Page 3 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

As if I’ve spent my three weeks filling people’s drawers with Ping-Pong balls instead of nailing my assignment.

“Why won’t he like it?” I hate how small my voice sounds.

She just shakes her head.

“The thing is, my assignment was to modernize and humanize Vossameer’s online presence…and people relate to people,” I say.

Cue the crushing gloom of stones.

If I were more mercenary, I’d give them the boring site they want and a sad Facebook feed shunned by all. I’d be long gone by the time they realized I screwed them over. But that’s not me. I may only be here for the bonus, but I intend to do a good job for them.

“No, you probably have a point. About the people,” she says. “It’s social media, after all.”

“Yeah, right?” I agree hopefully.

“Mr. Drummond does want this foundation partnership. But…” She gestures at a picture of a happy family. Makes a tiny little sound. A tiny little frightened sound.

Does Mr. Drummond just hate happy families? Will he start throwing chairs if he sees a little boy and his grandfather working on a train set?

And if so, why bother to invent lifesaving solutions?

“Welp!” Sasha straightens up. “Who knows, maybe he’ll like it.” Her tone is weird. Far too bright. “Mr. Drummond sees things we don’t, does things for reasons we don’t always understand. It’s amazing he’s as patient with us as he is.”

“Sure, okay,” I say.

“I’ll have you present with me,” she says. “We’ll head up after lunch.”

“Wait—what?” I nearly swallow my tongue.

I’m going up to the top? To the tyrant’s lair?

“You’ll help me explain.”

“I thought you liked to present…solo.” I’ve gotten the feeling that Sasha has been passing off my ideas as her own. Not that I care. Again, only here for the bonus.

“You’re the expert.” She smiles.

Translation: If all goes well, she’ll take the credit. If it goes poorly, I’ll take the fall.

She looks over my outfit, or more winces over it.

I straighten my blazer. I’m in a gray pantsuit with a white shirt under. It’s something a stylish female detective would wear, at least in my imagination. Even my dark blonde hair is contained in an un-fun bun.

Where did I go wrong?

Though to be fair, most maiden sacrifices happen with the helpless victim wearing a nightgown.

“It’s fine.” She waves me off. “See you at 1:45.”

I thank her and make my way down the row of non-visually-distracting cubicles.

I eat my turkey sandwich at my desk, feeling doomed. I open my bag of chips ever so quietly. That’s another rule—inmates of Gulag Vossameer must not make excessive non-work-related noise.

What’s more, they must never prepare foods that produce an excessive smell. Microwave popcorn is expressly banned.

I have this fantasy of popping popcorn in the microwave—Orville Redenbacher extra-buttery movie version—while dancing on my desk in a pink mini skirt to Britney Spears’s “Gimme More.”

But that would have to happen after the bonus is in my bank account. I desperately need that bonus. Beyond desperately.

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