“Because HR would disapprove.” HR would do more than disapprove; they’d flip their fucking lid. A sex secretary. How fucking cliché.
“They don’t need to know. Draw up a contract, get legal to go over it, and keep it as an executive hire. Out of the parameters of HR.”
For a drunk guy slurring his words, his idea was fucking fantastic. A sex secretary, only Legal would baulk at that. Executive Personal Assistant has a much more professional intonation. I already have a PA and an EA, why not add anEPA to my senior executive family? And so, the idea developed. It took shape over months of position rewrites and legal advice, blossoming into the current position description and attached non-disclosure agreement. The position had been filled and vacated many times because of incompatibility issues that arose after the selection process, or misdemeanors resulting in contract termination. Each time an EPA left, the contract was tweaked, and by now you would think that a suitable candidate would be easy to find, and more importantly, in it for the long haul. You couldn’t be more wrong. At twenty-nine, I’m one of the youngest CEOs of a media network under the billion-dollar Mercer Group umbrella. The appointment remains under wraps publicly. A somewhat reluctant trial began earlier this year by Michael Mercer, who took the Mercer Group reins from his father, Magnus. Mercer Media is my legacy, with the mining arm being all my brother, Mitchel.
Between Mitchel and I, we have a sister, Monica, who, simply by being born female, would be the wife of a suitable member of an elite social club, and not a corporate pawn, according to long-held misogynistic beliefs. Nic, as she likes to be known, because aliterative names is fucking stupid and even more of a trust fund cliché, works in the arts as a curator. The optics of a Mercer studying a fine arts degree is viewed more as a quirk and nothing more, because our family pours millions of dollars into charities funding elite college buildings and business connections. Any wagging tongues ready to spill disapproval and ruinous hate were silenced quickly. The Mercer name was not to be questioned or criticized, ever. Alice Mercer, our mother, helmed a benefit gala for homeless youth, and more recently a pediatric leukemia foundation, but only because Monica’s daughter was diagnosed when she was three.
To the world, we are a philanthropic family bonded by loveand a thirst for sound business practices. Once the public mask is removed, we are a messy blend of disloyalty, infidelity, addiction, and callous disinterest. All disgraceful traits woven into our impeccable DNA, cloaked in pretense and false platitudes, the life of a Mercer.
That I need an on-call whore is itself a messy predicament. While Mitchel pilots Mercer Mining, the media arm would be mine, but my father, being the condescending, inflexible cunt that he is, made me jump through hoops and crawl over the metaphorical coals for his own shits and giggles. Nepotism is always a predominant factor in legacy businesses; how can it not be? Working harder and smarter than everyone else was my only answer, and to this day, I regularly clock an eighteen-hour day around personal martial arts training and back-to-back evening meetings. A dedicated and arduous schedule not undertaken for praise or recognition, no. This regimen was not only expected of a Mercer man, but it was also demanded. You don’t succeed when you sleep, so push on. Achieve, acquire, and obliterate anyone and anything standing between you and the end goal. Michael Mercer, pushing sixty, routinely worked an eighty-hour week around visits from his mistress disguised as a massage therapist. Magnus Mercer, in his early eighties, still sported the face and physique of a man decades younger. Whether it was the legacy of his family running his empire, or blessed genetics, he was the guy his alumni referred to as Midas, touching on his ability to alchemize any industry he set his sights on. He was both myth and legend, credible and callous.
“Trystan,” I bark into the intercom, the umbilical tethering me to my EA.
“Yes, boss.” His sonorous baritone settles over the air like smoked whiskey.
“Let all agencies know that if they send any moreunsuitable candidates, we’ll create and run exposure pieces on all of them. Their proffered candidates are laughable at best.”
“Yes, sir.” I can hear the click-clack of his manicured hands working over the keyboard, already crafting a terse memorandum.
“Oh, and Trys.”
“Yes, Mas,” he all but croons, his pitch rising at the end.
