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But here is the funny thing about the past—it doesn’t like to stay buried.
This is made clear two days after the elevator incident when I walk into the sixth-floor boardroom at Moore’s ready for the meeting between the current marketing firm and my team.
Chase warned me that he’d ousted some of the ‘old regime’ as he put it, when he took over operations from his father. He also mentioned that there are still some left who aren’t thrilled with the young Moore’s new way of running things. Like the marketing firm still under contract.
I was prepared for that. I’ve been through this before, with marketing companies that never expanded their knowledge toward new online forums and social media sites. Companies still stuck focusing on paper ads and television commercials alone.
I spent the last two days avoiding Chase while honing my team’s plan, designing ad mock-ups to entice age demographics Moore’s is currently failing, and planning social media feed image bursts with the help of Alice’s floor display ideas. I know the proposal inside and out, prepared for any questions thrown at me or my team.
What I’m not prepared for is my past to come crashing so thoroughly into my present and future.
“I know you,” a beautiful but severe-looking woman says when I step up to the long, oval table.
I know her too. I pause, taking in the familiar blond hair that probably costs hundreds of dollars a month in upkeep, the classic French-tipped fingers steepled in front of her, and the expensive mahogany leather attaché case embossed with her initials placed in the middle of the table, encroaching on everyone’s space.
I catch myself humming “Devil in Disguise,” disguising the noise by clearing my throat. “Yes, you do,” is all I say, giving myself a moment to come to terms with this unwelcome surprise. I’ve researched Warren and Baron. Their clients, both past and present. Their outdated strategies. But I hadn’t thought to ask for a list of names on the team assigned to the Moore’s campaign. Because if I’d seen the name Denise Hampson anywhere, I would have prepared.
I take a seat next to Alice, who’s looking equal parts eager and nauseous. Kind of how I’m feeling after seeing Denise, though hopefully I’m doing a better job of hiding it.
Chris is on the other side of me going over our presentation on his laptop, with Ben leaning in on his other side.
I’m thankful I took care with my appearance today, wearing a suit I brought from Texas and not one of the newly acquired outfits from Moore’s. It’s more masculine in style—a hunter green fitted, double-breasted jacket and flat front slacks. The trousers have a shorter hem, showcasing my lone pair of Manolo Blahniks. The shoes I wear on big occasions to make me feel strong.
Men have power ties. Women? Power shoes.
Chase comes in, and I turn my attention to him. Son of a gun, he looks fine.
He glances around the room, his eyes pausing a bit longer on me than others. I take a deep breath and try to remain unaffected.
“Okay, it seems everyone is here. Great. Let’s get right to it.” Chase doesn’t sit but stands at the head of the table, looking toward the men and women across from me. “As you know, I’ve taken over the day-to-day operations of Moore’s, having been given complete control by the majority of the shareholders. And you’ve probably heard that I’ve made some extensive changes as to how the company is run.” He tips his head in my direction. “Denise Hampson, this is Campbell—”
“Dougherty,” Denise fills in, using a name I haven’t gone by in eight years. I can see her brain finally working out how she knows me. Her slick, red lips twitch into a smirk.
Last time I saw Denise Hampson was eight years ago at Douglas Marketing, the marketing firm I worked at directly after college. She was my cube-mate and colleague—the one who took credit for all my work, then accused me of sleeping with clients. I sat in front of our boss in silence, too blindsided to defend myself. This time I will not be silent.
“It’s King, actually. Campbell King,” I say, staring her down, giving her nothing. She blinks, eyeing my bare ring finger, my correction confusing her.
“Yes,” Chase continues, with a slight frown pinching his brows, “of King Marketing. Ms. King will be developing a separate marketing department for Moore’s and overseeing what you’ve been doing for Moore’s through Warren and Baron as well as the new direction we’ll be taking on our own.”
There’s a pregnant pause, one in which Chase simply lets Denise and her cronies marinate on what he just said. “King Marketing’s main focus will be building up Moore’s social media marketing, which has been sorely lacking. Ms. King and her team”—he smiles and nods to Alice, who flushes— “will be working with you to guide us into this next step. They will act as both consulting and marketing firm.”
I have to give it to old Denise; she still has a great resting bitch face. “I see.” A small tic by her left eye starts as she looks at Chase. When she finally deigns to look at me again, the tic stops as she narrows her eyes.
Well, shit. Here we go.
“I was at Douglas Marketing with Miss Dougherty.” She pauses, trying and failing to look apologetic. “I’m sorry, I mean Ms. King here, a few years ago.” There’s a gleam in her eyes as if she’s enjoying remembering our brief association all those years ago. “And though I didn’t have the pleasure that some of my colleagues and our firm’s clients had by working with her… one-on-one, I heard she is very creative in what she does.”
People around the table are definitely picking up a weird vibe. Brows are furrowed, heads are tilted, trying to decipher the innuendo Denise is throwing around. For once, I’m not betrayed by my fair skin, and my face remains cool. Probably because whatever embarrassment I thought I’d face at Denise’s words isn’t there. Instead, cold rage fills me.
How dare she? How dare she show no remorse for her actions all those years ago? How dare she have the audacity to insinuate less than admirable things about my work? Just how fucking dare she.
“She is,” Chase says. And when I look at him, I’m surprised to see his usual affable demeanor gone, his eyes hard and focused on Denise. I’ve never seen him so tense. “Ms. King is so creative that in the past week, since I first contacted her, she and her team have already put together a digital presentation, complete with financial gain predictions for the new modes of marketing for Moore’s. Something that Moore’s has failed to see from Warren and Baron even though they were contracted over a year ago.”
They say you should rise above, take the higher road, not get pleasure from your enemy’s failings.
To hell with that.
I smile widely and brightly at Denise, her poker face slipping as her red lips pucker like a spasming asshole.
