The Mistress ✓

6

Onika
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Going to work with a hangover sucks, especially when you're the boss. In this case, I had no option. Passing out was the only way I was getting any sleep last night. It took a bottle and a half of whiskey to do the trick. High tolerance and all.

As I go through the motions, my employees pretend not to notice that something's off with me. Even Tiffany gives me a wide berth and doesn't mention anything about the fundraiser.

By lunchtime, I feel like I might finally be able to stomach food, and I climb the stairs to the top floor of the distillery where we have an incredible restaurant whose fare is surpassed only by the excellent 360-degree of the city. I designed the remodel after I saw the pictures of the Gravity Bar at the Guinness storehouse in Dublin, not that I've had the pleasure to go there myself.

With Meek's debt and Fenty's threats hanging over me, maybe now I never will.

The lunch crowd in the restaurant is light. I nod at a trio of businessmen, and make small talk for a few minutes with a couple of ladies who ask about my mom and how my folks are liking it in Florida.

"They say they're never coming back, but we'll see."

"Living the good life. It's so wonderful they were able to keep the business in the family and still retire. It's tough to manage that these days."

"It really is." I force a smile onto my face. "Have a wonderful lunch."

When I duck into the kitchen and smile at Jennifer Hudson, our head chef, she shakes her head.

"I'll have someone run your regular down to your office. No reason for you to wait in my hot kitchen when I make it. You got me catering to whatever those fancy rich people want for their event; no reason I shouldn't be catering to you too."

"You are a goddess, and those fancy rich people keep us all employed."

She responds with a pshhh. "You do that by force of will alone. It's the Caribbean in you. Now, you need to learn how to use the phone and call up to place an order like I would expect the CEO to do."

I can't tell her I had to get out of my office because Fenty's scent still hangs in the air, and every time I close my eyes, I picture her sitting behind my desk or trapping me in the corner.

"Tomorrow. I swear."

I skip the elevator again in favor of the stairs. It's basically the only exercise I get, and the elevator takes me longer to get back to the basement.

I'm not sure about other distilleries, but in my family, the basement office signifies that the CEO learned the business from the bottom up, and serves as a reminder to always stay humble and grounded.

I've always loved the basement for that reason, down to the faint scent of mildew that clings to the old wooden beams. But now it feels foreign and forbidding.

When I reach my office, I feign my familiar confidence as I reach for the doorknob, telling myself there's no reason to fear going inside. But as soon as I open the door, I'm proven wrong.

My desk lamp was off when I left, and now it's on. In the pool of light is another note.

Five days.

Beneath it is the framed picture of my sisters and me that normally hangs on the wall behind the desk.

My instinct is to freeze in terror again, but instead I force out a declaration from between gritted teeth.