“I want you to scrutinize each candidate in the morning. If they aren’t a fucking eleven out of ten when they arrive, or display basic etiquette and conversational skills, don’t bother sending them through. My time is too important to be frittered away on the next Miss Mumble County who can’t even fucking speak.”
“Yes, boss.”
The town car collected me exactly when Pen said it would. It’s been both a blessing and a curse. Being able to avoid the dense mass of morning commuters has been a godsend, but the time alone in this sleek sedan has allowed me to do some Google homework on my phone to pass the time. Persistent digging that brought up numerous images of Michael Mercer, along with a well-written, detailed biography. He looks every bit the powerful CEO in a suit so sharply tailored, one wrong move would cut you to ribbons. The countenance of his severe face was kept plump with expensive skincare and possibly the help of needles and surgery. Or the salt predominating his once pepper hair styled just so, and molten silver eyes that metastasized from the phone screen to permeate my nervous system. This was the CEO? My throat worked to swallow, the process extended and laborious, akin to an apple being sucked through a vacuum hose.Fuck.
The sedan pulls to a stop, and George gets out to open my door. I’m blown away by the sheer size of the building, sure, but also by the sleek dark glass and polished accents. It is a long way from the art déco style I adore; this modern masterpiece is a striking beacon of deliberate lines and cutting edges. My neck cranes up until the top of the building comes into view, right as a sunbeam bursts through the negative space and sends dots scattering across my vision. These dots are temporary, unlike my sister’s pet jellyfish. Thinking about Cait and her shittypredicament is the reason I’m here, after all, and fuckif I’m not going to give everything here because we need the money. That’s the truth I tell myself when my dedication quivers. The lies are a whole new compendium. No one needs to know the extent of what I will need to hide deep in the recesses of shitty behaviors and potential regrets. And it’s just sex, close your eyes and groan through the machinations at intervals. The thought of being intimate with someone I have no feelings for makes my gut plummet and muddies the moral waters of my brain chemistry.Think of the specialist fees, think of your sister, and think of Luke Grimes while you fake your ‘o’ face.Easy.
My heels clack with the precision of a metronome as I navigate the opulent white marble foyer and the reception desk brimming with oversized floral arrangements. Behind the desk sit two security guards in uniform and two younger women impeccably dressed in form-fitting sheath dresses. Behind them is a wall hosting various media awards: trophies and blown glass sculptures for print media wins, and huge metal plates engraved and gleaming; the ultimate broadcasting titles. I’m handed a visitor pass by the gorgeous blonde in the cobalt dress, whose own tag reads “Sapphire.”
“Thank you, Sabrina. Floor thirty-seven. Have a great day.” Her smile is broad and genuine when I compliment her on her stunning name and attire to match. She’s no doubt heard that a million times, but is gracious nonetheless and gestures to the bank of elevators to the side of the desk, under two entwined M’s.
The elevator doors open and Perry Nysen strides out across the marble space, leaving the scent of his masculine spicy cologne in his wake. Of course, there must be a number of studios in the building, and now that Perry has finished with the morning show, he’s free to continue on with his day, while mine is only beginning. The doors close around us, the risingbox playing host to several unfamiliar yet cloying scents. Bodywash, cologne, perfume, and hair products fight for dominance as the LED numbers continue to increase: 23, 25, 29. Once our car zooms past 33 and continues higher, the nerves kick in with full force. As the ding sounds through the chatter and the doors slide open, so does the breath leave my lungs. Another reception desk, similar to the one in the foyer, separates the elevator foyer from the executive offices, the same marble and polished chrome, same oversized florals.
“You must be Sabrina,” the man says, rising to his feet as I approach. “Hi, I’m Sean. I’ll announce your arrival to Mr. Mercer’s secretary, and someone will be here to collect you in just one moment.” Sean taps his headset over his ear and holds up a palm to show I should wait. So, I do. While he nods and smiles to whatever the voice is saying into his ears, I shift my weight from foot to foot in the stealthiest way possible These fucking shoes are pretty torture devices designed to make you fall in love with them enough to part with thousands of dollars. Only once your feet are entombed do you realize beauty is actual pain in the shape of forming heel blisters. Thankfully Pen has an extensive wardrobe, or I’d be ripe here for inspection in Kmart wedges and a prayer.
