The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

by Annika Martin

  He doesn’t like to draw attention to himself, Bob from HR explained in hushed tones.

  Hushed tones.

  As though amazing Mr. Drummond might hear his words and feel displeased, and that might destroy his ultra-important lifesaving train of genius thought, and a swarm of locusts would descend from the sky to eat everybody’s smell-free lunches.

  Here’s a hint for the inmates of Gulag Vossameer: you don’t have to talk in hushed tones when you discuss Mr. Drummond. He doesn’t have godlike omniscience. He doesn’t have bat-like hearing. He is not a wizard.

  He is but a man!

  When you pull aside the curtain, that’s what you’ll find. A controlling jerk of a man with a machine to make his voice sound loud and boomy. Just like in The Wizard of Oz.

  Right before we hit floor fifteen, Sasha takes out a compact mirror and touches up her lipstick. She’s such a gorgeous and clever tiger of a woman, smart and aggressive. Sure, her aggression is turned on me half the time. Still. I feel bad for her.

  I feel bad that this jerky man has made her feel like this. It’s not right!

  I want to tell her not to waste her time on a control freak like Mr. Drummond. He’s just another man behind a curtain! I want to say. There’s more power in your awesome shoes!

  But I don’t.

  For the record, her shoes are awesome—shiny and sculptural high heels in severe black. Her dress is a formfitting knit, sexy in an understated way, with a smart wool blazer over it.

  She snaps shut the compact and glances at me nervously as the door opens.

  I so rarely see her nervous. It’s ominous. Like in movies where the most powerful jungle animals start running for the hills.

  “Don’t mess this up,” she says.

  “No worries!” I try a reassuring smile. “I got your back.”

  Sasha’s frown is intensified by her severe Cruella brows. Again she surveys my outfit; again she doesn’t seem to like what she finds.

  We then begin our long trek down the sleek hallway of harshness.

  Now, in addition to the presentation, I’m stressing about my outfit. At the bakery I never had to dress businessy. I’m so nervous now that I remove my necklace and slip it in my pocket. Less decoration.

  Then a wave of annoyance flashes over me, because what? I just spent the last three weeks working my heart out on their online presence. If this company was run at all competently, I’d be feeling pride and excitement, with just a little nervousness. And Sasha would feel it, too. We’d both be eager to hear feedback and use it to create the best site possible.

  Instead the mood is into the belly of the beast.

  We pass a pair of concerned-looking chemists, coming from one of the labs. There are labs on every floor here. That’s what you get when a chemist runs a company.

  We reach Mr. Drummond’s office. Sasha knocks.

  A distressed-looking woman lets us into a large reception area lined with file cabinets. “He’s expecting you,” she whispers, leading us toward a pair of black doors. Even her gray hair seems anxious, the way it wires urgently out of her head.

  I smile. “Thanks,” I say.

  A glance passes between the two of them.

  What?

  I’m starting to get paranoid. And kind of angry. People here work so hard for him, and how does this guy reward them? By keeping them completely on edge.

  The receptionist knocks softly—twice—then pulls one door open.

  I follow Sasha into a chaotic office space that’s decorated with charts of chemical elements and whiteboards with madly scribbled circles and lines and letters, like the alphabet exploded somewhere nearby.

  File cabinets and shelving units full of boxes and binders and bottles line the walls, and taking center stage is a massive worktable supporting piles of manuals and notebooks and a lone coffee cup next to a lone laptop.

  In a gloomy far corner there’s a broad wooden desk, dark except for one warm circle of light cast by one lonely lamp. Two severe chairs wait in front of it, sentinels at the ready.

  But where is amazing Mr. Drummond? Why would his receptionist act like he’s here when the office is empty?

  A door off to the side is plastered with colorful safety signs, including one that says “Lab Coat and Eye Protection Required.” A lab, then. Did he go in there?

  I wander past the worktable. “Looks like Mr. Amazing is being amazing elsewhere,” I mutter.

