I run the brush through Izzie’s blond hair, trying to get all the knots and tangles out.
“Owwww!”
I stop before looking down at her, raising a brow. “What did you do, Izzie? Sleep in your hair?”
Her hand with her fork in it halts halfway to her mouth, her brows furrowing as she looks up at me with her blue eyes. “Yes.” She states it so matter of fact, not getting my joke in the slightest before putting the forkful of eggs in her mouth.
Shaking my head and chuckling, I continue to brush through the tangles before parting her hair in two.
“Can I have two buns today, Amelia?”
“Of course, sweetie.”
Shuffling feet come into the kitchen and I look over at Clay as he pushes himself up into his seat at the table, grumbling under his breath as he clutches another book in his hand.
“Morning, Clay.”
He offers a grunt in reply and I leave him to eat his breakfast while I make quick work of Izzie’s hair. Stepping over to Clay, I run my hands through his brown hair, trying to tame it. He definitely needs a haircut soon.
“Dad had an early morning meeting,” I tell them as I head to the sink and start cleaning up the pans I used for breakfast. “I’ll be taking you to school today.”
I don’t get a response; not that I expected one anyway.
Submerging my hands into the soapy water in the sink, I scrub all of the pans clean before transferring them into the dishwasher. I know it’s not needed to wash them twice, but it’s my thing—I like to make sure things are squeaky clean.
Their voices rising has me turning my head slightly as Clay tells Izzie she can’t do whatever it is she’s doing. I chuckle under my breath. That girl can’t take no for an answer and there’s no way she’ll let Clay tell her what she can or can’t do.
“You’re not the boss of me!”
“I’m older than you, which means I am the boss.”
“No, you’re not! Daddy is the boss, not you!”
He huffs, his patience wearing thin. So much like his dad. “You can’t put chocolate sauce on your eggs. It’s… disgusting.”
My head whips around as Izzie squirts chocolate sauce all over her eggs, not listening to him in the slightest.
“Yes, I can.” She gives him a smile that says she can do anything she wants as I pick up a towel to wipe my hands dry.
“No, Izzie,” I say, stepping forward and removing the bottle out of her hands. “Clay’s right: you can’t have chocolate sauce on your eggs.”
Her eyes widen, becoming glassy as she stares at me and the offending bottle of chocolate sauce. Her gaze swings back and forth between me, Clay, and the bottle innocently.
“Daddy would let me,” she whispers.
Looking at her with a raised brow and pursed lips, I don’t say anything as I pick up the plate with the chocolate-covered eggs before making her some more toast.
“Can I have pancakes—”
“No,” I cut her off. I know exactly what she wants. She’d eat pancakes smothered in chocolate sauce and whipped cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if she could.
She huffs, her face turned down as I place the toast in front of her. Not willing to get into this argument with her when we need to leave in a few minutes, I say, “Eat up. We need to leave soon.”
She picks her toast up, scrunching her nose up at it before taking a tentative bite as Clay finishes up and passes me his plate. “I’m going to go and get my bag,” he says, his voice low.
“Okay, we’ll meet you by the door.”
“Poohead,” Izzie whispers to him as the door swings closed behind him.
“Izzie,” I warn, giving her the look that tells her she’s going to get into trouble if she doesn’t stop.
One argument and half a slice of toast later, we’re finally walking out of the door and toward the car Tristan makes me use to take the kids where they need to be. I press the key fob to open the doors and watch as they make their way over to it. Pulling the front door half closed, I stop when a UPS van starts up the driveway.
A man in a brown uniform gets out the driver’s side with a square box and device on top of it.
“Package for Amelia Rivers.” His voice sounds bored, his face expressionless as he hands me the device to sign my name and gives me the package.
I place it just inside the door then lock it, heading to the car and slipping into the driver’s seat before heading down the driveway and onto the main road.
Izzie talks the whole way to school while Clay has his nose stuck in his book—as usual.
The houses pass us by, all large with their own driveways as drivers leave them, no doubt taking the children to school in the same way I am.
It took some getting used to when I first took Clay to school with Edward all those years ago. Where I grew up, yellow buses or your own two feet were the only way to get to school. We didn’t have a uniform like the one Izzie and Clay have to wear to their private school either, we wore our own clothes which meant you could tell who the poorer kids were and who had more money than others.
