“Hey, Tess!” My assistant Rhonda slips out from behind her desk as I approach.
“Hey, girl,” I call. “You have a good Christmas?”
“Well, Steve’s parents were in town,” she replies, which is answer enough.
I unwind my thick scarf one-handed, holding my coffee with the other. “Yeesh. How bad was it?”
“Wendy informed me that she thinks my children are going to hell because I wouldn’t let her baptize them when they were babies,” she replies.
“Seriously?” I cry, handing her my coat.
“Yep.” She hangs my coat and scarf up with hers. “Oh, and she accused me of stealing sleeping pills from her purse. Twice. Turns out she had them in her makeup bag the whole time.”
“Oh god. Is she gone, at least?”
“Yes, thank God. They left for Akron this morning.”
“That’s a relief,” I say with a sympathetic grimace. I pick up my bag and coffee from the edge of her desk.
“Hey,” she calls as I turn towards my office door. “Your meeting with Dalton Holdings Limited got pushed to 10:00 a.m. Some HR thing was just scheduled at the last minute. You’re meeting with them at 9:00 a.m.”
I glance over my shoulder, lowering my voice so the other secretaries in this suite can’t hear us. “Do we know what it’s about?”
“No idea. I just saw your name was added to the meeting invite. Dale is running the show.”
I fake a snore, which earns me a soft laugh from Rhonda.
Dale Eubanks is the head of HR for Powell, Fawcett, and Hughes, and a duller man has never drawn breath.
“Give me ten minutes to charge the batteries,” I say, gesturing with my coffee hand. “Then you and I can head down together.”
“Oh, I have a mandatory accounting training,” she replies. “But…I can probably get out of it if you need me—”
“No,” I say with a laugh. “No need. I’m sure this will prove to be nothing. Probably a mandatory refresher on reporting client gifts. Don’t they make us sit through that every Christmas?”
I wave her off as I enter my office. I’ve only got fifteen minutes. Just enough time to sign one of the contracts stacked on my desk. And just like that, Tess Owens closes another multimillion-dollar deal before nine in the morning.
I take a sip of my iced caramel macchiato with a smile.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on my way down to Human Resources, tablet and coffee in hand.
“Good morning,” I singsong as I hurry my way across the seventh-floor atrium. My heels click as I sweep past the pair of girls working behind the desk. They’re cute things fresh out of college with matching blonde ponytails.
Oh, and they’re both named Katie.
“Morning, Ms. Owens,” says Katie One. She always wears a slightly startled look on her face, like she’s constantly surprised to find herself sitting behind a desk.
“Are they in conference room B?” I say as I walk past.
“Actually, Ms. Owens, they might not be ready for you yet,” says Katie Two, scrambling out of her chair.
“The meeting doesn’t start for another two minutes.” I walk right past them, angling for the frosted glass door of the conference room.
“Ms. Owens, wait—”
The door whispers across the carpet as I push it gently inward. “Good morning, I—”
I pause in the open doorway, my hand pressed against the cool glass. My gaze darts quickly around the room. Two of the three partners are here. Oh, and Dale, of course.
“I thought I was early,” I say. “Did I get the time wrong?”
“Tess, we’re not quite ready for you yet,” Dale replies from his seat at the head of the table.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Eubanks,” calls Katie Two from just behind my shoulder. “I tried to tell her.”
“It’s fine, Katie,” he says with a wave of his hand.
“I don’t understand,” I say, glancing around.
My gaze lands on Troy sitting to the left of Dale at the opposite end of the long conference table. He’s wearing a holier than thou look as he takes me in with those dark eyes.
“What happened?” I say. “Oh god, did someone die?”
“Come in, Tess,” says Dale. “Let’s get the door shut.”
I take two steps in, letting my hand drop to my side so the frosted glass door swings shut in Katie Two’s face. “What happened?” I say again.
Something is definitely wrong.