  “What’s that?” Sasha says.

  “Looks like he’s elsewhere,” I say more loudly.

  I move closer to the desk. Close enough that I suddenly make out a pair of icy gray eyes staring sternly at me from behind black-framed glasses. Dazzling eyes. Gorgeous eyes.

  Mr. Drummond.

  Fear whooshes through me. Did he hear what I said? Please, no!

  Mr. Drummond stands and pulls off his glasses, still staring at me.

  Gulp.

  His white lab coat hangs open, revealing a fine gray suit underneath. He stalks toward me with the grace of a large predator.

  But that’s not what’s so remarkable about him.

  With or without glasses, he’s the most dramatically, effusively, wildly handsome man I’ve ever seen. His hotness has its own force. It has its own gravity. It has its own zip code, miles past the neighborhood of stop staring and deep in the religious-experience-of-beauty zone.

  Double gulp.

  His dark hair is short and thick, with the texture that you know would be curls if he let it grow out, but like everything at Vossameer, it is rigidly controlled.

  His brows are sooty. His lips, currently formed into a frown, are dangerously lush, a little banged-up to create a bad-boy pillowy effect that I very much like.

  I swallow and straighten up, reminding myself that this is the control freak responsible for the stern and joyless workplace that is Vossameer. The cruel architect of the microwave popcorn ban.

  His extreme hotness is just another assholey aspect of him. Another way he controls people. Melts their minds. Makes their pulses race.

  “We have the social media and site makeover presentation for you, Mr. Drummond,” Sasha stammers. “For your perusal.”

  He continues to regard me unhappily. Did he hear my Mr. Amazing comment? “Do we have an appointment of some sort?” he asks Sasha, even though he’s looking at me.

  “Yes,” Sasha says.

  He shoves ink-stained hands into his pockets. “And you are…”

  “This is Elizabeth Cooper. New assistant.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” I half-lift my hand, unsure if shaking hands is a thing he does with mere mortals.

  He grunts at me, then turns to Sasha. “Let’s have it, then. We’ll set up over there.” He motions at the worktable.

  I quickly retract my hand, curling it around the printout folder. O-kay!

  When I had a new person join my beloved bakery, it would be like we were greeting a long-lost sibling, not somebody’s pet spider that you never wanted to see in the first place.

  We go to where Mr. Drummond is clearing a space. He looks up when he’s done, and for one hot heartbeat, I have this strange sense he’s aware of my secret opinions about him, as if there’s some strange conduit between us.

  Or who knows, maybe he’s telepathic in addition to being the world’s most amazing chemist and most horrible CEO.

  He takes the laptop from Sasha and centers it where he wants it. His hands are quite large, with long fingers, strong yet elegant. I find that I can’t look away from him. He really does have some kind of magnetic gravity thing going on.

  Sasha takes her place in front of it and clicks to open the PowerPoint. The title comes up. Vossameer. Relatable. Human. Engaged.

  Then a page with the generic new tag: “Helping to save lives.” Sasha thought of it. It’s quite the step up from their old tag, “medical antihemorrhagics.”

  Mr. Drummond frowns, as though he’s having trouble making sense of it. Finally he utters one word, dripping wi
th disgust: “No.”

  Sasha looks at me. Like she’s stunned that such an offensive thing made its way to the presentation. “You’ll need to get rid of that, Lizzie.”

  “No problem,” I bite out, feeling my face heat.

  He clicks deeper in. He’s reading everything—all the great results. And he doesn’t seem happy.

  Sweat trickles down my spine.

  It’s as if I’m in marketing opposite-world. Good is bad. Down is up. It would make a funny story if it wasn’t so important for me to keep this job, to get the bonus.

  I cannot lose the bonus.

  But things aren’t looking good.

  I’m suddenly awash in the frantic, helpless feeling I had the night I discovered the life I’d built was imploding. The night I found my bank accounts cleaned out, and then I discovered the bakery eviction notices that my ex, Mason, had hidden from me, followed by the credit card debt from cards I didn’t know about.