As we get closer to the school, my mind flits back to the package I signed for. I don’t remember ordering anything, but then again my mind tends to be a sieve with the amount of things I’m always trying to remember. Maybe Tristan ordered something and put it in my name? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it so the package doesn’t end up back at their warehouse when he’s not here to sign for it.
I frown. But then he would have told me to expect a package.
I shake the thoughts from my head as we pull up to the school behind all of the other black town cars and Escalades. Kids step out, the boys in blue blazers and the girls in checked dresses. When it’s our turn, I hop out of the car.
“Have a good day,” I tell them both, kissing Clay on his cheek and giving Izzie a hug. They trail inside, getting lost in the crowd before I climb back inside the car and lean the back of my head against the seat for a brief second.
I follow the other cars out of the exit, heading back the way we came as I start to make a mental list of what I need to do when I get back to the house. First I need to tackle the kitchen, giving the oven a deep clean along with the refrigerator before I head on upstairs and change the kids beds. Once I have that washing and the rooms cleaned I can head downstairs and start in the main room before tackling all of those floors with my special steam mop. I hate those floors, they’re the bane of my life.
Parking the car in front of the garage, I jump out and head inside. The first thing my gaze lands on when I open the door is the package. I pick it up, pushing the door shut with my ass before heading into the kitchen.
Humming under my breath, I pick up the half a slice of toast Izzie left as I pop the package on the table and head over to the knife block.
Pulling the biggest knife out, I twirl it in my hand as I move my hips to the beat I’m humming as I walk across the kitchen.
I stop in front of the package, titling my head to the side at the sticker on the side that says, “fragile.” A smile lifts up the side of my lips as I take another bite of toast before spinning the knife around again and plunging it into the cardboard, running it along the tape.
My humming gets louder as I throw the knife down on the table, the clanking sound resonating off the wooden surface. Yanking the flaps of the box open, I rummage through all of the black tissue paper. When I feel something hard hit the tips of my fingers, I throw the last bit of toast down next to the knife.
Pulling the rectangular ivory box out, I run my fingers over the surface of it. It’s covered in a light pink pattern and encased in bronze that’s engraved. A small wind-up handle sits on the side and when I try to move it, it doesn’t budge, almost as if it’s been glued into place.
I don’t understand why this has been sent to me. Did Tristan order it for Izzie?
My curiosity gets the better of me and I lift up the small metal latch that keeps it closed.
I pull the top up, my breath catching as I see the ballerina inside that’s supposed to be standing proud but instead lies broken inside the box. The music sounds, reverberating around the room, causing my vision to blur.
It slips from my hands, clashing onto the floor but not closing as I back away, my head shaking back and forth so fiercely I’m sure to give myself whiplash. My breaths become gasps as the music fills the room; the same music that used to play on the music mobile that hung over her cot. The only thing that seemed to settle her.
I squeeze my eyes closed, wrapping my arms around myself as goose bumps spread all over my skin.
I don’t want to go back there; I don’t want to remember.
I twist the little knob on the side of the musical mobile hanging over the cot. Stars and a moon hang from it, fascinating her as she tries to catch them, but they’re out of reach of her little chubby hands.
Her mouth opens and she coos as the music surrounds us. I hum along with the tune, reaching down and running my finger down her cheek and staring into her dark-brown eyes. Eyes that watch me intently before they start to close and her little legs stop kicking out. Her chest rises and falls on a deep breath as she falls asleep.
Still I don’t move, watching her, obsessed with how soft her skin is as the music keeps playing and the moon twirls around the stars on a continuous loop.
I fall back into the counter as my eyes spring open. This can’t be happening. It’s taken years to try and forget. Trying to not relive the memory of that night.
I’ve managed to go under the radar this far, so why now? How did they find me? I made sure to cover my tracks, there’s no way they can know who I am—where I am.
But as I lean down, my hands shaking so hard I have to ball them into fists, I see they have found me.
My eyes focus on the words written in red on the mirror behind where the ballerina is supposed to be.
“You can run, but you can’t hide.”
My nostrils flare as I stare at it wide-eyed before slamming the lid down on the box, the rattling from the broken ballerina echoing throughout the room.
The game is up. They’ve found me.
