Paint Me Claimed - Book 2

8 | I would walk 500 miles

One month later

Zemira

I had visited New York City many times before as a child. It made me feel like a princess lost in a big city, especially since I was too much into princesses back then.

The city was a nostalgic reminder of the time when we as a family attended the Broadway musical - The Lion King - and ate soft pretzels from the sidewalk that gave me a terrible stomach ache the next day.

When I arrived in the soot-filled, horn-blaring, concrete jungle, something felt different. Maybe that was what Dad meant when he said that I'd see the city from a fresh perspective. I wasn't visiting for vacation. I was coming to work.

I had also become a proud owner of a brownstone on 78th between Amsterdam and Columbus. Well, not exactly an owner. It was my mother's property that I put to good use as my home office till the time I settled in.

The place - a four-bedroom, marble abode - had all the amenities I needed. It had a home office arrangement like the one in Miami. The kitchen - not that I was an experienced cook - could put Michelin-star restaurants to shame.

My house muffled the buzzing New York streets and the cacophony of car honks. It was my cocoon.

My father had arranged everything for me. From a chauffeur for work, a chef for food and a help assigned specifically to force-feed me if I didn't eat on time, I couldn't complain of any inconvenience.

By deploying so many people, he ensured my safety while being away from him. Not that I was fighting a war but for my father, living away from him meant doubling down on his love.

My routine remained the same too, except for certain things. Without the pricking Miami heat but the caressing cold of the New York mornings, I found it hard to toss away my comforter and go for a jog.

It was much harder after the exercise when the temptation to fall back into bed than go to the office grappled me every morning.

I wondered if living in Miami had set my body to a certain standard of heat and warmth without which my mind wouldn't function.

The elevator to my office floor chimed open, breaking my reverie.

"Top of the morning to you, Zem." My assistant, Gina, welcomed me with a notepad in her hand and a cup of coffee in another.

"Are we enacting being British today?" I asked while she walked alongside. The sound of her new black heels reverted through the empty reception.

Gina Rodrigues was supposed to be our intern but our Human Resources decided to retain her as an assistant because according to them, 'she got things done.' For those who didn't understand their subtext, it meant Gina coerced people till she got her way.

"Yes, I've decided to talk in a Brit accent today," she said. "I'll use words like bonkers."

"As much as it's entertaining to see you do that, I'd expect you to attend the calls in your normal accent."

The moment she opened her mouth to counter me, her phone chimed.

This bubbling-with-energy girl with a petite figure and a mesmerizing smile was my closest friend in this place.

"Blimey," she said while checking her phone. "Your meeting with that baby hands man has to be rescheduled. He's running late...Again."

"His hands aren't like baby, Gina. And you're not to call him that..."