Shattered

Carter (e)

Carter
1.
Days felt long anymore. I dreaded the mornings I came into work, the constant nagging like a gun to my head. My tired eyes longed for just another hour of sleep—maybe an eternity would be better.

I was a cold shell, a walking pile of bones with barely a beating heart. I knew who I was—my employees made that all too clear—and I did my best not to show just how much the words really affected me.

Monster. Entitled egotistical jerk. A womanizer. My name was known clear across nearly the entire state of New York. I was a walking celebrity, but for all the wrong reasons.

The last title always hit me the most. With the constant rumors, frightened looks, and deliberant show of walking the opposite direction, just thinking about the name made my blood boil. I've always had female secretaries, and they did spend a lot of time in the office, yet still it made me wonder how anyone could draw the conclusion that I've slept with any of them.

No wonder why he hides himself away in his office. I could hear those words as if they were just spoken to me.

I could never bring myself to lay a finger on any girl. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself, afraid to let anyone close. I shook my head at that thought, embarrassed even for myself. If I were to let anyone close to me, they would see the truth. They'd see everything that I'm not—one of the many reasons why I kept my business to myself. No one needed to know anything. Absentmindedly, my fingers traced the ridged outline of my scar, the raised flesh like an open wound that would never fully heal. It would forever serve as a reminder that I could never have the good that I so badly craved.

It was so easy to make assumptions, so maybe that was why I let them, but one of these days, I was going to snap. Actually, no, I've done it already. After years of the same hurtful whispers, it was easier to hide behind a mask. To be labeled as the 'worst business owner since his father,' according to 'Forbes Magazine' just last year.

I remembered the shoot as if it was just yesterday. I could hear the photographers asking me to tilt my head this way, and could you sit up a little bit straighter? Fingers on my chin, on my shoulders. Anything to get a better look. Better angle.

They asked me questions, prodded for answers. They were persistent and anxious to get any inside scoop on me and my father's part in the business. And most importantly, as the headline reads: 'Why Carter Wright's Scar Leaves its Own Permanent Mark on 'Wright Manufacturing': What Not to Have in Your Business.'

They don't know my life. I gave the journalists next to nothing and that was how I intended to keep it. My own employees only understood what they saw—and as far as they were concerned, I was just a terrible boss that paid a good salary.

Anxiety curled its fist into my stomach the moment I stepped into my office. Or maybe I felt it when I got into my car. It dug deeper when I reached the familiar building. So much so that the breath in my lungs felt scarce, and as I prepared myself for another long day, I forced myself to slow my heart rate, wiping my sweaty palms on my suit.

I did my best to rid my wandering thoughts, the urge to throw something with each person that came into the office.

They stared, calculated, and scurried away so fast I almost forgot they came in at all. Most days, I didn't let the looks get to me, but with all the huddled whispers these last few weeks as I walked past, and the lingering looks, I couldn't help but think that something was up, and found myself angrier and angrier with each day that past. It was impossible to ignore whatever elephant was lurking in the room.

To think that I wouldn't notice.

I toyed with the hem of my gray suit jacket, eyeing the doorway as I awaited my secretary—the fourth one since March—to make an appearance. She requested to speak with me a couple days earlier, and I couldn't help but wonder what it was about. And it didn't take much to come to a conclusion.

She rung her hands behind her back, eyes flitting rather nervously around my empty office room. Anywhere but me.

"What do you want?" I snapped, startling the poor girl. Just look at me.

"I...I—sorry, sir." Her wide sea blue eyes met mine.

There was a pause, one that didn't sit well with me and deepened the scowl on my lips. I shifted in my seat, reaching for the phone on my desk. If she wasn't going to talk, then I had work to do. Lauren McKinley—a young, yet newly married grad student—backed toward the door upon my movement, and I didn't miss how her fingers reached for the door handle. I nearly blew out a frustrated sigh.

"Why are you just standing there? Either speak or leave—you're wasting my time."

The words were low and cold. An invitation to spit out exactly what my mind was dreading. But I needed to hear it first.

"Did you get my letter?"

Your two weeks notice? Yes. I remembered the day she brought it to my office. The relief on Lauren's face was so evident that I hadn't touched the envelope since.

Secretaries barely lasted more than two months here. I should have expected no more from this one, didn't doubt she gave into all the gossip.

"I want you out by tomorrow morning." I answered with. I hid the weight that fell over my shoulders.

Another secretary gone meant tenfold the workload. I couldn't even remember the last time I ate a decent meal, let alone slept a full night—made me wonder how I was supposed to take the business head on and wait another three months to find a new worker. At that rate, I'd rather see my father's glorious business crash and burn at my feet. Who was I to care?

Lauren's eyes widened. "Mr. Wright, what about a couple days? I-I have a lot of stuff."

You took two days to come talk to me. "That's not my problem."

Without a word and one, fleeting look, my ex-secretary hurried out of the room. She knew better than to argue and a pang of relief filled me at her absence. Though it was quickly suppressed when the phone gave its shrill ring.

•   •   •

The house was dark and empty when I came home. I would forever be thankful for the silence, a sure comfort for the hand clutched around my heart. No one could find me here—an unlikely place for a billionaire—and how I intended to keep it, hidden away so that no one could find me.

I took to the stairs, eager for a shower to wash off the day's events. If only for a moment I'd forget about my nightmarish life.

The hot water burned my skin, a searing pain that left me gasping for breath, but broke the numbness I felt.

I'd have to face it all again tomorrow. Again I'd face the realities that I didn't have anything good to even look forward to. Nothing stayed put long enough in my life to even be considered good. I was nothing, and it seemed the whole world knew that better than I did.

I tossed and turned the rest of this god-forsaken night, listening to the cars as they raced on by. You'd think that by four am the traffic would be dead, but it was more incessant and loud as if it were middle of the day. You'd think I would be used to it.

Heavy with sleep that wouldn't come, I trudged my way down to the kitchen. The coffee pot came to life at my command, a sure constant in my life that I knew I could count on. Couldn't sleep? Coffee. Having a bad day? Coffee. Need to get out of the house? Coffee. I watched as the steaming liquid filled the pot, and through it, could make out my reflection staring back.

Cold, lifeless eyes, cracked lips from biting them so often. Even cropped short, my hair seemed to stick out in a haphazard mess. I wondered how anyone even saw a person in me. I looked just a mess outside as I did in. How did anyone not notice?

I flicked on a light and set my computer in front of me. Maybe the coffee and setting up an advertisement for a new secretary would take my mind off of my miserable life.