“Oh, dear lord,” Freya scoffs as I strut into the reception area of my law firm, winking at both her and Tara—two of our receptionists.
“Morning, ladies.”
“Not again,” Tara chuckles out.
“Damn right,” I reply as seriously as I can, looking around the open space. Where are these damn interns?
Tara giggles as I do half a lunge to discreetly try and get the tiny running shorts I've squeezed into out of my asscheeks.
“I thought you'd have grown up a little when you hit your thirties,” Freya groans.
She's known me since I was a teenager. She used to work for my father in his law firm as his PA. I was always around my father when I wasn't in class, trying to gain the insider info to get a step-up: I learned from the best.
“You're only as young as you feel. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with having a little fun and hazing the newbies.” My gaze flicks over to the front doors as three fresh faces walk in and I grin. Game on. “Gentlemen, nice of you to join us.”
I try to keep a straight face as they all glance over my attire and back at each other. One even checks their watch before stepping ahead of the rest of them and clearing their throat. I like the confident ones.
“Excuse me, sir, we're the interns starting today. We're supposed to meet—”
“Me. You're supposed to meet me.”
“Erm…” He looks over at Freya and Tara who shrug and run their gazes back to their computers. When he doesn't get any help from them, he turns back toward me. “We’re actually here to meet Ms. Raine.”
“My partner may have interviewed you all but she's far too busy this morning, so you have me instead.” Recognition dawns on their faces and I smirk, motioning toward the waiting area.
They follow me and sit down in the seats I point toward. “My name is Nathan Cole, but you can call me Mr. Cole until you earn your position in this company.” They all nod and stare at me blankly. “I am the other half of this firm as well as many of our prestigious lawyers under the Raine, Cole and Associates umbrella. You’ll be put under the interns from last year to learn the ropes, but I requested to show you around.”
One of them raises their hand but I ignore it. It’s showtime.
I raise my leg onto a chair in a stretch, the running shorts I’m adorning pressing tightly into my thighs. One of the interns bites back a laugh with a quick cough.
“Something amusing?”
He startles, his eyes widening. “Erm, I… no, not at all.”
“Good. Then follow me, and don’t forget to take notes.” I take off in a jog toward the hallway the running track is on, turning to run backward as I watch them fumble with all of their belongings, briefcases probably containing nothing slowing them all down. “Gotta learn to keep up.”
When they catch up and we’re running the bright-red track, I start my speech, pointing to things they need to know along the way.
“The main offices are all contained in the middle of the building on the inside of the track. Don’t step on this track unless you intend to run or you’ll be trampled by someone. It goes all the way to the very top of the building in a spiral shape. There are stairs and an elevator in the center, but we try to encourage our staff to stay active and healthy.”
They’re furiously writing everything I’m saying down with confused looks on their faces as they stumble along the track and I barely contain my laughter. This is all part of me checking out their characters—and livening up my boring day simply because I can.
“Any questions so far?” I ask.
One of them closes his notepad. “Please don’t think I’m questioning your authority, but what does any of this have to do with the company or us for that matter?”
I hold back a smirk. “Do you not think it’s important to keep up a healthy lifestyle?”
“Well… yes, but in our personal time. Not at the workplace.”
I slow down. “What’s your name?”
“Steve.”
“Well, Steve, that’s your first wrong answer.” I look at all of them in turn. “You have all chosen a profession that involves lots of paperwork and long, grueling hours. Many of those hours you’ll be spending sitting at a desk and eating whatever is on hand. You won’t have a lot of time for the gym unless you want to sacrifice the precious few hours of sleep or any social time you may find you have. We’re always looking for ways to improve our work environment and one of our interns came up with this very running track. You may think it unnecessary and irrelevant now, but trust me, you’ll thank us when you still fit into your expensive, tailored suits.”
I turn back around without acknowledging anymore comments from them, but I can tell the running is taking its toll from their heavy breathing.
We reach the middle of the building and I start jogging on the spot outside one of the three conference rooms.
“The label on the door is pretty self-explanatory; this is the main conference room where we will have meetings. There’s two more, learn where each are and ingrain them into your memory, you’ll be doing a lot of back and forth between them.” I start walking at a fast pace on the track again, them following behind me. “As interns you will be assisting us all as well as putting forward your own ideas and input. This is very important. Learn to have a voice or you know where the doors are. Here at Raine, Cole and Associates, we’re looking for people who will speak up and are innovative. We—”
“Sir—”
“Mr. Cole.”
