Page 55 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

The foyer was entirely empty, except for its usual occupant, Glenda. She was paging through her folder and didn’t see me approaching.

“Good morning,” I greeted. “Glad you’re back. How are you feeling?”

“Don’t even ask. I’m in terrible pain,” Glenda gestured to her leg, then looked back in her folder, “but this place would crumble without me, so it’s not like I could take more time off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Do you know who handled the desk down here yesterday?”

“Yes. Me. I manned the reception desk in the morning until your replacement arrived. Terry had a family emergency.”

“Well, that explains alot,” she deadpanned, without pausing to look up from her folder.

I knew she was in pain, but more than that, Terry’s compliment yesterday had given me the patience to oversee the direct jab. Also, I needed something from her, so I needed to tread carefully.

“I thought it went rather well,” I said. “For the most part, anyway. That’s not why I’m here though. I have an unusual question to ask you.” Leaning forward, I rested my hands on the reception desk and stared intently at her while the first workers started pouring in.

“Yes?” Glenda impatiently turned a page.

“Who knows the most about Windsor Architects’ business dealings? You know, other than Mr. Windsor, or Mrs. Mills?” I did my best tonotlean further over the reception desk’s counter and speak in a low whisper like someone who feared being overheard.

I needed to be cool.

I needed to be as inconspicuous as possible.

I couldn’t reveal that I had other motives.

“Mr. Windsor, naturally, and Mrs. Mills.” She repeated the names of the two people I had mentioned back to me. “Why don’t you talk to Mrs. Mills?”

“I don’t want to bother her. I know how busy she is.” That wasn’t entirely true. If I asked her certain questions, she might tell him. I was not getting caught.

“That she is. Wait, I would assume that Winifred knows almost as much. She is our typist, so she creates transcriptions of audio recordings, fills out forms, types all the higher-ups’ letters, memos and documents, that sort of thing.”

“Then I need to see her. I need some help with…something.” The last word accidentally came out as an almost-whisper. “I mean,” I raised my voice to a normal low-key level, and said confidently, “I need help with some research.” I watched Glenda shut her folder, punctuating its closure with a loud sigh.

“Her office is on the 2nd floor. It’s the first door down the hallway on your left. Maybe I should call her to find out if she’s busy—”

“No, that won’t be necessary. It’ll only take a few minutes. I won’t bother her if she’s occupied with something else,” I insisted. “I won’t make a nuisance of myself.”

She waved her hand. “That’s what they all say, and yet, most of them are nuisances. I suppose I can’t stop you though, so—”

The phone rang.

Glenda picked it up, her voice suddenly a warm, welcoming tone. “Good morning, Mr. Windsor.” A pause sent chills down my spine. For one crazy moment, I was convinced Ace knew what I was up to. “Yes, she just arrived, I’ll tell her, Mr. Windsor.” She hung up and looked at me, her voice back to normal. “Mr. Windsor needs you to report to Mr. Hardy’s office. Immediately.”

“Thanks,” I said, flashing the brightest and most innocent smile I could muster. “Feel better soon.”

Mr. Hardy was Harvey Hardy, the funny mustache man, one of the higher-ups I’d met last week, and his office was on the 8th floor, just like Ace’s and mine.

I headed to the elevator. Despite my boss’s order, I decided to make a quick stop on the 2nd floor at Winifred’s before reporting to Mr. Hardy. It would only take two or three minutes, tops, and doing it now would save me a trip. Also, I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. With a bit of luck, I could report to my brother sooner rather than later that Ace wasn’t in league with Ecclestone.

I squeezed into the elevator, positioning myself between five people who looked like accountants. “Good morning,” I said cheerfully to the small crowd around me.

“Good morning,” one of them greeted back.

The trip up to the 2nd floor was a short one. The elevator doors opened, and three of us spilled out of it, scattering off toward our respective destinations. I hesitated for a second, trying to take in the 2nd floor’s lavish design. Sparkling modern lamps hung from the ceiling, casting bright specks of light on the floor beneath it.

I drank in my surroundings as I headed toward the hallway on my left. Glenda’s directions had been accurate. The first door I arrived at had a sleek silver plaque on it that read “Mrs. Winifred Thomas: Senior Copy Clerk.” Copy Clerk seemed to be the official title for typist. I took a deep breath and knocked.

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