Page 39 of Man of the Year

“Yes, sir.”

He is about to walk out the door when I stop him. “Sir?” He turns, his sharp annoyed gaze on me. “If you ever need anything, let me know.”

“Are you with the catering company?”

Apparently, he doesn’t remember me after all.

“No, sir. I’m a temp for the previous housekeeper.”

Recognition crosses his face. “That’s right. Natalia.”

It’s Natalie.But I don’t correct him. Asshole will forget about it tomorrow.

“I know I’m supposed to do what the other staff tell me to do,” I say in my most timid voice, “but this is your house, and your comfort is my priority. So if you ever need anything,anyrequests”—emphasis onany—“I’m here for you.”

He gives me another slow once-over. Not sure if that’s a hint of what he needs from pretty women, but he’s not getting it. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want him to think that he can.

He nods and walks out.

I raise my chin in satisfaction. I just became an accomplice in one of his little secrets. It’s not much, but it gets me closer to him. Little by little, I’ll find out all his secrets. I just hope I can keep myself in check, because right now, my knees are weak, and as I pick the tray up off the floor, my hands are trembling.

TWENTY-EIGHT

NATALIE

When I walk out onto the terrace, I spot Geoffrey Rosenberg right away. He stands at the front of the crowd, and everyone’s eyes are on the giant screen.

A woman in an elegant white suit picks up a microphone and sashays toward the screen, which is now brightly lit with the IxResearch logo.

“I’m very excited that all of you are here!” she announces, gracefully smiling at the crowd gathered in a semi-circle in front of her. “At this beautiful house, with none other than the Man of the Year himself, Geoffrey Rosenberg, the CEO of IxResearch and the mastermind behind the most successful cryptocurrency exchange.”

The crowd applauds. The older men and women in suits and dresses raise their champagne glasses. The younger guests in casual clothes whistle and clap with their hands raised above their heads.

The crowd slightly parts, letting Rosenberg step to the front, like he’s Jesus. He’s acting cool like he didn’t just slam a cupful of straight whiskey. He presses his palm to his heart, bowing gracefully with a slightly condescending half-smile.

“You all know,” the woman continues as the screen changes to stock market graphs, “that IxResearch is set to go public in two days! Which means this will be an unprecedented”—she ticks her chin up—“most powerful”—she surveys the crowd with pride—“crypto exchange venture in the history of crypto!”

The crowd bursts into more applause, mixed with whistles.

A couple of faces in the crowd are familiar—I’ve seen them on TV. There’s a guy who owns a popular social media platform. Another one just made a splash in politics.

I thought it would be a party for the almighty figures of the digital world. And it very well might be. But it looks like the almighty are a generation in their twenties. That makes me feel old. It also makes me feel like a loser, working bartending jobs while these guys rake in millions. The Scarecrow’s line comes to mind. “I wish I had a brain.”

The woman keeps talking as I scan the gathering and spot Nick. He stands at the back of the crowd, his eyes fixed on the speaker.

Of course, he’s here. No staff is allowed, but Nick is.

I walk up to him and offer a cocktail.

He shakes his head. “I’m good. I don’t drink.”

Admirable. I rarely drink, either. I’ve seen enough embarrassing behaviors of customers at work, the usual gradual spiral out of control after a number of drinks. It sort of turns you off from hard drinking.

“Non-alcoholic,” I say, motioning to the tray in my hand.

“I’m good,” he quips, barely looking at me, his eyes boring into the men in the front row.

I hate when people drool over celebrities or rich people they don’t know and are only fascinated with because they are filthy rich. I shift to stand next to Nick, studying the crowd. “Rosenberg doesn’t mind that you hang out with the guests?”

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