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“By the way, Joseph, have you read the latest HR memo? It seems to me that an employee’s appearance is not an appropriate subject of discussion in a professional setting.”
I keep a smile on my face while I test out this approach, but he still looks like a little boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
“What are you talking about, Lancaster? I haven’t made any humiliating or degrading remarks toward you, have I?” he shoots back, immediately adopting a superior tone that reinforces his efforts to both mansplain and intimidate me at the same time.
“There was a paragraph about the repeated, insistent, and unwanted nature of certain actions or comments that was very interesting. But I’m not talking about you, obviously. If you’ll excuse me, I’m already late… Have a good day!”
I hope my knowing look gets the message across. And anyway, if he decided to fire me… Vadim would step in and do his job as director.
***
For three days now, I’ve been keeping a low profile as I make my way from one end of the King Productions offices to the other. But avoiding Wilson isn’t what drains me the most, nor what keeps me awake at night. The real source of disruption is someone who goes by the name of King; a name just as hateful as the memory of our recent exchanges. Our last email conversation was seventy-two hours ago, and it’s still eating away at me. Then there are the images that loop through my mind relentlessly. The loaded looks we exchanged during that surreal meeting, the way his hand stroked Grace Montgomery’s cheek, his victorious smile when he caught me in a fit of jealousy. Remembering it all keeps me from concentrating. And makes it impossible to do my job properly.
The only silver lining right now: my office is ready. I can finally unpack my boxes in this haven of peace, bathed in sunlight and positive vibes. I feel good here—calm, safe. Maybe because Vadim King and Joseph Wilson haven’t set foot in the room yet. The huge, white walls with the moldings painted in soft gray, the chic yet contemporary furniture, and the room’s Zen, cozy atmosphere are enough to bring a smile to my face and lower my blood pressure.
I try to gather myself and look toward the future: things will get back to normal. Vadim and I will find our footing and learn to work together without either killing one another or throwing ourselves at one another. We won’t waste any more of our time squabbling like kids for old times’ sake. Our collaboration will prove fruitful, and the past will stay where it belongs. I’ve definitely been worrying myself unnecessarily.
And right now, I sound just like my mother, who confuses staying positive with burying her head in the sand. As if it were that simple.
Then, right on cue, my father’s condescending voice chooses the perfect moment to intrude on my inner monologue: “My daughter, there will be no excuses, no whining. Where there’s a will, there’s a way! You just have to want it more than everyone else.”
I haven’t spoken a word to the unpredictable Mr. King in three days. We’ve crossed paths a few times, but didn’t exchange a single look or a word. He was in the elevator? I took the stairs. At the end of the hallway? A last-minute emergency forced me to turn around. At the cafeteria or a local restaurant? I wasn’t really hungry. In a meeting? I decided my attendance wasn’t necessary.
But running away won’t get me anywhere. The more I ignore him, the more I obsess over him. He is the only man who has ever made me want to drop everything for him. Yet, this time, I want to put myself first. And if I want to save the job I love, my life can’t revolve around him anymore.
My passion for cinema took hold of me when I was very young. I was never tempted to become an actress; I had neither the presence nor the confidence, and least of all the desire to be in the spotlight. Staying in the shadows and spending my life behind the camera—that was my calling. “Alma Lancaster, film director.” I could already picture it.
But after a year studying in the United States and a short film inspired by my time with Vadim—one which was widely praised at the time and that we made together as students—my career came to a halt. Our heartbreaking breakup and my sudden return to France pulled me away from that path. After graduating from a prestigious business school with a specialization in photography, film, and sound, I entered the job market determined to join a major production company. And at thirty years old, after various other jobs—some memorable, some less so—here I am: Deputy Director of King France. For me, this is a career high. I refuse to step down.
“Nice dodging, Alma. But a little too predictable for my taste.”
Those are Vadim’s first words to me as he enters my office, after failing to knock. He strides in without a moment’s hesitation.
“Oh, please, come in!” I reply in a mock-cheerful voice. “What are you talking about?”
“About the fact that you’ve been avoiding me pretty blatantly for several days. Is something wrong?”
He flashes that self-assured smile, that infuriating, irresistible, damn smirk. I stare at my screen so I don’t have to face him.
“I’m just really busy, that’s all.”
“Too busy to attend management meetings?”
“I had some last-minute details to sort out.”
“Regarding?”
“The budget projections.”
“For?”
“Vadim, what exactly do you want?”
“The truth.”
For a split second, an irrational part of my brain considers telling him that he understands perfectly well, that I’m avoiding him because he drives me crazy, because he unsettles me during the day and keeps me awake at night, because I never should have left him, because the thought of him with someone else is unbearable.
My rational brain chooses a different response.
