Page 8 of Railing the Billionaire

“Take care of yo?—”

“Byeeeee.” She hung up.

As per usual after speaking with my sister, I felt like a piñata at the end of a child's birthday party. My jaw ached, my head pounded, and a faint ringing sounded in my ears.

I tried not to worry about whatever it was Esme had gotten herself into. She was a grown woman, if only barely. She could take care of herself. I hoped.

The pulsing of my head returned my thoughts to the woman from this morning, to the way she’d unapologetically admitted to hitting me with a door on purpose. What kind of person could possibly believe that was acceptable behavior? A terrible one. She’d acted as ifIwas the one in the wrong.

I found my knuckles white, clenching my phone.

Notifications of missed texts from my friend Jasper filled the screen. Whatever he wanted could wait until my day concluded.

I took a breath, listened to the hum of the centrifuge and sonicator, and composed myself. I put on my gloves and returned to my task.

Through the microscope lens, I scanned the indistinct matter until I found the outline of cells. The sample appeared much the same as it had yesterday, stubbornly inert.

I turned to my notebook and flipped through the most recent pages. The nitrogen levels were more than adequate, and I’d already adjusted pH to maximize enzyme function. What was I missing?

I lost myself in thought and testing as I tried to unravel the solution that remained just outside my reach.

Eventually, my internal clock alerted me to the time a moment before the alarm on my watch went off. I scrubbed myhands and arms to my elbows, then clicked the silence button on the side of the watch and exited my lab.

I pulled a reusable water bottle and my metal lunch box from the mini fridge. On my desk, I arranged a fork atop a folded napkin to the right of the box and the water bottle two inches to the left and two back.

With everything in place, I lifted the lid.

Inside the box each chef-crafted item waited perfectly in its own compartment—salmon and smashed avocado on multigrain bread, sweet potato and butternut squash salad with roasted tomatoes, and raspberries.

I ate each item in order, just as I did every day—sandwich, vegetables, fruit.

Before I could clean up, a short and decisive knock came from my office door.

I clenched my jaw and checked my watch. Pamela was seven minutes early to our meeting.

I ignored her knocking until I had finished clearing my desk.

Still five minutes before she was supposed to arrive, I said, “Enter.”

Pamela shut the door behind her and strode straight toward my desk. She took the seat across from me without waiting for me to offer.

Her thirty-year record of successful consulting in corporate mergers like the one I was currently pursuing was why I’d reached out for an interview. Her balance of dignified professionalism and unflinching forthrightness was why I’d hired her.

“You’re early,” I said.

Her gaze snapped to my swollen nose and she clenched her jaw in disapproval. “Were you involved in a physical altercation?”

“Of course not.”

“I wasn’t under the impression that you were the type to be involved in fist fights. If that’s the case?—”

“I was not involved in a fight.”

She raised a brow.

“It was an accident,” I said, though I wasn’t convinced that was true. The barista who’d assaulted me was positively rabid.

“Youaccidentallywalked into someone’s fist?”

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