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BOOK BLURB:
Eighty seven billion dollars.
One dead New York business mogul.
No heirs.
No wives.
No relatives.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
Not hers yet.
He doesn’t deserve them.
He doesn’t know what to do with them.
She does.
She always has.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
He’s overwhelmed.
She’s prepared.
That will should have had her name.
Not his.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
His looks are a bonus.
Her looks are her weapon.
He’s fighting a losing battle against his heart.
He doesn’t know it yet.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
She gets everything she wants.
He’s what she wants.
Love has nothing to do with it.
To get to where you’re going, sometimes you need to step on a few people to get there.
Good thing her heels are sharp.
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CHAPTER ONE:
Everyone wanted Cedar Reynolds. Everyone wished
they were her. There was not a person alive who knew about Cedar and didn’t
wish somewhere deep inside, maybe when nobody was looking, that they could one
day be even a quarter as cool as Cedar was. To have her confidence, her
fearlessness, her style. Goddamn, that girl was so ahead of the game that Anna
Wintour would base the season's trends on Cedar.
She was the perfect combination of open and
mysterious, of fun and serious, of silly and sexy. She ruled Manhattan with a
smile and while wearing six inch heels.
Cedar Reynolds was everything you wanted. She
was a fireball of success. But like fire, if you got too close, you would burn.
Nobody is fireproof.
Not even Cedar Reynolds.
-
All everyone could talk about was
Harold Feingold’s impending death. In hushed whispers, behind closed doors,
using code words when out and about. It was how things like that were done.
Just walking around and taking bets as to when one of the most powerful men in
Manhattan would die was a terrible idea, no matter what way you looked at it.
But he was dying, and they were talking.
With the fame that comes from
holding nearly a monopoly on hotels in New York and being rumored to have
connections to every group of organized crime in the city and a few unorganized
groups as well, people are going to talk.
Harold Feingold was the American
dream personified. There were three authorized biographies of his life, and he
wasn’t even dead yet. If he equally distributed his money to every person
living in Manhattan, they would all become millionaires. Not that he ever
would, though. Harold Feingold was a believer in hard work for everyone. That old
rich man who would spew vitriol about the homeless ruining the landscaping of
his city because they were too goddamned lazy to get a fucking job? That would
be him. And when you’re worth more than one billion dollars, you can say the
sky is green and people are going to listen.
And now he was dying, because
that’s what old bitter men eventually do. The poison that powered their lives
finally catches up to them, and at the end, they’re nothing but shriveled skin
and brittle bones and so many private sighs of relief. People hoped that
Feingold would go that way. Old and frail, soiling himself and in general being
an embarrassment to society in general would be a rather fitting way for him to
go, but there he was. Incredibly ill, but with an iron back and the same
fucking grin on his face when he efficiently and effectively destroyed your
life.
But he was dying, which was the
point, and also the question. Harold Feingold was the richest man in the whole
damn state of New York, and he had no descendants. He had three ex-wives, all
of whom he paid ungodly amounts of money to look and act like an ex-wife of his
would look—rich, beautiful, successful, but just not quite good enough for him.
Three ex-wives, and no children or stepchildren. There were rumors about illegitimate
children, but nobody knew for sure.
All that money.
All that power.
And nobody had a fucking clue
where it was going to go.
That’s how Harold liked it. And
that’s how it stayed until the day he died.
And then all hell broke loose.
-
Cedar’s job as the curator and
hostess at the Feingold Gallery of Exceptional Art had her waking up long
before she wanted to. Sleeping in until nine was unheard of for her, unless she
was somewhere on vacation. Even though the gallery didn’t open until eleven,
Cedar was up and out long before then. When you’re New York City’s reigning
queen, you never walk around with a hair out of place, with a nail chipped, or
God forbid, in last season’s clothing.
But today was different. Cedar
had gotten the phone call at six in the morning, hours before she normally woke
up. She was at home, as always, even though she had been out the night before
with Lawrence, who was still trying to get her to make things more permanent.
And even though he was a Foster-Herrington, he wasn’t worth the trouble that
would come along with a relationship. Not to mention he wasn’t nearly good
enough in bed to make up for having to date him.
