Stroke of Midnight (Cinderella 1)

This isn’t New York City. This is Constantine City.

I smile as I think about the quote my father used to always say. “The Constantines make the Rockefellers look like beggars.” Our family drinks, breathes, and shits money. That’s my quote, much to Mother’s horror.

The city sparkles under the May morning sun like diamond-encrusted model buildings. I could take the time to count each one that belongs to us, but I only have about forty more minutes until Bison and I discuss how he’s going to bend over and let me fuck him. Not literally, but I’m going to figuratively make that man’s rich ass my bitch. Point is, I don’t have all day.

I’m extremely satisfied for a Friday morning, which will only bleed into my call, ensuring I get exactly what I want. I begin my usual pacing as the cogs inside my brain start turning. But then I hear a crackle.

Small. Insignificant. But, oh-so-wrong.

Pausing, I lift my foot. Nothing. I drop my foot and take another step. Crackle. A flare of fury rises inside me like a volcano, angrily erupting. Lifting my foot once more, I grab my ankle and twist to see what’s on the bottom of my shoe.

A candy wrapper.

I pluck it from my sole, irritated as fuck at the red stickiness left on the bottom. I was never allowed candy as a child, and as a nearly thirty-six-year-old man, I’ve never so much as indulged once. This candy isn’t one I’m familiar with.

Where the hell did it come from?

Yanking my shoe off so I don’t track sticky residue across my floors, I storm over to my chair and take a seat. The wrapper says Starburst. Cherry flavor.

Someone was in my office.

Who?

One glance at my John-Richard Collection silver fog oil painting tells me no one fucked with my safe. It’s unmoved and straight. All my files are kept on my laptop, protected and encrypted. There’s nothing of value besides what’s behind that painting.

“Deborah!” I bark out, growing more and more pissed by the second.

The clacking of her heels is hurried and frantic. Her brown eyes are wide as she takes in my furious state.

“Sir?”

“What the hell is this?” I growl, holding up the offending wrapper.

Her face bleeds of color. “I, uh, I’m not sure. Perhaps you tracked it in?”

Several long seconds go by where she begins to tremble, because we both know I did not track this shit in.

“I’ll find out. I’ll look at the security footage and contact the cleaning company—”

“I’ll handle the footage,” I snap. “You figure out who not only forgot to clean my office, but also thought it was okay to leave a fucking trail.” I lean down to drag the wastebasket out from under my desk. Four more wrappers sit in the bin.

“I’ll have them terminated immediately,” she assures me, her face now turning purple with her own fury. “This is absolutely unacceptable.”

This is a mistake of epic proportions.

Not only will the cleaner be let go if this is what this is, but I’ll destroy the entire firm for allowing such unprofessionalism at Halcyon. It’s abhorrent. I knew I shouldn’t have allowed Mother to refer her cleaning company. I don’t give a shit if Caroline Constantine will throw a bitch fit over this. Father never would have allowed this to happen.

“No,” I bark out to Deborah. “I want you to start with who was working last night. Then I want every boss above them all the way to the top. Each and every name. I want them all in an email in the next half hour so I can deal with it.”

“Of course, sir.”

She clacks out of my office in a rush to do my bidding. Soon, Cara hurries in with a wet cloth. I fume as she cleans off the bottom of my shoe. She goes to snatch the wrapper from my desk, but I swat her hand away.

“Leave it,” I grumble as I take my shoe back and shove it on my foot.

She nods before rushing out of the room. I grab my bag and pull out my laptop. Once I have it powered on, I flip through to the building security app. My sister Tinsley says I’m a control freak like our father. I call it keeping your eyes open. When you close them and assume everyone has your best interests at heart, they rob you blind or shoot you in the back. Having access to the security cameras is something I absolutely require and sift through often.

I flip over to the recording from last night. Around nine in the evening, the lights turn on, and then a woman in a light blue uniform walks in, dragging a cart with her. She starts to clean, but then sets her cloth down on my desk before sitting in my chair. I watch, disgusted, as she spins around in my chair enough times it makes me dizzy. Finally, she stops and then pulls a red, square, wrapped candy from her pocket.