At Mr. Cartwright's Command

by Ash, Ingrid

  But it doesn't.

  This can't be real.

  I race out of my bathroom and into the kitchen, practically tearing the newspaper apart until I find it. And there it is, tiny and in the corner of the society pages.

  Engagement Off?

  The son of real estate mogul Walter Cartwright III just might be ending his whirlwind engagement to socialite Veronica du Pont, after he was seen kissing this dark haired beauty yesterday afternoon in the Bronx. Sources say she's an employee of Fanciful Flourishes, the same flower shop in charge of planning his wedding. Talk about scandalous!

  I blink several times and read the blurb probably a hundred times over before I believe it. Since when does Mr. Cartwright even have paparazzi? Sometimes I forget how high-profile his family is, so I guess I shouldn't be wildly surprised.

  Suddenly, there's a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. This isn't going to end well, and Connor is the absolute last person I want to face right now.

  *

  The eyes of every single person in the flower shop are on me from the second I walk in, and that's a hell of a lot of eyes considering the fact that the place is packed from wall to wall. I've never seen it so busy in all the time that I've worked here. They try to be discreet about it, but they're doing a pretty shitty job, whispering to themselves as they glance over their shoulder at me. Walking through the shop, to the backroom, is like a walk of shame.

  I make my way up to Connor's office door, letting out a long, nervous breath before knocking on it.

  “Come on in,” I hear him say from the other side, so I do. He's sitting there at his desk. His whole demeanor changes from frustrated to disappointed when he looks up at me from over his paperwork. A pang of guilt hits me right in the gut seeing him like that and I feel like a child who's about to get reprimanded.

  “Close the door and take a seat, please,” he says to me sternly. At least he's not angry. Hell, I'm sure he is angry, but he could handle this a whole lot worse.

  “Connor,” I say as I shut the door behind me and move towards his desk. “I'm so, so, so sorry. I don't know what—”

  “Just sit down,” he says again. With a gulp I shut up and take my seat, not even thinking about saying another word.

  Connor looks stressed as hell and sleep deprived as well. Why wouldn't he? He lets out a long sigh as he rubs his brow with one hand, staring down at the newspaper clipping in the other.

  “Tamara, you've been a great employee so far. Melissa loves you. So I don't quite understand why you'd do something like this to us?”

  I want to die. “I—I wasn't thinking,” I choke out.

  “Clearly you weren't,” he says, looking me dead in the eyes. “You made out with a client. The groom of the wedding we're planning. And in public.”

  I could grovel, tell him that this is all Mr. Cartwright's fault and that he basically forced me to kiss him, but all that comes out is a quiet, “I'm sorry.”

  “Yeah, I am too. We're still a young business and this is our most high profile client by far. Did you really think it was a good idea to to continue on an affair with the groom this whole time?”

  Wait, what? “I'm not...I didn't have an affair with him!”

  Connor holds up the newspaper clipping. “Doesn't look that way to me.”

  Honestly, I'm a bit insulted. “That's not how it happened.”

  He raises his eyebrows and points to me in the photo. “So you're saying this isn't you kissing him? Do you have a twin we don't know about?”

  Okay, now he was just being an asshole. “It happened but there was no affair going on, I promise you that.”

  “So the two of you weren't alone backstage at Veronica's photo shoot either?”

  My eyes flare; how did he find out about that? “I... we...”

  He gives me a self assured nod and puts the picture down. “God, I knew it was a bad idea to have you on this project.”

  “What? But you said I could handle it.”

  “No, Melissa thought you could handle it. She also thought you were qualified to be manager.”

  Ouch.

  “Truth be told, I don't know how we're going to rectify any of this,” he continues, bitterly. “You're off the wedding, that's for sure, which just means Melissa and I have to pick up more slack and do double the work.”

  “You could just keep me on the wedding. It's not going to happen again, I swear. I even talked to Mr. Cartwright about it.”

  “Absolutely not. That's a ridiculous suggestion! This is quite possibly the worst type of press we ever could have imagined,” he says.

  “Have you been out there? The place is packed.”

  “But we don't make money selling bouquets. We make money booking six figure weddings. You get that, right?”

  I sigh. “Right.”

  “Good. Now, I wanted to fire you but—“

  “Let me guess, Melissa didn't want you to?” I cut in.

  He nods. “Yup. Besides, we really need the help right now.”

  I look down at my hands, wringing in my lap. A tight lump builds in my throat before I even say it. “How about I make this easy for you then? I quit.”

  Connor looks stunned. Clearly, he didn't see it coming, and neither did I when I first walked into the room. I had come prepared to defend myself. I was ready to fight tooth and nail for everything I've worked for. But I know well enough that the only thing worse than not having anywhere to go is being somewhere you're not wanted. That's something I learned from years in the system, and I refuse to be anyone's burden ever again.

  “Listen, before you make a rash decision—“

  I cut him off again and stand up abruptly. “You can mail me my last paycheck,” I say as I rush towards the door.

  “Tamara, come on. Maybe you should think about this!” he says as I fly by him.

