Page 3 of Cruel Master
“We bought your name. We paid you ten million dollars, sweetheart. Ten million. What we do with our property is our business. You don’t work here anymore. Show up to the launch, smile, look pretty, shake a few hands, then go back to your beach house in Malibu or wherever the hell you live. Sip a cocktail. Fuck the pool boy. Enjoy yourself. Your position in this company is ceremonial.”
Director of Vision.
Of course it’s ceremonial—I understood that when I signed the contract—but I imagined myself as a strong guiding forcein the background. After all, why would they want to push me out? At the time, surrounded by smiling executives gushing about my work, my continuing relevance in the company seemed like a no-brainer.
Big. Fucking. Mistake.
“This wasn’t what I agreed to. This shite”—I tap the screen again, hard enough it makes a sharp, ominous clunk—“is sick.” I stare at Brad, trying to find a shred of humanity somewhere in his soulless face. “And it makes no sense. Saldar wouldn’t do this. He’s not evil. He’s just—”
“Misunderstood? You could fix him?” The condescension is so thick I could spread it on toast and shove it down Brad’s throat until he chokes.
“You’re too close to this, sweetheart. I get it, you’ve been single for a while. It must be easy to get a little too attached. But, Jules.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “He’s not real.”
I open my mouth, but nothing finds its way out of my constricting throat. How dare he? How fucking dare he?
His lips twitch up as though he’s had a win, and I slam my laptop closed. My voice rises to a shout. “My name is not fuckingJules. And I won’t stand for this. If you push ahead with this, I’ll speak out on every online forum there is. I’ll poison the whole gaming world against this crap before it’s even announced.”
Even as I say it, my skin heats. Would I dare? Brightscape’s lawyers are on par with Disney’s. They could bankrupt me or worse. Would protecting my legacy be worth that?
Brad’s lips thin, wrinkling his mouth at the corners. He’ll have to pay someone to iron that out again later. “I’d think hard about that,Jules. Very hard. Now, get out of here. You’re no longer permitted in this building. Security will escort you to your office to collect your stuff.”
He thinks he can throw me out of my own building? I’ll…
But it’s not my building. Not my office, not my company, not my game. None of this is mine anymore. I get to my feet, clinging to the shreds of my dignity. The podcasts were right. I raised my voice first, and I lost.
Brad picks up his desk phone. “Rob. Take Miss Stewart to her office to collect her things. She’s not to talk to anyone on the way, and don’t let her out of your sight.”
Rob, a silent wall of a man, does his job politely enough. His presence is enough to scare off anyone who might have approached me, and whispers follow in our wake.
What’s happened?
Bet Brad gave her the boot.
She looks like she’s about to cry.
I won’t. I won’t fucking cry.
The office they gave me, tucked away in a quiet corner, never really felt like mine. It only takes minutes for me to collect everything into one of those sad cardboard boxes that only ever seem to get used for this. What is their actual purpose? Into it goes my half dead plant, my coffee mug, the horrifically pinkHAVE A SUPER DAY!!!stress ball an intern once got me as a joke.
And my journal, of course. The thick book full of sketches I never leave home without, even though it feels pointless now. Before Brightscape approached me with an offer to buy Triple-6 Games, I’d been busy working on the next iteration ofSaldar’s Curse. I’d sketched out several new characters and started work on the storyboards. All a waste.
I mentally punch myself in the face as I refuse Rob’s generous offer to help me to my car. As Mum and Gran were both fond of saying, there are kids starving in Africa. I’m sitting on a fortuneand moping about a videogame. I need to have a stern fucking word with myself.
It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.
As I emerge onto the rooftop car park, the day is obnoxiously sunny. The weather here doesn’t have any sense of drama. It should be sheeting rain, or at the least a good fog. Not a warm, pleasant afternoon.
I wrestle the box into the trunk, and my phone beeps. For a moment, I let myself pretend it’ll be an apology from Brad. An invitation to come back and take the lead on the creative team. It’s not, of course. But when I see the name, a little thrill runs through me, banishing some of the horrible day.
Alex: How’s my good little slut today?
I stare at the message, hand shaking as I read the words. I’ve never met this guy, but his dirty messages are on point. We've been talking for a few weeks now.
I get into my car and absently open the central console, looking for a pack of cigarettes even though I quit two years ago. I catch myself in the act, slam it shut, and stare back at the phone. A smile touches my lips as I tap out a reply.
Juliet: Wet, sir.
My skin prickles as the three moving dots appear.
