Page 10 of Mr. Big Shot

Two large landscape paintings are hung beneath gallery lights on opposite walls, similar in style to a few I saw out in the hallway and sitting area. They’re abstract and full of my favorite colors, sage green chief among them. In another life, I’d enjoy asking him about them, maybe even inquiring about the artist, but that’s definitely not happening here and now. I’ve been summoned for unclear reasons, but I am sure they don’t have anything to do with idle chitchat.

Hudson’s gone behind his desk and taken a seat. Failing to offer me one is yet another thing to add to my growing list of grievances.

Worse still, he doesn’t immediately get on with it. He leans forward, drops his elbows onto his desk, and looks me over. I manage about three seconds of his undivided attention before I transform—yet again—into a firecracker. I have a short fuse this morning. Blame it on the bird.

With my bag hiked up on my shoulder, it’s easy enough to cross my arms. “If you’re hoping for an apology concerning what just happened in that conference room, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

For even more dramatic effect, I cock my chin in a show of resolute stubbornness and defiance.

I wish I could say I never behave like this, but truth be told, you don’t survive growing up with three arrogant older brothers without finding some way to defend yourself. On top of that, I also spent my youth at an intensely exclusive private school filled with kids practically salivating at the chance to take advantage of my every weakness. My mouth has always gotten me into trouble, but when dealing with authority figures, I can mostly rein it in. It’s been years since it’s landed me in hot water like this.

I guess Hudson is just special.

“Not good at delivering apologies?” he asks mildly. “I’m not surprised.”

Well there it goes, the last ounce of decorum left between us.

“Right. Let’s just cut to the chase then, shall we?”

His lip quirks before it flattens into a harsh line. “I brought you into my office to let you know that on top of doing any and everything requested of you by Sophie Smith and the other senior associates, you will also take ownership of any tasks I give you. Consider it a sort of favoritism in reverse.”

Favoritism.

Ah.

I now understand clearly what this is. No doubt, he thinks this turn of events will cause me to erupt with protest, but at this point in my life, I’m utterly resigned to my fate. Here’s the funny thing about nepotism: everyone always assumes having influential parents opens every door for you, but for every door it opens, it also slams one directly in your face.

I am fully aware of the privileges I’ve been afforded and, let me be crystal clear, I’m not complaining. I know I’m only here in my position at Elwood Hoyt because of my last name. Even though I got the grades, did the work, hustled hard just like my fellow peers…it doesn’t matter. No amount of dedication will ever wipe away my legacy status. Because of it, I carry a big target on my back, an invitation to take me down just because of who I am.

But that’s okay. Living like that for so long has forced me to toughen up. Sorry, Hudson, you don’t scare me. You’re no different than everyone else.

“Fine. These extra duties…what should I expect?”

This is the first time I’ve surprised him all morning. I like the little spark of curiosity in his eyes, love catching him off guard with my nonchalant response to his curt behavior. I consider it a win even as he starts to lay it all out there, confirming my fate with a smugness that grates on my every nerve.

“We’ll figure it out as we go along. I’ll email a list of admin tasks for you to take care of—”

“I thought you had an assistant.” I point toward his closed door. “Wasn’t that her outside?”

“Lucy, yes. Don’t bother her.”

My hand drops. “Right. And to be clear, am I reporting to you or Sophie?”

“Both of us.”

Great.

“Do the tasks you give me supersede those given to me by Sophie?”

I want to be sure I understand the chain of command.

“They’re exactly equal. Meaning, you don’t leave here each day until all the work is done. Understood?”

I’m about to shoot him a sarcastic salute, but I grind my molars together and muster up just enough patience to bite out a “Yes, sir.”

This is utterly ridiculous.

“And I suppose if you’re unhappy with this arrangement, you could phone your dad and he’d steal you away to some other partner.” He reclines back in his chair, cool as a cucumber. “It’s your choice. I really don’t care.”

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