Page 2 of Fragile Twisted Vows
“Great. My name is Lucille, Lucy for short.” I chuckle nervously and she gives me a fake, judging smile as she nods slowly.
“Right, well.” I remove the resume from the portfolio and slide it towards her.
“I used to be a student at NYU and I studied marketing that specialized in global sales. While I haven’t finished my degree, and I’ve been working at a restaurant downtown for the last three years, I did used to intern at a small firm here in SoHo and I would love the chance to work for your-”
She holds up a firm hand and silences me instantly.
“I’ll pass this along to our store supervisor,” she says with a smile that looks very much like a sneer.
Don’t give up, Lucy. Keep trying.
“Is she here? I have some of my mock campaigns with me as well-” I try to explain, but she waves that very same hand that silenced me before.
“She’s in a very important meeting right now, but I’ll be sure to leave a message. Take care,” she says with that sneer as I stand there awkwardly in silence.
“Okay…um, well, thank you for your time,” I say as I turn on my heel, hoping my defeat doesn’t color my voice like it’s coloring my face right now.
She stops for a second, glancing down at my portfolio.
“Fairchild,” she reads, my last name rolling from her red painted lips.
“Say, you’re not related to Senator Michael Fairchild, are you?” she asks, her eyes sparkling just a little as I turn around and meet them.
I’m his disowned daughterI think, but I don’t say this. Not like they would know if I was disowned because no one really knows what I look like. I was too unruly, too unmanageable to bring out into the world for the public eye to view. My older sister was the perfect one. The rigid one, the obedient one. I was nothing but a wild child with her own thoughts and opinions.
“No, sorry. Just a…coincidence or common last name I guess,” I stammer as I smile and ramble nervously.
She nods, that disgust filling her dark eyes again.
I sigh as I turn and I swear that when I walk away from the counter I hear her crumpling that paper up, but I can’t focus on that because as soon as I walk past the large display of samples near the winding staircase by the crystal chandelier, I think I see a ghost.
A very beautiful, familiar and distracting ghost.
Damien Reed.
My sister’s husband, and owner of one of New York’s largest enterprises.
He’s talking with a woman in an expensive, tight red dress. Her hair is voluminous and the richest shade of brown, baring a very nice blowout that every woman dreams of having. He extends a long, suit-covered arm to fix the strand of expensive pearls around her neck. The sleeve of his jacket molds to his muscles and she’s tilting her head back and laughing at something he says.
Which I know must be a fake laugh.
Because Damien Reed is not funny.
He’s serious, cutthroat and very dark. He’s a secretive man with many shadows trailing behind him. The only nice thing I’ve ever seen him do was for me. And that was one time nearly three years ago, right before my sister filed for divorce.
I run into the display shelf and knock several small bottles onto the marble floor.
“Shit!” I hiss, scrambling to bend down and pick them all up.
Priscilla walks over, her black heels clicking loudly against the marble floor.
“Ugh, just leave them,” she growls, but I continue to grab the bottles, hoping that I’m hidden and Damien’s not able to-
“Lucille?” I hear him call, his rich and deep voice rolling through me.
Don’t respond, don’t react.
“Lucy,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like my name, it sounds like a command.
