The Perfect Scandal

Chapter Five

I walked into the office without being disturbed. The janitor, I think his name tag said Herby, took one glance at me, then turned his gaze down, obviously taking notice to my rigid appearance and rather piqued attitude that seemed to radiate off of me.

I felt sorry for the older man. He was practically forced to witness my frustration, and I wouldn't wish that upon anyone.

Strutting past him as fast as I could, I stormed through a large wooden door, possibly mahogany, and stared straight at the devil herself. To be honest, she looked like a confident predator: she was seated at her desk as if she were a queen perched on her throne before a room full of peasants. Mallory's hair was pinned back in some form of up-do; the femininity of the hairstyle contrasting with the masculinity of her grey, pantsuit that seemed to be tailored to fit her, or so I suspected from how the top fit incredibly well in her torso and shoulders.

Mallory's face was all lines and edges, her jaw straight, cheekbones edged, and nose aristocratic. Those dark lashes were thick enough to pick up a stiff wind at the bat of her eyes and her liner was bold, black, and contrasting with her blue eyes. Her icy stare paralyzed her many victims, including myself, while her lips were seemingly stained with their blood: Mallory's choice of beverage after successfully killing each one by sinking her canines into their jugulars.

Stop being so morbid, Esme, it's not attractive.

Shaking my head, I pushed away all thoughts and focused myself on ignoring Mallory's manipulation and intimidation tactics, which she seemed to have many. The first of many, her looks. Secondly, her temper and overactive imagination that she used to threaten me prior to my arrival. And the list goes on and on. Mallory Morgan was a predator. She was trained in the way of politics, the most manipulative business I knew of. Therefore, she was not trustworthy. I didn't, nor wouldn't, trust the woman as far as I could throw her, even if she only weighed like one hundred pounds.

"You're late," the older woman spoke simply, manicured acrylics tapping against the glass-top of her otherwise wooden desk.

I sneered at the woman before approaching the desk, taking it upon myself to seat myself in one of the chairs in front of her desk. "Traffic."

She stood, rounding her desk with loud clicks of her heels: another intimidation tactic that I had to admit was working. With each clack, my heart increased its beat and gooseflesh lined my forearms. The feelings only intensified when she squeezed her body between the space of my chair and her desk, palms behind her and glaring down upon me.

"Tardy and dishonest," the brunette chastised, as if I were a five-year-old. "My my, Esme, you are just racking up offense after offense, aren't you? You must want to be reprimanded for your transgressions."

Just as I was beginning my rebuttal, the infuriating woman before me shushed me. I swear, I wouldn't be able to keep my composure if this was how our little "meeting" was going to continue.

"Before you rant like a petulant child, you will allow me the respect I deserve and listen to what I have to say. Is this understood?"

"Yeah," I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest in a huff.

Maybe I was being a child.

Nope. She started it.

Okay, definitely a child.

"Yes," she corrected, extending the ending consonant, "what?"

Raising my eyebrow at Mallory, I stared at her until she rolled her eyes and rubbed at the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

"Yes, Miss. You are to refer to me as 'Miss', or have you yet to read our contract?"

Shit. Busted.