Page 21 of Man of the Year

I roll down the window as I pull up beside the security booth. “Rough night?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Next time this happens, maybe call the actual professionals to handle it? Law enforcement or something?”

I can see anger boiling in him, and I drive into The Splendors with my signature work smile. By the time I finish working here, my face will hurt from fake smiling.

The buzz of the lawnmower is coming from behind the house. I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure no one ever mows wet grass. This whole place is out of whack.

I park and walk into the house.

The mansion is eerily silent, like a tomb. I put my purse in the locker and check the staff kitchen.

“Hi!” I say, getting a nod from Rosalie, who’s hustling with boxes and crates of delivered catering supplies. I don’t understand why the catering company doesn’t just take care of everything. But then, I’m not one to make recommendations on how to handle business in the house of a man whose privacy is ensured by a mile-long list of NDAs and security checks.

Julien is nowhere to be seen, which makes me relax a bit—I already prepared myself for a day of marching to his war drum.

I didn’t see the black Maybach at the front either, which means Rosenberg and Nick are gone. Again. I haven’t even gotten a glimpse of my new boss yet.

“Let’s get to it,” Rosalie says, interrupting my thoughts.

The agenda for the first half of the day is to sort out the party supplies, silverware, and decorate the back terrace later. This gives me an opportunity to chat Rosalie up.

“Have you done this all your life?” I ask, meaning this type of job.

“Not quite,” she responds.

Rosalie comes across as humble, but there’s a certain authoritativeness about her. I would picture her doing something completely different. Maybe working at the Department of Motor Vehicles, with that calm attitude and impassive expression. She could be a 911 operator. Maybe even a parole officer. Yes, Rosalie could definitely be a parole officer, one of those who gives you a piss jar to collect your urine for a drug test, does it with a no-nonsense face, and actually watches you in the process to make sure you don’t cheat.

She is definitely a listener. Almost every one of my questions gets avoided and redirected back at me.

“You grew up around here?” I ask.

“No,” Rosalie answers. “You don’t look like a local either. Not a city girl. Not a Jersey one. Where are you from?”

Just like that, every attempt of mine to get her to talk about herself only points back at me.

Not even an hour goes by before Julien walks in.

Hello, officer.“Good morning,” I say, overly cheerful.

He scans me, then grabs an apple from a fruit basket, and loudly bites into it. “The boss is home,” he murmurs under his breath.

Just like that, Rosalie’s expression turns blank.

Loud voices come from the main hallway, and the door slams shut somewhere at the front of the house.

“Is that Mr. Rosenberg?” I ask, apparently talking to a wall, because no one responds. I glance between Julien and Rosalie, neither of whom meet my eyes.

This is probably the first workspace I’ve been to where all the staff look like they’d rather be anywhere but here. And that’s a bad sign.

FOURTEEN

NATALIE

I’m anxious to meet Rosenberg, excited and petrified at the same time. I need to see for myself if the predator looks like a predator in real life. If he is one, that is—I might be getting ahead of myself.

The staff entrance door opens, and a tall man walks into the staff kitchen. He’s in his forties, with shaggy brown hair, glasses, a sweaty face, and black clothes. I take it this is Walter, the gardener.

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