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I need to get over wanting that “something” to be Sara’s gorgeous goddamn body. Her blonde hair twisted around my fist as I fuck her from behind. Her perfect ass gleaming in the low light, ripe and ready. The way she just… unfolds when she comes, again and again and again.
Enough. I push myself away from my desk for a moment, inhale deeply, and return to it. Forget about it. I’ll find what I want somewhere else.
My cock is angry and straining, but less so than before. I’m back in control.
There’s a lot of work to do if I want to be celebrating Dynasty’s second anniversary next year. And third, down the line. And tenth.
And that work will never happen if I’m distracted by something as ridiculous as a memory.
Chapter 7
Sophie
“Ow! Shit!”
I yelp as I stub my toe for what has to be the fifth time this week on the corner of the small island extending from the kitchen countertop. I’ve been in this tiny apartment for less than a month, and I still keep forgetting about that inconveniently placed piece of furniture. What’s it going to take to remember about the island? A broken toe?
I knock my fist gently against the laminate top, rattling the morning’s breakfast plates softly, as I wait for the throbbing to pass. I’m going to have to suck it up and leave, in pain or no, if I want to make it to my interview on time.
Well, early is the new on time for me. Because this opportunity is too important to screw up by being late.
This job is the opportunity of my dreams. It’s what I’ve been chasing all this time. The reason I’m in New York City.
Every crappy position I’ve taken and learned and grown from up until this point is for this moment. And I’m not going to be late—even with my kitchen island trying to sabotage me.
“Just kidding. You’re not trying to sabotage me,” I mutter, patting the surface and quickly gathering up the dishes to dump in the sink. “You’re my makeshift table. My rock. The soul of this apartment. We’ve got this. You’re just reminding me to take a minute and soak it all in.”
So I do. Here I am, in New York City. Finally living out my dream, pursuing a career in marketing in what’s arguably the business capital of the world. My apartment is nothing to boast about, but it’s mine, and I’m determined to thrive here.
Starting with this new job.
It’s perfect for me. A new role at a massive and still growing company. It doesn’t matter that it’s a company that sells home fitness equipment, which has never been a huge interest of mine. What matters is that they’re looking for people with a fresh take on marketing, people who can be savvy to new ways of reaching consumers—and I’m positive I can be exactly what they’re looking for.
“Let’s do this,” I say to the kitchen island, then slip my pumps on.
I catch glimpses of my reflection in the windows of the buildings I pass on my short commute to the subway. I spent ages deciding on my outfit, and I hope I went with the one that’s going to get me this job. I’ve ironed a charcoal blouse and tucked it into a knee-length black pencil skirt. My pumps are just on the edge of discomfort, but they’re classy and timeless. I’ve followed all the protocols—just a dash of perfume, my makeup conservative, and my only jewelry a pair of diamond studs that used to be my mom’s. They’re one of my favorite things of hers that I kept after her death.
I hope they bring me luck. And I hope that, wherever she and my dad are, they’re proud of me. Brad never really supported my dreams or career aspirations, but I know they did, and I hold on to that now.
I reach my destination fifteen minutes early—just like I planned—as I emerge from the subway right in front of an impressive building. It glitters like the rest of the glass and steel monstrosities in New York City, but it stands out a bit somehow too. It’s sleeker than most, and although it wasn’t built specifically for its tenant, it seems to reflect the exclusivity that the Dynasty brand has been boasting lately.
It’s intimidating as hell, but I try not to let my nerves show on my face as I walk through the glittering lobby, patting my purse to make sure it contains the folio with my resume and portfolio. My laptop is stuffed into the purse too, just in case. That’s how nervous I am. I’ve gone through every conceivable scenario and made a contingency plan for it.
“Good morning,” I say with a smile, greeting the receptionist at the monstrous glass fronted desk occupying a central location in the lobby. “I’m Sophie Anderson. I have an interview at nine.”
“You’re expected,” the receptionist returns coolly—not smiling, I can’t help but notice. Is she a native New Yorker? Probably. I still haven’t mastered the art of keeping my expression completely blank like that. “Take one of the elevators on your right to the sixteenth floor. Gigi will be waiting for you.”
“Gigi, right.” I nod, recognizing the name from my email correspondence. Gigi Gaudino is the head of HR for Dynasty. She’s the one who emailed me about being invited for an interview. “Thank you.”
The receptionist nods and returns her attention to the screen in front of her, and I waste no time in getting to the elevator.
Nerves? They’re there. But I’m also excited. This could become my everyday routine, heading up to the job I love. It will. I’ve got this.
When the elevator doors roll open to reveal the sixteenth floor, I can spot Gigi by the way she commands the little lobby space around the bank of elevators.
Now that is a quintessential New Yorker.
Gigi is older than me, probably in her mid-forties, but graceful. Elegant in the same way that Audrey Hepburn is elegant, all supermodel angles and neutral colors and a haircut that would be severe if it wasn’t so sophisticated.