Her private line rang as she was
headed toward her gym. Her private line, a number that only five people had.
“Cedar?”
It was Mr. Morris. Which could
only mean one thing, because Mr. Morris never called. Ever.
“No,” Cedar whispered, her voice
still hoarse from waking up.
“I’m sorry.”
“Dammit.”
“He passed away fifteen minutes
ago. I called you as soon as I can.”
“Dammit.” Cedar clutched the
phone tightly. “How could he?”
“I know.”
But he didn’t know, the idiot.
How could he?
“He left instructions for a
funeral,” Mr. Morris continued, his voice rough from a lack of sleep. He was
Harold Feingold’s lawyer, which was more of a full time job than he had ever
imagined it would be. The old bastard was dead, and he was still working around
the clock. “He wanted you to arrange it.”
“He mentioned it to me,” Cedar
said. “Earlier this week.” Dammit, why did he have to die today? Could the
timing possibly be more inconvenient than it was now? Harold never gave a shit
about inconveniencing others, but neither did Cedar. It was one of the reasons
she liked him—genuinely liked him, and didn’t just tolerate her for where she
got because of him.
“Excellent. Are you going to be
at work today?”
“Of course.” Cedar headed to the
gym. There was no point in throwing her schedule off entirely because someone
died.
“I’ll send over the information
for the funeral arrangements he wanted you to take care of.”
“Of course.” Cedar programmed the
treadmill and started to walk.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Cedar,”
he said awkwardly.
“I’m sorry for yours,” she
replied, and almost meant it.
-
The gallery opened at ten on
Tuesdays, and Cedar was there, fifteen minutes before, making sure everything
was perfect. Some of the girls didn’t understand why Cedar insisted on having a
job—hell, she had more than enough money already, and who wanted to wake up
that early? But running the most coveted art gallery in New York was more than
just a job for Cedar, it was how she kept her title as the Queen of New York
City. The Feingold Gallery was the most exclusive art gallery in the entire
city, if not in the entire country. And the only people who okay’d new pieces
of art or new artists for the gallery were Harold and Cedar.
Having all that power made up for
the early mornings and the sometimes very dreary and pointless days at work.
Traffic was terrible on the way
to work, which could only be a bad sign about the rest of the day. Already,
text messages were pouring in, sending condolences to Cedar, letting her know
how sorry they were and if there was anything at all they could do to help her,
she should just let them know. Most of the texts were pure bullshit, and if
Cedar actually did need help, she would never dare to ask them. But the thought
was nice, even if the thought was just that she should still think they were
nice and wonderful people.
Cecil was already waiting for
her, holding a tray of coffee in one hand and typing frantically on his phone
with the other one. “Oh my God, Cedar, are you okay?” he asked as she stepped
out of her car. “I heard the news and then there was crazy traffic this
morning.”
“I’m fine,” she said, pulling out
the key to the enormous front door of the gallery. “And traffic was terrible.”
“You’ve never been earlier than I
have been to work,” he said, following her into the building. “I was freaking
out.”
Cedar rolled her eyes as she
flipped on the lights. “No reason to freak out. I’m here now.”
“Should we do something today? Because of his death?”
Cedar shrugged. She had enough
shit to do for this funeral. She didn’t have time for any whiny things today to
mourn Harold’s death. He was dead. The end.
God, if only she knew what was on
his will. She would make his damn funeral, she would follow all his fucking
instructions, she would pretend to cry at his funeral, and maybe then she’d
learn what was in his will. If she had to fuck Mr. Morris to do it, she would.
“We’ll see,” she said. “Maybe
we’ll change the decoration or something.”
“Put black fabric on all the
mirrors?”
A bit overdramatic, yes, but
maybe that’s what they needed.
“Maybe.” Cedar hung up her coat
and put her bag down on her desk. “Check to see what kind of fabrics we have.
Also, I want an inventoried list of all the artists displaying here now.”
“Do you want their social medias
to be checked?”
“Obviously,” she said briskly.
“They should constantly be checked, Cecil. You know that.”
