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I can see her now, baring her teeth scornfully as she gazed at my gift, along with a hidden delight at the pretty bauble, which she rejects because she hates being reminded of her gender.
I have seen her fascination with shiny things. It’s almost childlike. The few times we have worked together, I have seen her hastily close down a tab on her laptop that has an intricate piece of ring or a bracelet on it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she collects them, hoarding them like a jealous lover, yet never wearing them because she doesn’t want to be seen as too feminine.
It doesn’t bother me. In fact, a sense of satisfaction curls inside me at the knowledge she refuses to let anyone treat her as less than, wearing her position and title with pride, forcing it at the forefront.
Less competition, my mind whispers. I frown disapprovingly at the thought.
I stand abruptly.
I don’t want to see Lana, not when I’m not completely in control of myself.
A brisk walk will do me good, I convince myself as I grab my trench coat and make my way to the elevator.
I hit the button, surprised when I don’t have to wait long.
It morphs into shock at seeing a familiar woman curled on the floor of the gleaming metal box.
“Miss Smith,” I utter numbly.
She’s breathing hard, her pallor white and her arm protectively over her stomach. When she raises her eyes to meet mine, I jump into action, rushing forward to help her up.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” I demand, helping her out, half carrying her.
Without hesitation, I take her into my office, seating her on the couch and filling a glass with water.
She’s shaking.
When I hand her the cup, she makes a small sound of dissent, but I force it into her hand, commanding, “Drink.”
She takes a few sips, but she looks wan.
“Do you want me to get Lana?” I ask, not knowing what to do.
“I’m okay,” she mumbles, but she doesn’t look ‘okay’. Far from it.
When she makes a choking sound, she grasps at my sleeve, urgency in her voice, “Bathroom.”
When I point her in the right direction, she rushes off with newfound strength. Soon, I hear her throwing up.
She doesn’t look drunk, I think worriedly.
I knock on the door. “Miss Smith. Elise. Should I call an ambulance?”
A hoarse ‘no’ before she starts throwing up again.
Setting my shoulders, I make up mind. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Lana can handle this.
I go for the emergency exit, using the stairs. Pushing past the slightly drunk people who are socializing, I locate Lana. She’s talking to Lucas, looking delicious in that dress, pretty pearl drops adorning her neck and ears.
I stride over to her. People part as if sensing I’m likely to shove them out of the way if they don’t. Curious eyes jump to me, but I shrug them off.
When Lana sees me, she freezes. She barely manages to say my name before I grab her wrist. “You need to come to my office, now.”
Lucas narrows his eyes on where I’m gripping Lana’s wrist, then asks, “What’s wrong?”
My voice is low and urgent. “Elise is there. And something’s wrong with her.”
