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As soon as I open the glass doors, the woman behind the desk stands up.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I need to speak with Ellen,” I demand. “Tell her it’s Evangeline Bowen.” I use my real name because there’s no hiding from the truth here.
“I know who you are, and Ellen isn’t taking visitors,” she says with an unfeeling voice, revealing that my suspicions are correct and I have been put on a list. A do-not-disturb list that I have no intention of adhering to.
Even so, my heart still beats rapidly at the thought of not being able to explain to Ellen what happened. There’s a chance that if she’d just listen to me, I could get through to her.
“This is all a mistake,” I explain, but I can tell by her stiff shoulders and pursed lips, she’s not budging. “Please. I just need to talk to her,” I resort to begging.
“I’m sorry, but….”
A feeling of helplessness takes hold of me and works its way up from my belly. I push past the receptionist, not letting her finish, and into the heart of the office. Only a few desks block my view of the office in the back where the privacy blinds are closed.
“Ellen!” I call out, my voice wavering like delicate fissures in a once sturdy wall. Another crack, and the wall might fall apart. I can hear the receptionist behind me, but I block out what she’s saying.
“Stacia, it’s fine,” I hear Ellen’s voice from behind me and whirl around. The receptionist retreats to the front of the office, and I’m met with Ellen’s cool grey eyes. She’s dressed far too lovely for such a bland space as this.
She walks past me with the expectation that I’ll follow, which I do. Opening her office door, she sets her purse on top of the glass desk that looks so out of place with the rest of the office space.
“Take the money, Evangeline,” she says coolly, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door without looking at me.
“Ellen, it isn’t what you think.” The words tumble out of me like water skipping over rocks.
“Did you go back to his suite?” she asks.
“Yes, but he was drunk, and I couldn’t just leave him in the alley…”
“Did you let him fuck you?” she interrupts.
I could lie and say that he couldn’t get it up, but then how do I explain what happened in the shower the next morning?
“Yes,” I say with an unsteady voice.
“Did you accept payment for the act?”
“I didn't want to, but he…”
“Did you take money from him?”
I can tell she already knows the answer. I didn’t take the cash, and because of that, there’s a money trail.
“He did this on purpose to get me fired so I would have no choice but to marry him!”
She holds up her hand to stop me, and that one authoritative finger causes me to snap my mouth shut.
“Do you know how I’ve run my business for so long without incident?” she asks.
I stand in the middle of her office, holding myself tightly for fear that all my insides will spill onto the floor like the tears threatening to spill over my eyelashes.
“Discretion,” she says. “The reasons why don’t interest me.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“But you did—the minute you went back to his room.”
“I… I shouldn’t have, but…” I stammer, not sure what to say next. I’ve been beating myself up over that decision from the moment I made it. I crossed an invisible line, and I can’t go back.