“Why don’t we have you join us over here,” Dale calls, gesturing to a seat empty by one of the other HR reps. I think her name might be Judy.
“The suspense is killing me here,” I admit, dropping into the leather swivel chair. I set my tablet and coffee down on the table. Now I’m seated directly across from Troy. He balances his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin.
“We were just discussing the ethos of Powell, Fawcett, and Hughes,” Dale says as soon as I’m seated. “We pride ourselves here at PFH that we’re a company of integrity. We may play in the corporate arena, but we’re a family business first, family values. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Fawcett?”
I glance across the table. Grant Fawcett III is seated next to Troy. He’s the second highest ranking partner at the firm after Troy’s mother. It was his grandfather who started the company with Bea’s father. Beatrice Owens (neé Powell) is the reigning queen of PFH.
“Mhmm,” says Grant with a slow nod. “That’s what my grandfather wanted. That’s what we’re all striving to build here.”
“And part of keeping family values at the center of our business is adhering to a strict code of ethics,” Dale goes on. “We all sign contracts that include a morality clause.” Slowly, Dale turns to me. “Tess, did you know you signed a contract that included a morality clause?”
“Yeah. It was pretty boiler plate,” I reply.
“It’s a bit more than that,” Dale says, adjusting his glasses. “As one of the client-facing junior partners at our firm, your conduct must be seen as beyond reproach at all times,” he goes on.
I go stiff in my chair. “I’m sorry—has there been a complaint I don’t know about?” I glance around the table. “Did one of my clients have a bad experience? Because I swear—”
“This isn’t about how you handle clients, Tess,” Grant explains. “This is about how you conduct yourself as a junior partner. We’re under a microscope here. And we can’t allow any conduct unbecoming of a PFH partner. That comes straight from Bea.”
My heart squeezes tight in my chest. “Bea knows about this?” I glance sharply over at Troy. “Well, can I please know too?”
Slowly, Dale nods. “Show her.”
The woman to my right places a hand on the manilla folder resting in front of her. Slowly, she slides it my way.
I snatch it up and flip it open. My eyes go wide as I take in the image staring up at me. It’s printed on glossy photo paper, but the image is grainy, like a blowup from an iPhone. My heart sinks straight out of my chest. It’s a picture of me dancing with Ryan Langley at Rachel’s wedding last week.
“What is this?”
“You tell us,” Grant replies.
Next to him, Troy sits in silence with all the confidence of a judge holding court.
“Troy, what is this?” I say, holding up the photo. My heart is pounding.
There are more under it. I look through them quickly. Four photos of me dancing with Ryan. Each one shows us looking cozier than the last. We’re gazing at each other with hearts in our eyes and smiles on our faces. In the last one, his face is turned into my hand as he kisses my palm. I can almost feel the warmth of that kiss.
It’s chilled by the Arctic temperature in this room.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say, setting the photos down.
“What it looks like is you giving ‘fuck me’ eyes to another man,” Troy counters.
“Ryan is a friend,” I reply. “Nothing happened. We just danced. And this was a private event, by the way.”
“Which just made these photos all the more enticing for the press to get their hands on,” says Dale. “These were posted online a few hours ago with about two dozen other photos from Rachel Price’s wedding. They’re running on every news site with a string of stories, to include a few headlines about you and your new beau.”
The woman next to me slides me the other folder.
I flip it open and see a stack of papers with trashy news headlines—celebrity gossip, sports news, Hollywood inside scoops. There are pictures of Rachel with her guys, several of Rachel’s dad and his band, the Rays rubbing shoulders with the A-list celebrities. And then there are the photos of me dancing with Ryan Langley. One of the headlines calls me his newest lady love. Another calls me his girlfriend.
“This is a mistake,” I say. “I can request a retraction or a correction—”
“It’s too late, Tess,” says Grant.
“PFH is officially in damage control mode,” Dale echoes.
