Temp

This is my chance to make up for that.

Make up for…myself. Who I am.

And the fact that I think this makes me angry.

I’m angry at myself for being so pathetically eager to please parents who don’t even like me. I can’t help it, though. For the first time in my life, my father told me he needed me, so here I am. Doing his bidding. Hoping for a pat on the head and a crumb of praise afterward. There is nothing I can do to keep myself from needing that reinforcement—and it makes me so mad. Hundreds of thousands of dollars and hours of therapy. Wasted. And not a dime of it came from my pocket. It was all theirs.

The elevator slows to a stop, the twin metal doors pulling apart soundlessly to reveal a sun-drenched office. State of the art Mac desktops and floor to ceiling windows, and impeccably dressed professionals talking in terms I don’t understand. Inspection contingency and comparative market analysis.

My black pumps pause on their way out of the elevator, my fingers nervously tugging down my pure white skirt. I thought it would be pretty easy getting hired as a temp. I’m a lowly undergrad at NYU in real life, but on my resume, I’m a Columbia finance major looking for first-hand experience. I’m a rock star, top of her class. Just looking for a side hustle while studying for her degree. Essentially, the girl detailed on my resume is the daughter my parents were hoping for—and didn’t receive.

With that unfortunate thought giving me impetus, I approach the reception desk. “Hello.” I smile at the sharply-dressed man behind the desk. “I’m—"

He says something into the headset he’s wearing and I apologize, stepping back to give him privacy, until he ends the call and gestures me forward. “Hi. Yes?”

“I’m Sarah Grimm. I was sent here by the staffing agency. To interview for the possible temp position?”

The receptionist gives me an interested once over. “Really,” he says dryly. “You’re here for a job.” That last word is accompanied by air quotes.

My face starts to burn. He seems skeptical that I’m here to work. Has he already guessed my true identity? Does he know that I’m here to dig around in CEO Matthew Borden’s business? Is my cover already blown? My father assured me only his closest associates are aware of this totally unethical mission.

“I, um…I don’t understand.”

The man behind the desk rolls his eyes. “A lot of women come in here hoping for a little tête-à-tête with Borden. Something about him being a single billionaire is really appealing, I guess? Who knew.” He chuckles without any change to his glib expression. “It’s a waste of time, sweetie. He’s a robot.”

“I am not here to…tête-à-tête with anyone.”

“You don’t want to tête-à-tête with my boss? Have you seen my boss?”

Of course I’ve seen him. I’ve been studying his routine and business practices for two weeks. When I agreed to spy on the competition for my father, this all seemed pretty far in the future. Some abstract idea that would never really come to fruition. It still doesn’t seem real. I’m here inside this massive corporate office to spy on a real estate mogul who—by all accounts—is a ruthless asshole who gets what he wants by any means necessary.

I suppose he’s good looking, too, based on the pictures I’ve seen.

His appearance doesn’t exactly matter, does it?

I’m here to find out how Borden has been gobbling up property before it’s listed on the market. According to my father, Borden is finding devious ways of bankrupting smaller corporations, giving them no choice but to sell their lucrative property to the very man who bled them dry. If that’s true, this man is devilish and evil. My father just needs concrete proof in order to approach authorities.

If I can get that proof, maybe I’ll have some worth in the eyes of my parents.

Dammit.

My self-disgust flares. And I must not be hiding it very well, because the receptionist sinks slowly into his chair, picks up the phone and hits a button. “Uh, yes. Mr. Borden. Your temp has arrived for approval.”

He listens for a moment, then hangs up the phone. “Follow me.”

I trail behind the receptionist through a maze of desks and up a glass staircase, holding on to the railing so I don’t slip in these heels. At the top of the stairs, I’m led across a landing suspended high above the main floor. It’s impossible not to notice that quite a few of the employees are charting my progress toward Borden’s office with smirks on their faces. For the second time, I assure myself that no one knows I’m Hale’s daughter. I’ve never been pictured with him in public. I’ve been kept separate. Away.

Building dollhouses in solitude like the absolute freak that I am.