“Hey, Sabrina?” An older lady, perhaps late forties, early fifties, appears from behind the glass doors, beckoning me through when I nod I am indeed who she is expecting. “Hi, I’m Helen. I’m Mr. Mercer’s personal assistant.” I grasp her proffered hand and return her smile, wondering all the while if she, too, is required to be intimate with the boss. We make our way down the corridor and into a breakout area that features two side-by-side offices, opposite a larger space. Helen waves a hand to the man rocking backward in an executive chair. It looks like it cost more than my car. Two intricate mahogany doors, each with the same entwined M logo from downstairs,bisect the space. “Mr. Mercer’s office,” Helen declares when she notices me studying them. “Mr. Hynd, the gentleman through there,” she says, gesturing to the man finishing up his phone call, the receiver still cradled between his chin and shoulder as he types. “Shouldn’t be much longer. Some prime-time types can be demanding in renegotiating contracts. I’m sure you understand.” She offers a tight smile and the briefest of eye rolls. Like she wants to spill all the juicy details of some diva daytime anchor demanding something outlandish, like Murano glass lightbulbs in their dressing room.
I nod, even though I don’t know what she’s referring to. Wanda Brimmore entered the elevator as I was exiting. I swear she’s a Real Housewife of… somewhere. It’s not LA or New York… maybe one of the southern franchises? Tall, long-limbed, and lean, and drowning in enough fragrance to win the elevator war, no question. Her makeup was flawless: precision-winged smoky eyes and a perfect peachy pout that never moved, not even when she was recognized. I pray she was here to renew a contract, and not the interview for the same position that I’m here for. The brick weighing down my gut sends the same silent signal to my inner voice, that I’m not good enough. Cue the imposter syndrome, because I do not belong amongst this kind of opulence.
“Sabrina,” a male voice booms, and I turn to see the man from the telephone conversation striding toward me. He’s well over six feet tall, with sandy blond hair and ample shoulders. He’s in navy pants so dark they’re almost black, with a crisp white shirt and a cobalt tie similar to Sapphire’s dress. They could be a matching prom couple. His hair is straight and slightly longer than business standard, swept back and off his face. This only highlights a squared jaw and a nose that may have been broken once before, a small kink obvious just below the bridge. His honeyed eyes are playful and bright, alludingthat he doesn’t take himself too seriously or radiate pretension. The skin around them crinkles gently as he smiles. No Botox, that’s a good sign.
“Hello,” I say, extending my hand to meet his outstretched one.
“Now, is it Brow, or Brew?” he questions, looking down at his notes.
“Neither,” I correct. “It’s Broe, rhymes with snow.”
“Ah,” he quips. “Sabrina Broe, rhymes with snow, got it. Helen, you know the drill. Mr. Mercer and I are not to be disturbed for the next hour.”
“Yes, Trystan,” she concedes, offering me one last smile as she sinks into the chair at the first desk of the double space, opposite Trystan’s much larger one. “You want the full hour?”
“Yes.” It’s delivered with a subtle hiss, or maybe a lisp? “One hour. Thank you, Helen.”
The longer Trystan takes vetting the next candidate, the more I itch to meet her. If they come into the office for the formal part of the interview early, I know he’s given her a perfunctory review only, a sure sign that he’s missed something pivotal, or perhaps just wants to get it over with. When the shit goes south, he messages to say the candidate wasn’t suitable and was sent away. Good boy, at least he’s following my implicit instructions from yesterday. Wanda was fine, my cock is still hard thinking about her follow-up interview. A little fake and tight around the face, no doubt a legacy of her fame and reliance on fillers. All I can do is hope she’s tight where it matters most. Doubtful, only time and a dinner reservation will tell.
