a Barbie Dreamhouse.”

“A what?”

“A dollhouse, Brax. For kids.”

What the hell? “Why did someone send you that?”

“Probably because you told your previous girl nothing about me, and she didn’t bother to find out. Women aren’t psychic.”

Brax’s wife was. She found out about everything.

“Why didn’t you mention it sooner? I’d have asked her to buy something else.”

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