The Sister (The Boss 6)

Mel looked up, puzzled. “She thought since you’d just be getting back today, you’d want an easy—”

“Because I can’t handle this job as well as she can. Right.” I opened a drawer and took out some paperclips, just to have a reason to angrily slam it again.

“I…don’t think that was the reason,” Mel said, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other.

Even though I knew she wasn’t the cause of all the things I felt at the moment, Deja had become the sole target of my anger. How dare she take over one of my meetings without asking, like I was so helpless that I needed training wheels or something to do my job?

“I don’t appreciate the two of you going behind my back to make changes like that,” I snapped at Mel, and got to my feet. I stomped out the door and made an immediate left into Deja’s office without knocking. Stephenie sat at Deja’s desk, glossy photos laid out in front of them. I must have looked like a sea witch or something, judging from their startled reactions.

Good. I hoped everyone would be afraid of me. Maybe then, I could get a little god damn respect around here.

Do you really deserve respect, though? I asked myself. You’re totally expendable, and you know it.

That only made me angrier, because I did know it. The magazine didn’t run itself, but it sure ran well enough without me.

“I need to talk to you,” I said, then, to Stephenie, I added, “Without an audience.”

She scrambled to collect her things and hurried out while Deja asked, “What’s going on, Sophie?”

“What’s going on?” I stepped aside so the extraneous parties could exit. Stephenie closed the door behind her with a last wary glance at me. “Well, for starters, I came in here prepared for a meeting I’m not going to.”

“Is this about the St. Laurent thing?” she asked, frowning in confusion. “I thought you would be happy that I—”

“That you what? That you don’t think I can do my job?”

“I never said that,” she insisted firmly. “Is that how you feel?”

Yes. “No. And you shouldn’t feel that way either.”

“I told you, I don’t,” she insisted firmly.

“Then, why did you swoop in and clear my schedule without asking me what I could handle or if I needed help?” I demanded.

She leaned her elbows on her desk and held her hands open. “Because I knew you were going through a rough time, and I also know that you’re kind of bad at asking for help.”

“You’re kind of bad at asking if you should give help!” I hated that the rest of the office could hear us, but I was too pissed to stop. “I am going through a rough time. But feeling useless and expendable here isn’t going to make that any better.”

“Then, stop being so fucking useless and expendable!” Deja exploded, slamming both hands on her desk.

I took a step back, staggering with shock.

“You take off whenever you want because you know I’m going to be here to run everything. Then, when you’re ready to play magazine editor, you show up and want everything your way. I’m sick of it! And I’m sick of you thinking everyone should feel bad for you when you don’t get exactly what you want. I get it. Your life is a fairytale, so it needs a villain, right? Guess what? It’s not going to be me!”

“I don’t think that about you at all!” I shouted back. “And my life isn’t a fairytale. It’s a life, just like anybody else’s.”

“If you think your life is really like anybody else’s, you’re delusional,” Deja seethed. “I have been running this place from day one, while you’ve been making out checks and patting yourself on the back. You’re off writing memoirs and taking weeks off at a time to live adventurously, and I’m supposed to share credit with you for how well this place is going? Then, I’m supposed to coddle you so you don’t feel like you’re less important than me?”

“I never asked you to coddle me!”

“No, you didn’t ask! You expected.” She jabbed a finger in the air in my direction. “I have spent my entire professional life working behind the scenes for white women so they could seem competent. I’m not doing that for you, just because we’re friends. Just because you have money.”

“Why do you have to make it about the money?” I demanded. “I never asked for it.”

“Stop talking about everything in your life like it’s something that just happens to you! You’re a victim of everything! Even the good stuff. You’ve written two bestselling books and it’s like, ‘Oh, hi, I’m Sophie, I did this thing, and I won’t take a shred of credit for it because it just happened to me. Feel sorry for me.’ Grow up. Accept responsibility for your life!”