My next appointment with Dr. Rathburn is a month from today. Fortunately, I’ve had no flare-ups or signs of rejection since my last episode three years ago.
Astaire says it’s because I’ve finally accepted love into my heart and that love heals everything.
Regardless, life is good.
Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for my brother. I heard through the grapevine that their adoption fell through, and I also heard Beth met someone new—some great-great-great Rothschild she met at a fundraiser they attended together. Beth may have feigned ignorance the majority of the time when it came to my brother, but she was never dense. She had to have seen the boat was sinking and she jumped ship the first chance she got.
My mother about had a coronary when she found out I’d sold the corporation—or at least that’s what I heard from my secretary at the time. I deactivated her building access card and my staff were under strict orders to direct my mother to a dummy voicemail account I’d had the IT department set up to specifically filter her incessant messages.
But the calls stopped eventually, and she never attempted to come by for one of her infamous impromptu face-to-face meetings.
Rumor has it she checked herself into a “wellness sanctuary” for some rest and relaxation shortly after the sale was finalized, but those in the know claim she had a bit of a breakdown and has been living as a reclusive shut-in at our family’s estate.
Can’t say that I feel bad for her. Can’t say that I’ve been bothered to care about what she’s up to these days. I’m far too busy to concern myself with insignificant matters or wretched, self-serving people.
The only things that deserve an ounce of my time … are in this building.
Everything else is noise.
“It’s starting to rain,” Astaire tugs at my sleeve. “We should let them in early.”
“Martin, unlock the doors, please,” I tell the manager.
It was raining the day I met the kind stranger who forever changed the trajectory of my life for the better—and ever since then, I’ve always seen rain as a sign of good luck.
The Perfect Illusion
Description
It’s only pretend…
And it’s only three months.
I’m in the midst of scrawling “I QUIT!” onto his fancy cardstock letterhead when my boss corners me. He needs a favor, he says. And then he asks how well I can act …
Hudson Rutherford needs a fiancée.
With his old-moneyed parents forcing him to marry some bratty hotel heiress and his hedonistic, playboy lifestyle at stake, the only way to get them to back off is to make them think he’s truly, madly, deeply in love … with me—his third personal assistant this year.
But I can hardly stand working for him as it is.
Hudson is crazy hot and well-aware. He’s arrogant, spoiled, and silver-spooned. He checks me out when he thinks I’m not looking, and his life is a revolving door of beautiful women. Plus, he can’t even pronounce my name correctly—how’s he going to convince his family he’s in love with me?!
I’m seconds from giving him a resounding “no” when he flashes his signature dimpled smirk and gives me a number that happens to contain a whole mess of zeroes …
On second thought, I think I can swallow my pride.
But, oh baby, there’s one thing I haven’t told him, one teensy-tiny thing that could make this just a hair complicated …
Here’s hoping this entire thing doesn’t explode in our faces.
They say time heals all wounds, and the scars you left are fading. I trace them with my fingers and try to make myself feel even a fraction of what I did when you left. It may not have been love but it was the most I’ve ever felt. —S. Stepp
One
Mari
* * *
Dear Mr. Rutherford,
I humbly request for you to accept this as my two weeks’ notice. As of Friday, May 26th, I will be stepping down from my position as your personal assistant. I’ll do my best to ensure this is a smooth transition for the company.
Sincerely,
Maribel Collins
* * *
I press my pen into his thick cardstock, scratching out my neatly written resignation before crumpling the paper in my hand and pushing it to the corner of my desk. It’s too nice, and Hudson Rutherford does not deserve nice.
It’s half past seven, which means I have thirty minutes to come up with something better than this—something that’s going to leave a lasting impression.
I’m his third personal assistant this year and it’s only May. There’s a reason no one can tolerate working for him longer than a month or two, and someone ought to point this out to him.
Might as well be me.
Clearing my throat, I try again.
* * *
Hudson,
* * *
You’re rude and inconsiderate, and I no longer wish to work for you. You think the world revolves around you. Your excessive wealth disgusts me, as does your secret Rolodex of women’s phone numbers that you keep hidden in your third desk drawer on the left. Your good looks are overshadowed by your vanity and arrogance, and your kindness, I’m convinced, is non-existent. You treat your employees like indentured servants, and you’re the most hypocritical asshole I’ve ever met.
I work sixty hour weeks for you without so much as a thank you, a raise, or a glowing performance review. I’m tired of running your menial errands, and I didn’t spend four years in college to make photocopies and coffee.
I didn’t sign up for this.
You lied to me.
* * *
With zero fondness and absolutely no gratitude,
Mari
* * *
Sighing, I crumple this one too. I think my message got lost amongst all the spiteful word vomit, and the last thing I want to do is come across as trite.
Fed up is what I am.
Tired.
Underutilized, underpaid, and overworked.
But not trite.
I toss the wrinkled paper in the waste basket and grab one last sheet of letterhead. Ditching the formalities, I decide to go a more direct route. My mother once told me it’s not in what you say, it’s in what you don’t say. And my father always says actions speak louder than words. Maybe I’ve been overthinking this whole resignation letter? With my pen firmly gripped, I scrawl my final version.
* * *
Hudson,
* * *
I QUIT.
* * *
Mari
* * *
It’s perfect.
Smirking, I admire my work, fold it into thirds, then slide it into a cream-colored envelope with Rutherford Architectural’s logo in the upper left corner. Licking the seal and scribbling his name on the front, I stick it on top of a pile of mail I plan to hand to him the second he arrives. I’ll give him a moment to read it, and while he’s doing so, I’ll pack up my things and make a beeline for the elevator before he has a chance to stop me.