  I stop myself in the doorway, feeling a tinge of guilt, as if I'm being slightly ungrateful. Connor might be a bit high strung but he, and his sister, did hire me when no one else would. I look back at him and say, “Thank you for everything.”

  He calls after me as I flee the room, my feet carrying me quickly through the hall and into the shop. The first person I bump into is Melissa. She looks concerned at first, but her features drop the second she sees the look on my face.

  “Tamara, where are you going?” she asks, falling in step with me as I make my way towards the door.

  “Home,” I say.

  “You're scheduled to work in an hour.”

  I stop and turn towards her and shake my head. “No, I'm not.”

  “I'm not following you?”

  “Ask your brother.”

  She looks distraught. “Did he fire you?!”

  “No, I quit. I had to. He doesn't want me here, he made that clear.”

  She grabs me by the arms, “Yes he does! He does, we already talked about this, there are plenty of other things to work on while we work on the wedding!”

  I shake my head, an unexpected tear spilling out of my eye and scorching my cheek. “I know when I'm not wanted and this is for the best, okay?”

  “No, it's not. You can't leave,” she practically begs.

  I smile as best I can, lean in and give her a hug. “Thank you for everything. You've been nothing but kind to me.”

  I lean back and see that her cheeks are stained with tears too. “Take some time and think about this, okay? If you change your mind you can always come back.”

  I nod and say, “I will. But that probably won't happen.”

  I can barely muster the ability to smile back at her as I pull away and leave the shop behind. Melissa would welcome me back with open arms, and I know that. But I also know there's no way I'm ever going back there and grovel for my old job.

  *

  The train ride home is a long one, but I don't remember any of it or any of the faces that passed me by because it's all a blur. I had everything I always wanted, and now I have nothing again. Worse yet, I have no one else to blame
for it but myself.

  I find myself in my empty apartment again, just sitting on my bed, staring at the closet. I should go through it, pull out some of the new pieces I purchased on sale for work, and put them up on Poshmark or something. Same with those niceties I bought at yard sales to decorate the apartment –God, I knew I shouldn't have spent money on things I didn't need. I'm going to need whatever little cash those things will bring in if I want to keep this place for a while.

  But just like everything else, the apartment will go too. I'm not sure why I ever thought any of it would last, when everything in my world has always been temporary.

  CHAPTER 16

  MR. CARTWRIGHT

  “Your breakfast, Master Cartwright.”

  I groan as I roll on to my back. It's dark in my room, but a sliver of light peeking through the heavy curtains tells me that the night is long over. Looking up at Alfred and only seeing a blur of skin and gray hair tells me that I'm still drunk.

  Ronald sighs. “Sit up,” he instructs me.

  “What if I say that I can't?”

  “Then I would say that you're older than I am.”

  I would laugh, but that would make my head throb even more.

  “Here,” he says placing the tray over my lap. “Eat this and drink the shake, all of it this time. You'll feel better instantly.”

  Not that godawful shake again. I hate the taste but yet, I tell him to make me one multiple times a week for the past 8 months.

  As I attempt to pull myself up against the backboard, Ronald moves across the room and opens the blinds. And at that moment I'm convinced he must have fucking dementia because who the hell thinks more light is a good idea at a time like this. I feel like a vampire and I'm pretty sure the sun is going to make me melt and not sparkle. I shut my eyes instantly, using my arm to block out the light.

  “You crazy old man.”

  “Indeed,” he replies. “You've got to stop these self destructive habits or you really are going to age prematurely. You're already sprouting grays.”

  “What,” I mouth, looking upwards, as if I can see my own hair. Ronald just stands there, laughing at me. I swear only he can get away with shit like this.

  “Eat. Enjoy your breakfast, then get up. Exercise, maybe. Just do something.”

  “You get paid either way, why do you care?” I ask, my mouth half full of food.

  He sighs in the doorway. “Because somebody has to.”

  I cock my head to the side. “Fair enough,” I mumble as I take another bite.

  I look down at my tray and realize something important is missing. “Ronald,” I call out.

  “Yes, Master Cartwright?” he replies from down the hall.

  “Where's my newspaper?” I ask casually as I finish my food. He doesn't reply, which I find to be odd. “Ronald?”

  I see his shadow in the doorway. “I... unfortunately it didn't arrive today.”

  Oh really? My eyebrow arches high on my forehead. Alfred is a terrible liar, but the question is, what exactly is he hiding?

  “Ronald, please bring me my newspaper.” Again, silence. “It's alright if you spilled coffee on it again,” I say.

  He returns and his entire demeanor has changed. Did he honestly think I wouldn't notice? He knows better than anyone that the paper is essentially a part of my breakfast.

  “Care to explain what's going on?” I ask him.

  “I was hoping to hide it from you until after breakfast.”

  “How long after?”

  “A couple of years after, preferably.”

  I hold out a hand as I chew. “Bring it to me.”

  He reluctantly makes his way back to the side of the bed, pulling the paper out from inside his sport coat and places it in my hand.

  I glance down at it – it's in perfect condition – and then back up at him. “Is there something else I should know?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.

  He doesn't look at me, he simply says, “Turn to the society pages.”

