The Price Of Scandal(2)

However, with my workload steadily increasing, a second assistant was an unfortunate necessity. Finding a carbon copy of Easton was proving to be difficult. We were on our sixth second assistant. Or seventh?

Number Two, whose name escaped me at the moment, stood next to her desk, hands folded in front of her as if for inspection. She’d started last week, and I’d yet to determine whether or not she had potential.

It wasn’t that I was an exceedingly difficult boss. Really, it wasn’t. I was particular and dedicated to my vision. So far, my candidates did not fit my requirements. They either lurked too much or didn’t make themselves available enough. They were too chipper in the morning or showed up late too often.

“Good morning,” I returned, pausing to scoop up the messages and meeting reminders from Easton’s desk. Number Two produced the daily hot sheet that documented the top priorities of each department with a professional smile.

“You have the product development team in Ocean Conference Room at nine. Online sales at eleven-thirty. Lunch with your mother at one-thirty at the Palm. Then back here for a briefing with legal at three.” Easton rattled off the highlights.

“You also might want to take a moment to look at the new mock-ups for the marketing campaign,” Number Two chimed in. “Water cooler rumor has it they’re considering going in a different direction.”

Of course they were. I hid my reflexive annoyance. If everyone would just do the damn job I tasked them with, I wouldn’t need to micromanage every damn thing that happened on the sixty-second floor.

“Also, I love your dress,” she added.

A show of loyalty and a compliment. Smart girl.

“Thank you.” My smile was a touch more genuine. After all, it was a lovely dress. Soft spun vanilla wool in a sleek silhouette. I chose it knowing my mother would approve.

I stepped through the frosted glass doors and into my sanctuary. It was a comfortable, cozy space. Smaller than the average CEO’s—no airy corner office for me—but it was decorated to within an inch of perfection to make up for the lack of square footage. There were more ivories and creams in here warmed by grey and beige tones. The color came from the windows that captured Biscayne Bay in panoramic glory.

Blues and greens that sparkled so brightly I had to squint if I wanted to stare off into the horizon. I rarely made time for squinting and staring.

It was miles away from the fluorescent-lit, basement lab where it had all started.

I ditched my bag on the console table inside the door and headed to my desk, a custom design with a frosted glass top and shiny metal legs. I had fifteen minutes to check in with Lita before the day spun out into a chaotic hurricane of details, questions, and requirements.

I picked up my phone and dialed.

“Hey,” I said when she answered.

“Agh! You’re early,” she groaned.

“I can come to you,” I volunteered. Lita had mentioned on more than one occasion that she didn’t like being “summoned” to my office like an underling, and I’d taken the criticism to heart.

After all, there wouldn’t be a Flawless without her.

“You could, but you’d have to come to the coffee shop two blocks down,” she said. “I thought I had more time.”

“No problem,” I said, already mentally rearranging the next thirty minutes. Lita was historically and consistently late. She’d given up apologizing just as I’d given up on expecting her to value punctuality. “Pop in when you get here.”

“I’ll bring you a latte,” she promised.





The latte and Lita arrived twenty minutes later.

Both were lukewarm.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as she collapsed her curvy frame onto the low-backed linen couch.

“Just the teensiest bit hungover,” she rasped, guzzling her own coffee.

“It’s Tuesday,” I said, more amused than appalled.

Lita snorted inelegantly. “We’re not in college anymore, Lady Stanton. Drinking isn’t just for the weekends. You’re missing out.”

The nickname, born freshman year when I’d arrived on campus with a driver and matching Louis Vuitton luggage, used to irk me. It reminded me that I didn’t quite fit in. But I wasn’t concerned with fitting in anymore.

I winced at her bloodshot eyes. “I can see that.”

“Forget about me and my insatiable need for grease right now,” Lita insisted. “As chief marketing officer, I’ve got an urgent request for you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, scrolling through my inbox again. I was waiting on news. Big news.

Lita and I had started the company together. However, it had been my trust fund that founded Flawless. Lita came from a working-class family in Virginia. When she wasn’t late or hungover, she brought ingenuity and creativity to the table. I brought the science and the money. On paper, the business was mine. But I couldn’t have done it without her. And she knew it.

“Hey, there, Madam CEO,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I need your focus for ten whole seconds.”

Reluctantly, I shifted away from my monitor and all the red flags that were currently demanding my attention. “What’s your urgent request?”

“The IPO is in fifty-nine days,” she began.

“I’m aware of this,” I said, tapping my nails—a classic French manicure—on my desk. The initial public offering was only the culmination of fifteen years of blood, sweat, and science.