Devil's Contract

“No worries, but I do have a previous engagement this evening so I’m afraid I can’t stay late.”

I’m happy she’s leaving. I need to be alone and think through today’s newest findings. Yet, when she starts picking up piles of folders and putting them back into the banker’s boxes she’d had delivered from Tristan’s office, I reach out to stop her.

“No need to clean up. I’ll be working through the weekend, too,” I inform her, annoyed that I feel the need to explain anything to her.

“But…” Her voice drops off for a moment. “I need to take all of these documents back where they belong,” she explains, waving her arm around the heavy table.

“I can assure you, this is exactly where it all belongs.” I’d have let it drop there, but she hadn’t stopped picking up piles of file folders yet so I added, “In fact, on Monday, you can begin the process of bringing any remaining records and personal effects from Tristan’s office here to my penthouse. Feel free to hire a moving service if needed. Then you can return or sell any office furnishings.

“I’ve already contacted the building’s management company to let them know I’m terminating the lease on my deceased husband’s office space. We need to have the offices vacated before the end of the month.”

At least that stopped her from picking up. “But… I assumed Tristan’s business…”

I cut her off, annoyed by her continued use of my dearly departed’s first name. “Mr. Miller is dead. I’m the executor of his estate, and as it’s clear he had absolutely no problem borrowing from my assets while he was alive, I have no qualms liquidating any and all of his remaining belongings to help offset his excessive losses.”

I see the panic in her eyes. If only I could bring myself to give a shit. After spending the entire week holed-up, side-by-side, in my penthouse pouring through sketchy financial records, about the only thing I’m certain of is that my husband fucked even the dowdy Mrs. Carter. There is no other explanation for her weepy and unwavering loyalty to her dead boss.

A wave of weakness invades when fat tears stream down her cheeks. I try to remind myself Tristan’s failures as a businessman were no fault of her own.

Unwilling to comfort her through another meltdown of emotions, I finally add, “Of course, you’ll be paid your salary through the end of the month. I’ll also make sure you get a six-week severance package for the six years you spent as Mr. Miller’s assistant. Hopefully that will see you through to finding a new position.”

Her face brightens slightly before adding, “Mr. Miller is generous, even in death.”

Bitch, Mr. Miller is dead. I want to scream that since it will take me months to finish settling all of Tristan’s estate, every damn penny she’ll be receiving is coming out of my personal banking account. But since she’s been sitting at this fucking table with me all week, watching the profit and loss spreadsheet dig deeper and deeper into the red, she should already know that.

“In case you missed it, Mr. Miller left no money to cover any of his debts, much less any mention of a severance package for you. I’m providing that for you out of my funds, but if you’d prefer what Mr. Miller left you instead, I can…”

“No. I understand… um…thank you,” she finally gets out before scurrying away.

I sip on my now-cold cup of tea after she’s gone, trying to decide exactly who I’m most angry with. The list of candidates seems endless.

Tristan is the easiest to direct my anger toward. He’s not here to defend himself anyway.

I’ve spent the entire week hiding in my apartment, compiling the long list of those who deserved my ire. The creditors, real estate companies, accountants, and bankers are bad enough. So many people enabled my dead husband to overextend. While I’d love to blame them all, I know first-hand what a great actor Tristan was. He’d fooled me too.

Which is why my own name is at the tippy-top of the list of those who I’m furious with. How could I not have seen all the now-obvious signs?

The ding of the elevator arriving forces me to push my anger down again. I’ve had multiple meltdowns already this week. It wouldn’t do to have my head of security witness the next one.

His short knock comes as he lets himself in from the foyer. “Ms. Belov.”

“Mr. Jenkins.”

Cordial. The word sums up my relationship with Mike Jenkins perfectly and that suits me just fine.

Dropping a file folder directly in front of me, he launches into his nightly report. For five minutes I sit through his mundane recap of employees calling in sick, contractors coming and going, VIP arrivals and departures, and a million other details that I used to care about for some reason.

When I can stand no more, I hold up my hand. “That’s enough. Thank you for keeping me informed, but until further notice, I’d like to change these nightly status updates to emergencies only.” Only after I detect the harshness in my voice do I tack on a lame, “Please.”

I hadn’t bothered to ask him to sit. That would imply I wanted him to stay longer than necessary. So why is he still here?

In the awkward silence, I’m forced to finally look up to his unreadable mask of an expression.

“Is there something else?” I finally ask, praying the answer is no. I’m not sure how much more shit I can pile on my back right now.

“It’s just…” He pauses. I suspect he’s trying to determine if his concern rises to my definition of an emergency.

“You can speak freely with me,” I urge, desperate to be left alone.