  The Society Pages; the dregs of society, as they should be called. I haven't set eyes on that section in years and never would care to again. But the look on his face makes me curious. With furrowed brows I flip through the newspaper, a lot more urgently than I'd care to admit. My eyes scan the page for a moment until I see it.

  With my chin in my hand I sit, staring at that photo of her and I for far too long. I'm suddenly more aware of how empty and cold the other side of my bed is. Holding her, tasting her again, somehow completed me if only for a few seconds. I was so close to getting her into my limo, getting her back into my bed, and then she just crushed everything again.

  The alcohol was supposed to numb my pain, so why do I feel this goddamned swelling in my chest?

  I ball of the paper in my hand and throw it to the floor. My eyes meet Ronald's for just a split second, but he looks away. Yeah, I can be fucking childish sometimes. No one knows this better than me.

  “Tamara is a special woman,” he says.

  My eyes flutter up to him again. “I'm aware, why do you think I keep trying to get her back?”

  Ronald's face contorts a bit. I study him confusedly for a moment because, probably for the first time ever, I don't understand what he's thinking.

  “I think there's something you're not saying.”

  “Master Cartwright, when I was a much younger man I met a boy, who was significantly younger than I was at the time. He was very rich and had everything, and I,” he stops to chuckle, “well, I had nothing.” Why he thinks this is funny I'm not entirely sure, but he continues, “But I was never envious of him. Do you want to know why?”

  I'm about to roll my eyes – I don't exactly have time for story time right now, but I entertain him anyways. “Why?”

  “Because despite all of the riches he had, he had no freedom. He thought he did, but at the end of the day, it was money that controlled him and not vice versa.”

  “Thank you for sharing, Ronald.”

  Ronald sighs, his eyes downcast. “Thank you for listening, Master Cartwright, I hope you take what I said to heart,” he says as he exits the room.

  “Crazy old man.”

  I shift on to my side and look down at the floor and that crumpled up piece of newspaper. Someone is following me, spying on me. And I know exactly who it is.

  CHAPTER 17

  TAMARA

  There's nothing I hate more than being a charity case. Funny, since that's practically all I've ever been my entire life. I was one to Mr. Cartwright, and now I'm one to Melissa and Connor, even after my actions nearly ruined their business. And sure, I worked for them, I earned at least part of that money, but the severance package they included on top of my regular pay is generous and I know it. I felt disgusting when I deposited it this morning, knowing it would soon be gone with the rest of my meager savings.

  I spend the remainder of the day at the library, updating my resume and looking or job openings online. Positions are scarce right now, but oddly enough there's an opening at that same McDonald’s where I used to charge my phone. I guess that's the universe's way of bringing me full circle.

  I'm back in my apartment for less than 15 minutes before there's a knock at the door. I'm not exactly sure who it is, but knowing my luck it's probably the landlord coming to say he's raising the rent or evicting me for some cockamamie reason. It sure as hell isn't a friend or a relative because I don't have any of those.

  I say a short and silent prayer before cracking the door open with the chain still on. When I do there's a man standing there in a black suit and tie, with a white shirt and sunglasses. He almost looks like secret service, if it wasn't for the hat.

  “Can I help you?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Tamara Pierce?” he asks.

  How does he know my name? “Um, yes?” I reply tentatively.

  “Please follow me, there's a visitor waiting for you downstairs.”

  Okay, he has a lot of nerve if he thinks I'm just going to follow him wit
hout any more details. “Who are you?” he asks.

  “I'm Mr. Cartwright's driver.”

  Mr. fucking Cartwright. Just hearing his name makes me see red.

  “Nope,” I reply, slamming the door shut in his face. Very rude, I'm aware. The man is just doing his job, but I'm not here for that.

  He's persistent, much like his employer. He knocks on the door again. And again after that, waiting a few beats each time. When it's pretty clear I'm not going to answer he starts knocking repeatedly and it's damn annoying.

  “Tell Mr. Cartwright he's the last person I ever want to speak to again,” I shout as I open the door once more.

  The man looks to the side and says. “Uh, why don’t you just tell him yourself?”

  Good point, I'll give him that. “I don't want to see his face again. Ever.”

  “He told me to come up here and knock until you speak with him.”

  Can't say I'm surprised. I groan, realizing this guy isn't going to give up. I think about threatening to call the cops, but honestly, I wouldn’t mind giving Mr. Cartwright a piece of my mind right now.

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  “He's out front, in his limo.”

  I nod, thinking it over for a moment. Is being seen with him publicly right now really the best idea? Does it even matter either way since I don't have a job? Beyond that, I'm worried that if I see him I might seriously try to kill him. But maybe that's the motivation I need.

  “Alright. Tell him I'll be down in five minutes.”

  “Certainly.”

  I close the door and put my game face on.

  *

  That familiar black limo is parked right outside the door of my apartment building, complete with the driver leaning casually against it with his cap low over his eyes. As I make my way toward it he gives me a nod, opening the door wide for me.

  Well, here goes nothing. I slip inside, more than ready to rip Mr. Cartwright a new one for messing up my life. But then I turn towards him and—