“That I do, and they are.” Cecil
placed the cup of coffee he bought for her on her desk. “You have an
appointment at ten fifteen today. With Morgan Hyvent.”
“Which magazine is she from
again?”
“Vogue. It’s for the article
they’re writing about you.” Cecil had gotten dressed with extra care today. He
always did—he worked in the mecca of art in the most fabulous city in America.
And even though the clientele here was nothing but the most powerful, it wasn’t
every day that someone from Vogue came. It was too bad it wasn’t Anna herself,
but she didn’t go around interviewing folks for her magazine. Even if it was
Cedar Reynolds.
“Well, then, we need to have the
fabrics up before then.” Cedar checked the time and winced. Goddamn traffic
this morning was fucking up her plans for today. Not to mention the fucking
funeral she was going to have to plan. Not like she couldn’t do something like
that in her sleep—she definitely could. But the issue was that she had to, that
it had to be more perfect than anything she’d ever done, because the stakes
were higher than they’d ever been.
Whoever would inherit was
probably going to be there, she thought.
Which meant that the stakes were
a hell of a lot higher than they were before. As if they could possibly be any
higher.
Billions of dollars were at stake
here. Not just billions, but her reputation. And Cedar was hard pressed to
figure out which one she wanted more, the billions or the reputation. She
wanted both, obviously. She wasn’t stupid. If she was stupid, she would never
have gotten to where she was right now.
“We’ve got three different kinds
of black,” Cecil said, spreading them carefully on the desk. “All of them
completely cover the mirrors, and this one was the most expensive.” He pointed
to one. “I think your dress was made from this material.”
“Which dress?”
“The one you wore to Wanda’s
opening.”
“Oh, that one.” The one that made
every newspaper and magazine cover her dress and leave Wanda’s actual art as a
side note. Didn’t make Wanda happy, but that was what happened when you didn’t
take care of yourself. “Use that one, then.”
“On it.” Cecil bustled from the
office, leaving Cedar alone in her office. Fucking finally. Cecil was okay—as
an assistant he was the best that you could get in the business. He was just
too damn cheerful and positive all the time, not to mention naïve. He
worshipped the ground Cedar walked on—they all did. Which was great, but his
naiveté was a pain in Cedar’s ass.
She walked through her office
slowly, adjusting pictures here and there, and starting the coffee and tea.
Coffee and tea in her office weren’t just a casual ask if someone wanted a
drink, it was a calculated move. And Cedar was going to pull out all the stops
when it came to Vogue journalists. Court them, flatter them, leave them in awe
and writing an article dripping in praise for her. And if not? Well, that’s
what was nice about having all of Manhattan at her beck and call. She could
destroy anyone with a phone call, and if she had to destroy this one, she
would. It would be far from the first time.
Cedar turned on her computer,
rearranged her jewel covered pens, and took out her Filofax. She lit a candle,
her signature scent, one that the company made special for her. They sold the
Cedar candle, which she had designed, but wasn’t the one she used. Exclusivity
was the key to impressing. If you couldn’t have it, and Cedar did, it was just
an extra thing for her to use to lord over people.
Phone plugged in, on silent,
turned just enough that the reporter would be able to see how often she got a
message, but not close enough to be able to read any of it. Everything was
calculated. Everything was always calculated. You didn’t end up the most feared
woman in New York if you didn’t plan well.
And Cedar planned well.
The sun shone through the
windows, forming a halo around Cedar’s hair when she sat in her chair. She was
ready for the interview now, and she still had another forty five minutes to
go.
She flipped through her Filofax,
and found the page of notes she had taken when Harold told her he wanted her to
organize his funeral. She had laughed at him then, because Harold was never
going to die. He was too mean, too horrible, too powerful, to ever die. People
like him never died—they just kept going and going.
Cedar was never going to die. Or
age. Girls like her lived forever.
-
What was in the will? It was
driving Cedar crazy, even though she would never, ever admit to it. The day at
work had flown by—between the interview, meetings, and her and Cecil calling
and calling and calling to arrange the biggest goddamn show of a funeral that
New York had ever seen. And through the whole day, all Cedar thought about was
the will.
