Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 66323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
I had no idea this would be live.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Before we go inside,” Rebecca says, “can you tell us what your inspiration was for this design?”
“Well, it was Florence, of course. I did a lot of research on her style and thought the home should complement her. She’s the main work of art here. The rest is to support her.”
“Oh, I love that,” Rebecca says with a wide grin. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Shall we?” I ask and gesture for the two women to follow me, trying to ignore the three guys holding cameras and sound equipment.
This whole thing is so over the top, and I’m more than a little pissed that nobody warned me that we’d be live—or that there would be so many people here.
I’m relieved that I had Amelia do my makeup and that Gray brought me this dress. Otherwise, I would have felt dowdy and out of place.
Is that what Florence wanted all along?
I lead them through, room by room, pointing out the designers of the different pieces and explaining about leathers and grains and how colors accent each other.
When we finish the initial tour in the master bedroom, I stop and turn to Florence with a smile.
“What do you think?”
She purses her lips, and I feel my stomach sink to my toes.
Fuck.
“Does it smell like sex in here?” she asks calmly, turning to the others. “Do you smell that?”
“What?” I frown and sniff the air. “Of course, not.”
Florence shakes her head in disappointment and then walks over to the wall where the new wallpaper is still drying.
“This wallpaper,” she begins and runs her hand over it. “What is it?”
“It’s cashmere. From Paris,” I reply.
Rebecca nods, clearly happy with it.
But Florence finds a seam, pushes her sharp, black fingernail under it, and rips a huge swath of it right off the wall, making me gasp in shock.
“I’m vegan,” Florence says, dropping the paper on the floor. “You’ve dressed my house in cashmere and leather.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Florence, I apologize. I didn’t have that information.”
“You didn’t ask, did you?”
She walks out of the bedroom, down the hall to the living room, and points to the oil painting above the gas fireplace.
“What is that?”
“It’s an original piece from an artist in New Orleans.” My voice is flat now, like a child being berated. Because that’s how I feel.
“It’s depressing,” Florence says. “And these pillows. Did you buy them from the thrift store? They look cheap.”
“No. I got them from Neiman Marcus.”
I look around and see that Rebecca is talking directly to the camera now, signing off. The three men lower their cameras and leave out the front door.
Florence doesn’t even notice. She keeps going at me.
“This rug is disgusting. It already looks dirty. And don’t even get me started on the kitchen.”
She marches into the attached kitchen and grabs a crystal vase from Tiffany off the island.
“This looks like an old-lady vase.”
She smashes it on the marble floor.
Two thousand dollars in pieces.
Rebecca says nothing. Her face is sober, her eyes hard. She sees the abuse that Florence is spewing but says nothing.
And I don’t blame her.
Florence is a powerful, intimidating woman.
“That’s enough,” I say at last, and Florence whirls around to stare at me.
“What did you just say?”
“I said, that’s enough. Obviously, you don’t like the hard work that I put into this house or the money I spent on it—at my own expense. There’s no need to abuse me to make your point.”
She narrows her eyes on me, firms her lips, and leans in close.
“I’m going to fucking ruin you,” she whispers and then walks away.
Rebecca follows her, and I watch through the open front door as they get into the limo and drive off.
I don’t know why I thought it would go well. Nothing I could have done would have satisfied that woman.
I know that now.
She’s an angry, miserable excuse for a human, and she’s likely to follow through on her promise.
I grab my things and lock the door behind me on my way out to my car.
But before I can even start the engine, my phone rings.
It’s my boss.
“This is Stella,” I answer.
“My office. Thirty minutes.”
And she hangs up.
Yep, I’m fucked.
I just want to sleep for about a year.
Instead, I’m walking through my building, headed for my office. But before I can get there, Camille pops her head out of her office and gives me the come here signal.
I glance over at Liz, who cringes for me but gives me a thumbs-up gesture as if to say, it’s gonna be okay.
But I can see by the look on Camille’s face that it’s absolutely not going to be okay.
“You’re fired,” she says as soon as my ass hits the chair.
“Wait. You’re firing me?”
Camille sits back and looks at me incredulously. “What else would you have me do, Stella? That little shit show just happened on a live stream for all the world to see.”