“Damage control?” I repeat with a raised brow. “What the heck does that mean? Am I not allowed to defend myself here?”
Grant scoffs. “And what defense can you launch to the lead partner of PFH for why you let it look like you’re cheating on her son with a 22-year-old NHL star?”
“I was not cheating on Troy in the middle of my best friend’s wedding,” I cry. “And besides, I’d have to still be with Troy for anything I do with another person to count as cheating—”
“We’re still married,” Troy says. “You’re my wife, Tess. Jesus—”
“That’s a technicality and we all know it.”
“It’s a temporary separation. We’re working on our relationship,” he counters. “And it’s private—”
“Ohmygod, are we rewriting history now?” I shout. “Okay, you want to talk about PFH as a ‘family first’ company?” I say, using air quotes. “What about you, Troy? Where was the conference room shakedown when you cheated on me with your secretary in your fucking office? I got to walk in and catch Candace on her knees with your cock in her mouth—”
“Whoa,” says Dale, leveling a warning hand at me. “Tess, let’s try not to get vulgar here.”
I turn to him, eyes wide. I feel like I’ve stepped into some kind of alternate dimension. “This is so messed up,” I say, breathless. “This is so completely fucked. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You know as well as anyone that appearance is everything,” says Dale. “We can’t excuse this kind of negative press when it involves our partners and their families. There has to be consequences for any and all morality clause breaches.”
“So, what were his consequences?” I cry, waving my hand across the table at Troy. “He fucks anything with tits, he does it on PFH property, and yet I’m the one getting my wrist slapped for dancing at a wedding?”
“He wasn’t photographed,” Grant replies.
“And it wasn’t splashed across the AP for all our clients to see,” adds Dale.
I just shake my head, actually feeling the moment I lose all faith in humanity. It slips from my body like a puff of smoke, floating before my eyes before it disappears. “So that’s it then? One standard for him and another for me? Seems really fair—”
“One standard period,” Dale counters.
“So, what’s happening now then?” I say. “What’s my punishment for daring to emasculate Bea’s precious son?”
“Careful,” Troy growls. “I pushed Mother to be lenient here. Don’t make me change my mind.”
“A leave of absence,” says Dale over him. “Only temporary, of course.”
“Oh my god!” Shoving back from the table, I stand. “A leave of absence? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Only until this all dies down,” he goes on. “Likely we’ll have a plan of action that will involve you and Troy doing some image control—a few public functions, some client dinners. And Troy is fully on board,” he adds. “We all want this smoothed over as quickly as possible. In six weeks, we can reevaluate.”
“Six weeks?” I cry.
Dale just nods. “That’s been company policy in the past for administrative leaves.”
Across from me, Troy nods too. He’s trying to keep his expression solemn, but I can see the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. Fucker. This is what he wants. Any excuse to keep me trapped under his thumb. Never mind that I close nearly double the deals that he does. I may be the greater financial asset to PFH, but Troy is the legacy with ties to the company’s founder. He’s the heir apparent to our current CEO.
Speaking of the queen…
“I don’t believe for one second that Bea agreed to this,” I say. “She wouldn’t. She can’t.”
Bea Owens has long been like my guardian angel. My own mother never cared about me. She was always chasing her next boyfriend and hopping from job to job. I lived with whichever family member was willing to take me in for a few days or weeks at a time. But I was always just an inconvenience. Always in the way.
Not to Bea. She saw my talent and drive. She recruited me into PFH and paved the way for me to make junior partner. When everything with Troy and I started to fall apart, Bea helped us try and make it work.
“Where is she?” I demand. “I want to hear from her that this is what she wants.”
Troy just scoffs. “Be my guest,” he says with a wave of his hand.
“You know she’ll take my side. Once I explain everything.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
He gives me a grin like he just checkmated my king right off the chess board. “Well, then it should really surprise you to hear that this little plan to rehab our marriage was all her idea.”