He probably left money to his
housekeepers, they had kept their mouths shut through a hell of a lot of the
shit that comes along when you have more money than God. And just because he
was dead, it didn’t mean he wanted anyone writing any tell-alls about working
for him. Harold Feingold on paper was a saint, and nobody who worked for him
was going to be the one to change that. Mr. Morris was hired for life, and he
was hired to make sure nobody decided that Harold Feingold’s death would be a
good reason to talk about what actually happened in the house.
Money to… who else? Cedar had no
idea. Maybe some to charities, just so people wouldn’t talk. Some for the
gallery, even though it had been earning its costs since Cedar had opened it.
But the bulk of it, she had not a
fucking clue.
Cedar stripped in her bedroom, and
walked to the connecting bathroom. The bathtub was already full, and she
stepped in slowly, sinking into the bubbling foam. A glass of wine was on a
tray, along with her vibrator, cucumber slices, and an eye mask. Her
housekeeper had left a few minutes before, and Cedar was blessedly alone in her
house. She was free for the evening, something she hadn’t planned on. But
Harold’s death was more important than the party she was supposed to be going
to tonight, and she had to show that.
She was going to soak in the bath
until her skin pruned, she was going to drink wine, and she was not going to
answer her phone at all. She could say it was because she was so upset about
Harold’s death, but really, it wasn’t. He was old, and old people died. It was
upsetting, yes, but not as upsetting as she made it out to be.
If she didn’t inherit at least a
large share of his estate, she was going to be upset.
Upset was going to be the mildest
word to describe how she would feel.
Cedar was twenty six years old,
and had been close to Harold since the day she turned eighteen. Eight years of
being his protégé and of being the only sort of confidant he had should be more
than enough to inherit.
She sank back into the bubbles,
but not enough to get her hair wet. She was going to relax for now. She could
worry about everything later. She had time.
-
Sitting at her desk a little
later that evening, Cedar did the same thing she did every night—something
nobody knew she did, and that she would never even think about telling anyone. She
Googled herself. Well, she didn’t actually Google herself as much as she logged
into a secret account and checked the Google alerts for that day.
Being Cedar Reynolds was a full
time job, and that included making sure that all the PR about her was positive.
Some people said no publicity was bad publicity, but Cedar was not one of those
people. Yes, bad publicity made people talk about you, but some things didn’t
need to be publicized. And luckily, they weren’t.
Morgan had tweeted about their
meeting today, which Cedar thought was kind of odd, but she was nothing but
singing praises of Cedar and the gallery so it was okay. Talking about how
strong Cedar was in the face of such a tragedy. The president had commented on
Harold’s death, and was said to be coming to the funeral. Who the hell was
saying that, Cedar wasn’t really sure, because she hadn’t heard back from
anyone at the White House, and neither had Cecil. He would have let her know
right away because that’s what she paid him money to do.
She scrolled through the rest of
the Google alerts, finding nothing else interesting. One article about Harold
mentioned her in the context of poor orphan Cedar, which made her roll her eyes
and take down the name of the person who wrote the article. It was true that
Harold had taken her under his wing when her parents were killed, but it wasn’t
like she was a poor little orphan.
But she could play one if she had
to. With things like that, she always played the victim, and was careful to
make sure she did. People liked you more when they believed you had a
vulnerable side. Cedar’s was complete and utter bullshit, but nobody had to
know that.
She got out of the tub, hair
piled on the top of her head, rivulets of water running down her stomach and
collecting neatly onto the mat. There was nothing about Cedar that wasn’t neat.
Nothing. And if there was, it was ruthlessly dealt with until it was no longer
an issue.
Cedar wrapped herself up in her
robe, and slid her feet into her slippers, a pair of silk lined heels. Flats
were for peasants, and any potential heiress of the Feingold fortune was not a
peasant. Her housekeeper was, though, if her outfit today was any indication.
And the fact that she was working as a fucking housekeeper, for God’s sake.