“Right. Mr. Cole. I’m well aware and I’m sure my colleagues here are too of the innovative ways this firm runs. I’ve done a lot of research and I really think I have what it takes to blend in with the company.”
“Then you haven’t listened to what I’ve been saying. I don’t want you to blend in, I want you to stand out and have a voice. You all aced the bar, you wouldn't be here if you didn’t, so I’m expecting great things from you all.”
I can see the sweat rolling off them and one is lagging behind by the time we’re nearing the top. They’ve kept up though and not stopped like some of the last ones.
The hustle and bustle of the top floor as interns and junior associates flit in and out of offices makes me smile, but they all stop and clap as the interns come running to a halt one by one. Stacey, the only intern from last year to keep up with me, hands me and each one of the new interns a bottle of cold water. “Still at it, Mr. Cole?”
“Stacey.” I shake my head at her. “I’ve told you to call me Nate.”
“Wouldn’t feel right,” she says shrugging.
I chuckle and turn toward the flushed, sweating faces of the three interns. “Welcome aboard, guys. Don’t let me down.”
I nod toward last year's interns, this year’s junior associates, and they immediately file upon the three to show them toward the showers and give them a rundown on how everything works around here. My methods might be unorthodox and completely mad, but they never forget their first day and what we stand for. We’re like a family here and I’d like to keep it that way.
I like to give all of my worker bees a good working life. Being a lawyer can sometimes be stuffy. To the public we’re seen as boring and hard-faced, but I like to keep the workplace fun. Ever since we started to implement the healthy lifestyle program, we’ve won more cases and brought on more clients than ever before. Marina, my partner, was skeptical at first thinking it’d take time out of work and lessen productivity, but in actual fact it’s improved everything.
Everything everyone needs is right in this building. We have a food court with the best chefs and zero fast food in sight. You don’t have to eat there, but it saves going outside the office. We have the running track that can be used at lunch or in between meetings with our clients. There’s a gym, a mini spa, and a salon that each worker gets special points to use in every month. We take care of the people who work here so that they’ll take care of our reputation and clients.
Happy staff equals more productivity.
But as soon as someone abuses the system we’ve got going on here, they’re out. We have no time for lazy, unproductive people. You don’t have to use the running track or the gym if you don’t want to, it’s not a rule of working here, but it’s there if they want to. We encourage a healthy lifestyle, not force it down people’s throats.
Pushing into my office, I shower and change, ready for a long day of clients, my first being a long-ass meeting discussing a top priority case.
On my way I grab a tray of sushi from the sushi bar in the food court and pull out my cell, typing out what feels like the hundredth message of the last three days to my supposed best friend, Tris.
Nate: You + me + beers = extremely drunk. Let’s make it a reality this weekend.
Nate: Tomorrow night, 8pm at Gillies. Be there or be square.
Nate: Hello from the other side. I must've called a thousand times.
Nate: Your severe lack of response makes me want to contact you more, jackass.
Nate: You better be extremely busy or have lost your cell to not message me back for three days. And I know you’ve seen them! The iPhone doesn’t lie!
I sit back in the comfy leather chair in conference room three. I’m the first one here so I take a deep breath and think about what the hell I can do to help my friend who doesn’t seem to want to be helped.
Does he know I know Harmony is back and haven’t told him yet? I shake my head, popping a piece of sushi into my mouth. No, he can’t. I do feel guilty for not telling him, I know as his friend I should warn him but it’s not my news to share. Plus, he’d ask questions as to how I know and I can’t break client confidentiality. I’m a professional before anything else.
I close the empty sushi box thinking I’ll tell him when her divorce is finally over and just say I ran into her in passing or something.
Before my mind can run away with me, the intercom in the middle of the table beeps before Tara’s voice comes over the line. “Mr. Cole, are you in there?”
I press the button to reply. “Sure am.”
“Finally, I’ve been trying to get you everywhere.”
“Just keeping you on your toes, Tara. Is everything okay?”
“Sure. I’m just letting you know Mr. Ryan is here for his one o’clock.”
“Thanks, Tara. Send him up.”