The Fine Print (Dreamland Billionaires #1)(47)

Zahra: Sure. She needs her money more than I do and I like helping.

Me: But why does she need to work two jobs? They give us free lunch and offer us cheap housing.





I thought those kinds of measures were put in place to help lessen the cost of living.

Zahra: Not everyone can survive off Dreamland’s dismal wages.





There’s that drastic heartburn again, trickling its way through my chest.

Is that me starting to care? I swallow back my unease.

Zahra: But we make do.





I type out a response before I lose my nerve.

Me: Wouldn’t people quit if they were unhappy with the pay?

Zahra: They might. I wouldn’t blame them.





Huh. Really? Our annual surveys always report such high employee satisfaction rates.

Zahra: But many people love their job. Some are even multi-generational.

Me: Like you.

Zahra: Exactly!





She tacks on a heart to the message, which is new for her. It makes me smile.

You seem ridiculous obsessing over something as small as that.

Me: It’s hard to forget about the ukulele-playing, Elvis-loving family that happens to work here.

Zahra: It’s kind of nice that you pay attention to the little things.

Me: Don’t set your standards so low.

Zahra: Trust me. My standards were obliterated a while ago.





The burning in my chest cranks up the intensity. I want to do something, but I don’t know what, so I settle for the only thing that might make her better.

Me: Who hurt you? Do we need to find their HP address?

Zahra: Haha so funny. Are you expanding your talents to the computer hacking business?

Me: For you, I’d consider it.





And I mean every word.





I’ve always prided myself on the ability to remove my emotions from any kind of business decision. It took an effort to develop the skill, but I’ve perfected it over the years. I was the first one to suggest laying off ten percent of The Kane Company employees when our company lost millions after two bad movies in a row. I’ve been known to be demanding and clinical, from forcing employees to work Christmas Eve to swapping health insurance policies to trim our bottom line. No amount of crying, moaning, or yelling from our employees could convince me otherwise.

Despite this training, Zahra somehow got under my skin. Her calm and collected conversation about the employee’s finances actually got to me. The thought lingers in my head during every encounter I have with Dreamland employees.

Martha is the final straw.

I frown at her. “Why do you need to work at the bar? Don’t we pay you enough?”

Her smile wobbles at the same time as her shoddy ankle that desperately needs surgical attention. “Of course.”

“Don’t lie to me, Martha. I thought we had a connection.” I even let her go home early last week, for fuck’s sake.

“Sir, our connection is weaker than the dial-up internet at the local library.”

Jesus. Dial-up internet still exists? That’s almost as sad as the beat-up sneakers she swaps with her work flats.

I’m disgusted by her big toe peeking out from the hole at the front of her tennis shoe. “Why do you have a second job?”

She bites down on her frail lip.

“Don’t make me repeat my question.”

“Because my husband has a heart condition and his medications cost more than a monthly mortgage.” Martha’s lips clamp together again.

“Why doesn’t your health insurance cover it?”

The glare she sends my way chills me to the bone. She’s never been anything but respectful and meek in my presence, but the fire in her eyes could flay the skin off a weaker man. “With the company health insurance policy, the copayments are severely out of budget.”

“And you find that your paycheck isn’t sufficient.”

She nods. “Some months are tougher than others. With the holidays coming up and all…” Her voice trails off.

I picture Zahra’s little icepick smacking into my cold heart with the strength of a jackhammer. With my hand, I rub at the burning spot in my chest. “Follow me.”

I walk back to my office with Martha dragging her feet behind me because of her usual limp. “Have a seat.” I stroll around my desk and drop into my chair.

She takes a seat across from me. Her eyes move back and forth from me to the grandfather clock at the corner of the room. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t be late to my job. Every hour counts for someone like me because I don’t make as much as the other young ones.”

I’m pretty sure that comment aged her another ten years.

The loud breath I release has Martha wincing. “Give me a moment of your time. How long has your husband had this heart condition?”

“He was diagnosed at forty-five after our grandchild passed away suddenly.”

Jesus fucking Christ. A grandchild?

She prattles on. “The stress did him in. Instead of attending our grandbaby’s funeral, he was recovering in the hospital. He’s never gotten over that still to this day.” Her eyes water but no tears fall.