Cedar thought about possibly instating a uniform to her house staff, and wrote
a note to herself, reminding her to talk to Jean-Paul about designing a
uniform. She had a reputation to uphold, and having a housekeeper in shitty
clothing was not a way to do it.
A few more phone calls and emails
were sent before she went to bed, satisfied. The funeral wasn’t until the next
week, but it was going to be the most amazing funeral that New York had ever
seen.
-
It was raining on the day of
Harold’s funeral. Everything was overcast, and just gloomy enough to drop a
layer of grey on the city. “Appropriate weather,” said one sober news anchor
the morning of the funeral, “to mourn the death of one of the biggest men of
New York.”
It was appropriate, and it worked
wonders for the mood, but it did nothing good for Cedar’s hair. She had her
makeup artist come over early in the morning, and helped her with a face that
said “I’m mourning the loss of a person very dear to me, but I look fabulous
while doing it”. Her outfit was going to be reported in every major newspaper
in the country, because that’s who she was. And so she dressed appropriately.
And had memorized the eulogy she was going to give, which was mostly lies. But
nobody really cared. The funeral wasn’t actually a place for people to mourn
the death of Harold Feingold. The funeral was a place for people to reassure
themselves of their importance and their place in society. Not just anyone was
invited to Harold Feingold’s funeral, because not everyone was worthy. The
journalists had a separate corded area to watch and observe but to never forget
for even a second that they were never going to be good enough to actually be
invited to anything like this. Cedar had made sure only the reporters she
approved of were coming to the funeral, and the rest of the paparazzi were
located behind a line of the best security guards money could get.
It wasn’t just a funeral. It was
an event.
And even though nobody attending
the funeral would ever admit to it, going to Harold Feingold’s funeral was the
same as going to a showing at the Gallery. It wasn’t for the reason they said
they were going, and even if it was something they normally wouldn’t have ever
done, they were more than happy to go. Get dressed in an outfit that people
wouldn’t forget, mingle with the right people, and glory in where you were in
life.
If you had to buy an
extraordinarily expensive piece of art or cry a few tears, well, that was the
price of admission for these kinds of things.
The casket was there when Cedar
made her way into the church, followed by the insistent flashes of the
paparazzi, silently clamoring for the best angle of her. Cedar Reynolds was a
commodity, and even the paparazzi knew that. So, she wasn’t an actress or a
singer, or anything else like that, and even though she wasn’t a Rockefeller or
Astor or Thames, she was Cedar Reynolds, and everything she touched turned to
gold. They all knew she wasn’t to be trifled with, and none of them had the
guts to even try. They knew what happened to those who did, and none of them
wanted to go down that road.
Cedar had made sure to have the
photographers positioned to get everyone’s best side and angle, and after she
discretely posed for the pictures on the way into the church. Harold wasn’t
Christian, but there was something about the Thames-Harrison Church that felt
like it was the best place for him to be eulogized.
It was the most exclusive church
in the city, and nobody could just come to the church, let alone throw a last
minute funeral. But Harold was Harold and Cedar was Cedar, and the church was
more than happy to offer the building for the occasion.
Stained glass windows filtered in
murky light, lending the whole building a feeling of slight gloom. Candles
flickered, and it seemed like the building itself was mourning the loss of
Harold Feingold.
Cedar walked slowly up the aisle
of the church, toward where Harold’s body was lying in its casket. It was a
closed casket funeral, because Harold did not believe in death, or dead people.
He was cremated, because he didn’t believe in organ donation, either, but there
was a casket, nonetheless. It was something large to bury, because tossing
ashes in the wind was crass and hippy, and Harold had been neither of those.
Cecil rushed up to Cedar.
“Everything’s under control,” he said quietly. “The Mayor is running a little
bit late because of traffic, but he’s supposed to get here soon.”
“He damn well better get here
soon,” Cedar snapped. “Fuck traffic, he has a eulogy to deliver, and I will not
delay the funeral because he decided not to leave early enough. Doesn’t he have
a police escort or something?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s only the
president,” Cecil said. “I’ll check.”
“You do that,” Cedar replied,
and, remembering where she was, continued down the aisle in search of the
preacher.