  Mason had worked his way into my trust, little by little, and he’d stolen everything. I know I share some of the blame. I was so in love with him. Blinded by love.

  It was too late by the time I called the police. Mason had disappeared, probably to a tropical island, they thought. He’d always dreamed of living in the Caribbean; that’s probably one of the only true things he ever told me.

  In the days after, I learned the worst of it—he’d taken out loans everywhere possible in the name of Cookie Madness and my name, too—including a loan from loan sharks.

  Actual loan sharks.

  Which is why I need this bonus so badly.

  “What are these images of picnics?” Mr. Drummond barks. “How is that relevant to anything? I’m running a pharmaceutical gel business, not a Six Flags.”

  Sasha turns to me. “Lizzie?”

  I look at the screen, feeling his eyes on me, willing myself not to die of despair.

  The picnic shot is one of my favorites. Manhattan skyline in the background. I love New York, and now, thanks to Mason, I have to move away to cheaper pastures.

  As soon as I get the loan sharks off my back.

  “People don’t care about what’s on their bandages,” I say. “It’s not the quality of Vossameer gel they care about—”

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Drummond interrupts, indignant. “Of course they care about quality.”

  “No,” I say, looking him right in the eye. “They care about another chance to be happy, to share meals with their favorite people, to watch them grow. To celebrate together. Lean on each other…” I almost want to cry, imagining all the things I’ll miss.

  Mr. Drummond’s gaze gets even more intense, if that’s possible. It’s like he wants to bore a hole through my face.

  “So actually,” I say, “these pictures are relevant. Because we’re not selling hemostatic gel. We’re selling another day. We’re selling possibilities. And giving medical personnel the power to deliver on that.”

  The air seems to pulse between us.

  “It’s how all other medical solutions companies position themselves,” I add, thinking I’ve made a compelling case.

  Mr. Drummond tilts his head. “Do I look like I care what other medical companies are doing?”

  I swallow. “Okay.”

  “It’s a question,” he says. “Do I?”

  My heart pounds in my ears. Really? He’s going to make me answer a rhetorical question? I suck in a breath. “I suppose you don’t.”

  “You suppose right. I don’t care what other companies are doing. And all of this…children and their teddy bears and whatnot…” He gestures at the screen, seeming at a loss for words, so heinous is the sight, “it has no place on our website or our feeds or whatever...”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Sasha says. “Families don’t belong on our site or on our feeds.”

  I curl my hands more tightly around my file folders. “How about medical personnel? Or could we maybe spotlight the chemists?” There’s a whole army of chemists here, ready to do Mr. Drummond’s bidding, his personal fleet of nerdy minions. I’ve spoken to a few of them in the elevator. They talk about the amazing opportunity to work under him. The amazing learning opportunity. “We could have them talk about—”

  “How about achieving our goals without a lot of fluff?” Mr. Drummond says, totally cutting me off.

  There’s this weird silence where I think I could actually come to hate him. I’ve been working on letting go of my hatred of Mason with the help of a book entitled Forgive and Be Free, but I might hate Mr. Drummond. I might even cherish hating him. Miraculously, I manage a smile. “Social media, too? No images of people?”

  He raises an inky brow.

  “Okay, so the assignment is to modernize and humanize Vossameer’s online presence,” I begin, gritting my teeth, “and I hear you saying, let’s do that without using any humans whatsoever.” Is he listening? Does he hear how messed up that is? It’s like saying, I’ll make some noise without using any sounds whatsoever.

  But no. He grunts his approval.

  “Very good, Mr. Drummond,” Sasha says.

  I stare at one of his alphabet explosion boards, willing the meeting to be done.

  “So do we have everything under control?” he asks.

  I grit my teeth and nod, because I have to keep this job. “Absolutely.”

  “Of course,” Sasha says. “I’ll help her figure it out.”

