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Chapter 35 Dominic
Chapter 35 Dominic
Dominic
Monday morning at the office, all eyes are on me—but they won’t meet mine. Clusters of chattering employees in the hallways and open workspaces abruptly clam up and avert their eyes when I pass by. It’s fucking awful.
Presley avoids me like I have the plague, hiding away in her office, her face turned toward her computer. Only Beth, a true professional to the end, continues to look me in the eye and handle our business as smoothly as if that damn news story never happened.
Thank God for small miracles. And the story, to be honest, is petty and ridiculous. An escort I went out with a handful of times wanted to cash in and sold her story. There was nothing all that salacious about it, but the media latched onto it and it spread like wildfire—destroying everything in its wake—including my reputation.
Gia called from the agency first thing that morning and told me she had deleted my file and that we needed to cut all ties. I told her that was fine. I don’t plan on using her services again anyhow. But of course, the damage was already done.
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By Wednesday, the story still hasn’t died down, and it’s starting to wear on me. I’d like to think I’m resilient, untouchable, but this week has been humbling, to say the least.
As I come in, Beth looks up and chirps, “Good morning, Mr. Aspen.”
No matter how early I arrive, she always seems to get here first, already perched efficiently at her desk, hard at work. It’s one of the things I admire most about her.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the normalcy of it all. With everything that’s been going on, I didn’t realize how badly I needed things at the office to feel normal.
“Good morning, Beth,” I say, attempting a smile that I’m sure doesn’t reach my eyes. “What’s on the agenda today?”
She smiles back, and hers is sincere, if not a little sad. She gazes at her computer, tapping one long fingernail against the screen as she locates the details. “You have a meeting with development at ten, procurement at one thirty, and the board of directors at three. Oh, and Kelly would like to talk to you ASAP.”
Of course, the head of PR wants yet another piece of me. All I’ve done this week so far is help her manage this fucking disaster. It’s like wading through a pile of shit—the very definition of unpleasant.
“Tell her I’ll call her by lunchtime. There are a few things I want to finish first.”
“Can do, sir.”
Inhaling deeply, I head into my office and close the door. Then I sit at my desk and stare at my computer like it’s the controls to a spaceship. Fuck . . . exactly like yesterday. All week, I’ve been so edgy and off my game, it’s been a struggle just to concentrate. My brain feels so scattered, and I can’t seem to clear it, no matter what I do.
I rub my eyes and force myself to check my email, deciding to deal with the non-scandal-related items first. Maybe less excruciating work will help me get a good flow going.
I send the financial analysis team a long list of comments and questions on their latest forecast, only to realize a second too late that I hit Reply instead of Reply All. Goddammit. I resubmit my thoughts and move on to the next email.
For twenty minutes, I attempt to write another few hundred words for the leadership article I’ve been working on, then change my mind and decide I should talk to our marketing director first. We need to refine our direction for the hotel that’s soon to be built in London.
I push my intercom’s button. “Beth, can you call Denise and tell her to stop by when she has a moment?”
“I’m . . . afraid not?” She sounds confused.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s not in the office this week.”
“What? Then where the hell is she?” I snap.