Cecil sighed and texted the
Mayor’s secretary. Not on his private cell, where Cecil would send dirty texts,
but on his official Mayoral phone. The things he did for Cedar, seriously.
Going through the back door of the church instead of the front, and didn’t even
get photographed by anyone. Which was a damn shame, because he had dressed to
the nines today. He better get a serious bonus for this shit. He wouldn’t,
though, because that wasn’t how Cedar worked. Which sucked, but on the other
hand, he was probably one of the best paid personal assistants in the city.
Cedar wasn’t necessarily nice to him, but she sure as hell paid enough to make
up for it.
His phone buzzed. No police
escort. Fuck, Cedar was going to rip off his balls.
-
Cedar glanced around the rapidly
filling church with satisfaction that would never show on her face. The Mayor
was going to be here in another three minutes, and everything was running
according to schedule. As it should be. The seating plans emailed the night
before was a stroke of genius, in her opinion. Everyone was sitting where she,
and partially Harold, had decided, and hopefully nobody would think of doing
anything stupid, like flirting with the people they were fucking in front of
spouses. Any other event it was no problem, and added to the entertainment for
the night, but that wouldn’t be tolerated today.
If the net worth of all the
people in this church were added together, it would be enough to put a
significant dent in the national debt. Significant. The air smelled of money,
privilege, and power. This may have been New York, land of the immigrant and city
of the diverse, but in this church, it was New York, land of stock options, and
city of real estate deals with a side business of who even knew. In this
church, diversity meant that the only people in the room whose net worth were
under one million dollars were corded off and sitting with pads of paper and a
pen, scribbling notes about everyone whose net worth was more than they could
imagine making a year.
Good, thought Cedar. Good.
Mr. Morris came up to here.
“Cedar.”
She inclined her head. “Morris.”
“The Mayor is here and should be
seated in a few moments.”
Cedar checked her watch. Perfect.
“Excellent. Vanguard is starting, he’ll make his way to the front now.”
The musicians were in place. The
sun was struggling to break through the clouds and was failing miserably. Some
of the most powerful people in the United States were sitting in the lush
seats, waiting for the service to begin.
This is what money can get you,
thought Cedar. This is what real power gets you. And even though death wasn’t a
thing she was going to contemplate for herself anytime soon, this is what she
was setting her sights on.
Tomorrow, the newspapers would be
full of pictures. Magazines were rushing to get out special editions,
eulogizing Harold and remembering all he’d accomplished.
Being sweet didn’t get you any of
this. Being nice, actually nice? Those people were the ones who were still
working as reception somewhere in Queens. Being honest? Actually honest? Those
were the people who lost their businesses, whose homes had been bought by
Harold and sold for a fortune.
This was what you got when you
went after what you wanted.
She looked at Vanguard, and
nodded slightly. The head of the New York City Stock Exchange walked to the
front of the church, and cleared his throat. There was immediate silence,
followed by the sound of the front door being shut.
“We gather here today to
celebrate the life and mourn the death of Harold Feingold,” he began, his voice
echoing through the church.
Cedar relaxed a little bit, and
took out her handkerchief. The world was Cedar’s stage, and this was another
scene she would nail.
-
It was raining when they lowered
the casket into the freshly dug plot of ground. Cedar cried softly into her
handkerchief, making sure her mascara didn’t run. The gravestone was already in
place, since Harold had ordered it when he got his first diagnosis, and the
image of the ten men on Harold’s board lowering his body into the open grave,
with Cedar standing alone crying a few feet back would be the one splashed on
every cover of every newspaper, magazine, and website for the next week.
“Saying Goodbye to a Legend”,
read one headline.
“Mourning a New York Giant”, read
another.
Cedar was fawned over in every
article. Flowers began to pour into the Gallery from all corners of the
country, and Cedar’s staff spent all week redistributing them to different
hospitals, nursing homes, and homeless shelters.
The reading of the will wasn’t
going to be for another two days, and Cedar was going to lose her shit if she
didn’t figure out what was in the will sooner than that. Fucking Morris was a
waste of time, he wouldn’t reveal anything. Which was why Harold hired him, but
that wasn’t any help for Cedar.
