Chapter 35 Dominic


    Dominic


    Monday morning at the office, all eyes are on me—but they won’t meet mine. Clusters of chattering


    employees in the hallways and open workspaces abruptly m up and avert their eyes when I pass by.


    It’s fucking awful.


    Presley avoids me like I have the gue, hiding away in her office, her face turned toward her


    computer. Only Beth, a true professional to the end, continues to look me in the eye and handle our


    business as smoothly as if that damn news story never happened.


    Thank God for small miracles. And the story, to be honest, is petty and ridiculous. An escort I went out


    with a handful of times wanted to cash in and sold her story. There was nothing all that scious about


    it, but the mediatched onto it and it spread like wildfire—destroying everything in its wake—including


    my reputation.


    Gia called from the agency first thing that morning and told me she had deleted my file and that we


    needed to cut all ties. I told her that was fine. I don’t n on using her services again anyhow. But of


    course, the damage was already done.


    ? ? ?


    By Wednesday, the story still hasn’t died down, and it’s starting to wear on me. I’d like to think I’m


    resilient, untouchable, but this week has been humbling, to say the least.


    As Ie in, Beth looks up and chirps, “Good morning, Mr. Aspen.”


    No matter how early I arrive, she always seems to get here first, already perched efficiently at her desk,


    hard at work. It’s one of the things I admire most about her.


    I breathe a sigh of relief at the normalcy of it all. With everything that’s been going on, I didn’t realize


    how badly I needed things at the office to feel normal.


    “Good morning, Beth,” I say, attempting a smile that I’m sure doesn’t reach my eyes. “What’s on the


    agenda today?”


    She smiles back, and hers is sincere, if not a little sad. She gazes at herputer, tapping one long


    fingernail against the screen as she locates the details. “You have a meeting with development at ten,


    procurement at one thirty, and the board of directors at three. Oh, and Kelly would like to talk to you


    ASAP.”


    Of course, the head of PR wants yet another piece of me. All I’ve done this week so far is help her


    manage this fucking disaster. It’s like wading through a pile of shit—the very definition of unpleasant.


    “Tell her I’ll call her by lunchtime. There are a few things I want to finish first.”


    “Can do, sir.”


    Inhaling deeply, I head into my office and close the door. Then I sit at my desk and stare at my


    computer like it’s the controls to a spaceship. Fuck . . . exactly like yesterday. All week, I’ve been so


    edgy and off my game, it’s been a struggle just to concentrate. My brain feels so scattered, and I can’t


    seem to clear it, no matter what I do.


    I rub my eyes and force myself to check my email, deciding to deal with the non-scandal-rted items


    first. Maybe less excruciating work will help me get a good flow going.


    I send the financial analysis team a long list ofments and questions on theirtest forecast, only to


    realize a second toote that I hit Reply instead of Reply All. Goddammit. I resubmit my thoughts and


    move on to the next email.N?velDrama.Org content.


    For twenty minutes, I attempt to write another few hundred words for the leadership article I’ve been


    working on, then change my mind and decide I should talk to our marketing director first. We need to


    refine our direction for the hotel that’s soon to be built in London.


    I push my inte’s button. “Beth, can you call Denise and tell her to stop by when she has a


    moment?”


    “I’m . . . afraid not?” She sounds confused.


    “What do you mean?”


    “She’s not in the office this week.”


    “What? Then where the hell is she?” I snap.