  We get out of there quickly. Sasha is silent all the way down the hall and into the elevator. Then the doors close. “You were a disaster,” she says. “The way you contradicted him on everything. I had to pull it out of the fire for you.”

  I bite my lip. Wait out the clock, I tell myself. Outplay. Outlast. “Well,” I say, “we have a strong new direction to work with. So that’s good.”

  “Those images. I told you…”

  “Consider them pulled,” I say.

  “And your outfit. It was highly distracting to Mr. Drummond. The employee handbook forbids revealing outfits.”

  My hand goes to my collar. All my buttons are done up except the neck-choking one, but who does the neck-choking button?

  “It’s distractingly formfitting as well,” she says. “This is a workplace, not a fashion show.”

  I quickly button the neck-choking button. But it’s not the outfit. She didn’t like that Mr. Drummond was so focused on me. I want to reassure her that what passed between us was disdain only, but I did find him attractive in an annoying way.

  And he was looking at me a lot.

  This is bad.

  Nothing will get me fired faster than if she thinks Mr. Drummond likes me.

  “I’ll keep it appropriate,” I say. Right then and there, I resolve that whatever spark there was, I’ll douse it. Stomp it. Kill it.

  I’ll become utterly invisible and unattractive to him. Mentally I scan through my closet, trying to think of the ugliest, most shapeless outfit possible.

  “Even so, I’m going to have to write you up for inappropriate workplace attire,” she says.

  “What?” My pulse races. Three write-ups and I’m out. With trembling hands I check the rest of the buttons. “I didn’t think…”

  “Now you will,” she snaps.

  Two

  Lizzie

  * * *

  Mia, my roommate and best friend in the world, pulls a shapeless gray dress off the rack at the Salvation Army on West Forty-sixth.

  “No way,” I say. “I’m trying to appease her, not mock her.”

  “Come on. She’ll see you’re trying,” she says. “This is what she wants. She wants for you to become invisible.”

  I groan and take the dress.

  Mia gives me a really serious look. “This is a code red alarm. We need serious ugly firepower to hide your hotness.”

  I snort. Did I say she was my best friend in the world? Then she holds out Crocs and a fanny pack.

  “I’m going for invisible, not, ‘Look at me! I’m having a psychotic br
eak!’”

  “Do you want to keep the job or not? Go try it on.”

  I grab the stuff and head into the dressing room. I catch one last glimpse of her before I close the door. She has her phone out. “I better not see this on Instagram,” I say.

  “Are you kidding? This is why they invented Instagram.”

  I take off my short sweater dress and my leggings and boots and pull the sack dress over my head. It’s linen with delicate white lace around the collar and sleeve cuffs. I can see how somebody thought it was nice, in an Amish sort of way. I think if you were standing on the prairie with the wind blowing, it might look okay.

  I put on the Crocs and fanny pack, even though I think Mia was just joking about those. I walk out with a dorky expression.

  “Oh my god!” Mia collapses in a chair, covering her face. “It’s perfect. So sad.”

  “You’re such a good friend to me.”

  She snorts and comes to me, turns me around.

  “I’m not walking into a Manhattan office building wearing Crocs. It’s not happening.”

  “Fine. Don’t wear them.” She arranges my hair in a ponytail at the nape of my neck, then turns me around. “You look like you’re in a religious survivalist sect or something.”

  “Yay?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “There’s still your face to contend with,” she says. “Your face is still a problem.”

  “I already don’t like where this is going.”

  “Nah, you just need a little acting instruction,” she says. “Think of your favorite snack…”

  “Cookies that I frost,” I say sadly. “That’s my favorite snack.”

  “No, no, a different snack. Cookies remind you of the bakery and the bakery makes you sad. You like every kind of candy. How about gummy bears? You love those.”

  I nod. I always get gummy bears when we go out to movies.

  “I want you to picture gummy bears. Show on your face how you feel about gummy bears. Right now.”

  I smile and widen my eyes.

  “Okay, pull it back a little. You don’t love them that much.”