Nobody knew. Nobody, although a
lot of people thought they did. The media did nothing the week of Harold
Feingold’s death but talk about him, Cedar, and speculate exactly who was in
the will, and what they would inherit.
“Of course it matters who
inherits,” Cedar was quoted as saying. “Harold had an incredible amount of
businesses that need the right person to make sure they keep running and keep
hundreds of New Yorkers employed.”
Did she care that it wasn’t going
to be her that inherited it all? They asked. Rather rudely.
She had smiled, and told them
that she had more than enough to do as it was, running the Gallery and bringing
only the newest and freshest artists to the New York art scene. She didn’t have
time for any sort of real estate business or such. If she did inherit? She’d
make it work.
She was Cedar Reynolds, the
magazines gushed. She could make anything work.
Twenty four hours before the
reading of the will, and Cedar was biting heads off her staff left and right.
Cecil sent out a mass text to all the staff members at the Gallery, telling
them that the next shipment of flowers were to be sent to St. Mary’s, but only
if the flowers were red. Subtext? Stay out of Cedar’s way. It was code red
emergency, and nobody wanted to be caught in that.
The last time someone did, they
were escorted out by security, and last the staff at the Gallery heard, they
were still looking for a job. A year and a half later.
Cedar pressed five on her speed
dial and listened to the phone ring until it went to voicemail.
Why the fuck wasn’t Morris
picking up his fucking phone? Cedar resisted the urge to throw her phone
through the window. Maybe it was an emergency. She’d called him twice already
today, and had a perfectly legitimate excuse for both of those phone calls. Just
because Harold was dead it didn’t mean that he could just ignore her like that. The fucking nerve.
She fumed, and put her phone very
carefully back on her desk. If he wasn’t going to pick up, well then, she would
deal with things her way. And tomorrow, she would be at the reading of the
goddamn will, or she was going to break into his office and read the damn will
herself.
Tentative knock on the door.
Cedar gritted her teeth, and then relaxed. Fucking up your teeth because you
were upset wasn’t worth it. “Yes?”
“It’s Cecil. Whitney called about
her new piece, and wanted to know when she should ship it in.”
“When she should ship it in?”
Cedar snapped. “Did you approve of it?”
Cecil looked horrified. “Of
course not.”
“I didn’t think you did. I
trained you much better than that.” Cedar shook her head and turned to her
computer. “She’s going to have to be dealt with, that one. Fine, her last
pieces sold well, but she is nowhere near a place where she can
assume—assume!—that she could just send
something in without me okaying it first.”
Cecil waited quietly. It was
never worth it to interrupt Cedar when she was like this.
“Email her and tell her that she
needs to follow protocol that she agreed to when she signed the contract, and
send us pictures along with a detailed description. And that if she tried to be
presumptuous like that, it would take us a bit longer to consider her new piece
of work.”
“Of course, Cedar.”
“Good.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Cecil asked, hesitant.
“No, but I would like a bottle of
green juice.”
“Your usual?”
“Yes. And schedule an appointment
for a massage for me at five, please.”
“Miguel?”
“Of course.”
“No problem.”
“There shouldn’t be a problem,”
Cedar muttered as Cecil scurried away. This fucking will was driving her crazy.
Why couldn’t he have just said something before he decided to up and die? How
could she plan if she didn’t know what was going to happen?
She reached up and gently
massaged her temples. By tomorrow evening, this would all be behind her.
Now, if she could just get
through the next couple of fucking hours without killing someone. She was
wearing silk. There was no way she’d be able to get blood off of this outfit.
AUTHOR INFORMATION:
KK Hendin's Bio:
KK Hendin’s real life ambition is to become a pink fluffy unicorn who dances with rainbows. But the schooling for that is all sorts of complicated, so until that gets sorted out, she’ll just write. Preferably things with angst and love. And things that require chocolate.
KK spends way too much time on Twitter (where she can be found as @kkhendin), and rambles on occasion over at www.kkhendinwrites.blogspot.FIND KK HENDIN:
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