Page 69 of Forsaken Devotion: Part 2
That was what I was realizing. Lucian would have a thumb in every pie of my life, but I didn’t want that. I wanted something forme.
“Would you like me to get your employee packet together? Your salary will obviously be increased.”
“Why? I’d be doing the same job?”
Ms. Zhao gave me a look. The elevators dinged and swung shut, enclosing us in it.
“Well, because you own the building.”
“Lucian owns it, not me.”
Her lips twitched, and she finally said, “He made it very clear that what is his is yours. Unequivocally.”
“I figured.” I sighed, decided. I wouldn’t return to work here. “I believe it’s best I don’t return then.”
Her eyes widened.
“I hope it was nothing I said.” For the first time, the unflappable Mrs. Zhao seemed on edge.
“Not at all, it’s Lucian.” She relaxed, and I could tell she was mustering up the courage to say something, but just as she opened her mouth, her cell phone rang.
“Hello?” Her eyes incrementally widened as she listened, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll handle it.” With that, she hung up and pressed the button of the second-highest floor.
If I thought she was on edge before, it was nothing to the current expression.
“Is everything okay?”
She peeked at me and, seeming to debate, came to a decision.
“Mr. Wilder’s been staying here for a few weeks now.” I stiffened, slowing. My brain struggled to make sense of her words. “Mr. Wilder Senior,” she blurted. “He hasn’t left the room, and we keep receiving complaints from the suite next to his about the noise.”
She rubbed her temples.
“I’ll go with you.” I thought about Henry Wilder. He’d been nice, a saint, in comparison to his wife.
“Thank you.” Ms. Zhao sighed. She seemed less stuck up now. I had to admire her; she obviously held herself to a standard when speaking to employees, so there were no blurred lines.
“So, since Lucian said to treat me as if it were him. Would you answer all my questions?” I started. We stepped into the hall with a matched stride. I followed behind an inch all the way down the long hall.
“Yes.” She slowed, and looked over at me.
“How many times did he have ‘visits’?” I emphasized the last word.
Her eyes widened, and just in case she wasn’t getting what I was asking, I added, “Like the scented towel deliveries?”
Her mouth dropped, and she stopped walking entirely.
“How do you know about that?” she whispered, sweeping her eyes down the hall.
“You can’t answer?”
She cleared her throat and clasped her hands in front of her.
“Yes, of course, only a very select few know about his little rendezvous, so I am a bit surprised. We have been incredibly careful.” She cleared her throat again. “To be frank, he had me prepare the room once a month these last three years.”
My heart stuttered.
That, in itself, was thirty-six months. At a minimum, thirty-six lovers. I was going to vomit. No, I was going to explode.
