Page 4 of Ungodly Rich

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ellene, but Bruce is at an executive lunch at the club. I wasn’t aware he was expecting you?” Olivia’s pitch tilted up, as if asking a question. The nerve of her, using Bruce’s first name. Not to mention referring to the Knickerbocker Club asthe club,as a member would.

Tara’s grip on her peacock-blue handbag tightened. She glanced disdainfully over Olivia’s cubicle, which was strewn with papers and abandoned cans of Diet Coke. A pair of ballet flats sat beneath the desk, which Olivia must have kicked off after she walked from the subway, trading them for heels. Tara’s nose wrinkled at the candle burning on Olivia’s desk, the all-too-familiar Amour logo scrawled across its frosted glass surface.

Tara despised that scent, though she knew better than to say so aloud. The Amour line had made millions for TWL, mostly thanks to these stupid candles, which always topped everyone’s gift-guide lists. The funny thing was, even though the entireworldclaimed to love the candle, no one could agree on what it smelled like. Some swore it was vetiver, others vanilla or honeysuckle, sandalwood or rose.It smells like desire,its creator, Tara’s daughter-in-law, always said.And since eachperson’s experience of desire is unique, everyone experiences Amour slightly differently.

Desire? That candle smelled like a cheating bitch.

Tara hated her daughter-in-law, the way she would have hated any woman who broke her beloved son’s heart. Though she pretended not to, for his sake. Because for some reason known only to him, he’d decided to stay with his wife, even after what she’d done.

Tara was aware of her own hypocrisy, wanting her son to leave his wife when she would never dream of leaving Bruce. But it was different for her.

“Would you like to wait in Bruce’s office?” Olivia asked, her lipsticked mouth curling into a smile.

Tara ignored the suggestion. “Remind me, how long have you worked for my husband?”

“Six months.”

“And have you been sleeping with him the whole time, or is it a recent development?”

She half-expected Olivia to deny it. Usually they did, at least at first—they would stammer that she was mistaken, that they had nothing but respect for Mr. Ellene. The more fragile women broke out in guilty tears. Yet Olivia did none of those things. She just stood, lifted her green eyes, and said in a bold voice, “You’re right, I’ve been sleeping with your husband. I love him.” There was something vicious and territorial in the pronouncement, something that made Tara inexplicably sad.

“You love him,” she repeated flatly.

“Yes, I love him! And he’s going to leave you. We haveplans.”

Poor, stupid mortal. Had she really been so foolish as to believe Bruce’s empty promises?

“Whatever he told you, he was lying. He’s not leaving me.” Tara’s voice was almost gentle, but Olivia cut her off with a caustic laugh.

“Don’t you get it? He doesn’t love you anymore.”

That was when the girl’s hair caught on fire.

For years afterward, long after insurance had paid off the medicalbills—after the whole incident had been reduced to the stuff of corporate legend—people would speculate about what happened. Did Olivia take a step back, her glossy tresses catching the flame of the Amour candle? Did a gust of air come down from the AC vent, causing sparks to fly up like insects and settle in Olivia’s mane?Whatever happened,people would tell one another in hushed tones,she’sa cautionary tale about candles at work. This is why we have fire codes.

The moment Olivia’s hair caught fire, she froze. The flames flickered around her head like a golden crown, casting her features in an ethereal glow.

Then she screamed.

The sound sliced through the other noises of the executive floor, the clacking of keyboards and ringing of phones.

Olivia flung herself to the ground and began rolling back and forth. There was something pitiful about the whole thing: her Barbie-doll skirt hiking up around her thighs, the singed ends of her hair falling around her face.

Tara stepped neatly over Olivia and walked to the corner of the desk. She leaned down and blew out the candle as if it were sitting atop a birthday cake.

“What happened?” another assistant cried out, reaching the scene. Right on cue, Tara turned, lifting her manicured hands to her mouth in horror.

“The candle caught her hair on fire! One minute we were talking and then—It was all so fast—”

Within seconds, a crowd had gathered. The floor’s main receptionist, the gray-haired woman from earlier, took charge of the situation, pulling Olivia to one side and wrapping a cashmere blanket around her shoulders.

In the hubbub, no one protested as Tara retreated to her husband’s office, murmuring something about feeling faint. It wasn’t a lie. She leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes against a sudden wave of exhaustion. These confrontations were always draining, and they seemed to be getting worse each time.

She wasn’t sure how long had passed before she heard the office door swing open.

“Seriously?” Bruce demanded without preamble. “You need to stop screwing with my assistants.”

“I will, if you stop screwing them in the first place.”