Chapter 3
Aaron Ridley was standing in a patch of sun as it stretched across the drab, gray carpet of his office. He had only just been awoken from a morning nap by Desiree, his secretary. For some reason, the mug of coffee she’d made for him when he arrived at the office didn’t seem to do the trick for his energy levels. His hands were lodged firmly in his pockets now, and he stood by the window as the sun rays danced along the tanned, caramel hue of his skin. He loomed over most people with his imposing six-foot, two-inch frame, intimidating most new acquaintances with a blend of his authoritative role in his father’s company, his laundry list of credentials, and his smooth croon like a pebble dragging across gravel. But before anyone had the clearance to reach that level of familiarity, they had to bolt through the barriers of his eyes: two sharp and sunlit lakes, glimmering at everyone who glanced his way.
Men found Aaron daunting and dispiriting, while women found him mysterious and irresistible. Aaron found most everyone—regardless of gender—to be weak-willed and uninspiring. Though he’d grown up in a whirlwind of unspeakable privilege as the son of a wildly successful businessman, Aaron always longed for a simpler life; for the raw grit of reality. Wealth felt plastic to him, as if life itself were counterfeit. He felt as though if something could be bought, it wasn’t real in the first place. Everything Aaron ever had was purchased with his father’s success, his family name, or the company card. His whole life felt manufactured, acquired by artificial sources of engineered authenticity.
Aaron thought of Charlie, his father, languishing at home, fed at intervals by a team of hospice nurses. Something had overtaken Charlie in recent months, bubbled up within him with increasing severity. Some poison had swallowed his body, rendering him mostly useless. Doctors couldn’t explain Charlie’s illness, so Aaron took over his father’s company as acting CEO. He’d always worked for Kümertech, but only in the shadows. Mr. Lee had always been Charlie’s right hand, his Vice President and clear successor at some point in the unsketched, foggy future. And yet, Charlie began to groom Aaron to take over, which he did rather reluctantly, as an only child not wanting to disappoint his father.
Today Aaron faced an impasse. The company his father built—the company that gilded Aaron’s childhood with prosperity—was tanking with unprecedented ferocity. Stocks were deflating, investors were pulling out. The company itself seemed to be imploding for reasons that Aaron couldn’t bear to accept. Staring out the window, watching the ordinary people walk on the pavement below, Aaron envied them their humdrum lives and their money problems. He’d never worried about the balance in his bank account in his life, but with that security came a certain blasé, waxy mindset. Aaron felt like he’d missed out on something, some subset of emotional intelligence that came along with day-to-day struggle. Today was the first time Aaron would have a quarterly meeting without his father’s attendance. At today’s meeting with the investors, he had a prime opportunity to undo it all, to join the ranks of the regular people, to collapse his company and start fresh in a life he’d always wanted.
Desiree cleared her throat and tapped a red-soled pump behind him. Aaron turned, not realizing she’d slipped into his office as he drifted off in his daydreaming.
“You’re already five minutes late to the pre-meeting briefing,” she barked, her cleavage trembling with every move she made. “Mr. Lee is getting into one of his moods again.”
Aaron stared at Desiree blankly, wondering why she insisted on dressing that way. She was a gorgeous woman, but she laid on this shellac of sex appeal that was almost blinding. She, just like everything else in his life, was so unnaturally manufactured.
“Okay,” he replied, his tone lackluster and bored. Sighing, he took a step toward the door, rubbing a spot on his thigh with his left hand. Under his slacks, an irritation kept pinging Aaron with nips of pain, stemming from a wound he wasn't sure how he wound up with in the first place. He winced as he patted the spot on his thigh, sparking concern on Desiree’s face. He ignored her, motioning that he’d exit the office after she did.
“Hey, Desiree,” he said lightly. “Was the coffee you made this morning decaf, by any chance?”
“Oh,” she replied, taken aback. “I’m so sorry. Mr. Lee made that pot of coffee just before I walked in. Only one cup left. I just brought it to you...I had no idea it might have been decaf, sir.”
“That’s okay,” Aaron said back to her. “Can you do me a favor and make some fresh coffee? I’ll need it after this meeting.”
“Of course, Mr. Ridley.”
Desiree was walking fast, click-clacking along the tile with her designer pumps and sashaying in her vacuum-packed dress. Aaron looked at her not with lust, but rather with confusion. Didn’t that hurt? Wouldn't it be uncomfortable to be so sucked in, so compressed?
Too lost in the fogginess of the day that loomed before him, Aaron nearly smashed right into Desiree in front of him as she gasped in disgust, her body dripping with a milky brown syrup. A girl kneeled on the floor picking up spilled lettuce leaves and tomato slices, mopping up excess salad dressing with her hands. She was wearing a uniform from Reynold’s—the restaurant that usually catered meetings with investors. Her sneakers were skidding across the floor as she jerked to clean her mess as quickly as possible. A visor covered her down-turned face.
Aaron moved Desiree aside and knelt down beside the girl. She refused to stop moving or meet his gaze.
“Hey,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammered, jolting from one movement to another, trying to erase her idiotic mistake.
“Hey,” Aaron whispered, smiling. “Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry about. Accidents happen. You don’t have to do this,” he assured the girl, who moved like a frightened rabbit in captivity. “We have custodians on staff for this.”
The girl looked up at Desiree, whose eyes were burning into the top of her head with fury. “You should really watch where you’re going,” Desiree snapped, reluctantly wiping her hands down her torso. “I hope you know that I’ll be sending an invoice to your manager for the cost of this dress. You’ve ruined it.”
“Desiree,” Aaron whispered, helping the girl to her feet. “There’s no need for that.” He was calm, his kindness balanced out the hatred that rang through Desiree’s voice and down the hall, reverberating around them in torrid tension.
“But this is a designer dress, Aaron!” Desiree protested. “What, do you think I’m made of money?! Someone has to cover this damage. There’s no such thing as a—”
“Desiree,” Aaron said sharply, interrupting her. His eyes were cutting through her, exposing her to the clot of onlookers as the shrill bitch she was framing herself to be. Aaron raised his eyebrows as if he were speaking to a small child and said in a measured tone, “It was an accident. Now if you feel uncomfortable about the stain on your dress, you’re welcome to go home and change. I don’t want to hear another word about this from you. Are we clear?”
Mortified, Desiree nodded and quickly clomped away, hanging her head. An older man in his late fifties poked his head out from a doorway to survey the commotion. “Aaron,” he bellowed down the hallway. “What are you doing? It’s time for the briefing!”
Aaron stared at the man for about ten piercing seconds. His blue eyes shot down the hallway, freezing the man with a laser beam of indifference. “I’ll be right there,” Aaron said, only slightly raising his voice. He was cool, totally free of worry or strife. “Have I met you?” He asked the girl, turning to face her. “Have you delivered to us before?”
“No,” she said, looking down at her untied shoelace, at the mess it made. “They, uh… they just put me on delivery for this week. The girl who normally delivers is out on jury duty.”
“I see,” Aaron said, taking his billfold from his back pocket. “What do we owe you?”
“Oh, sir, I can’t take your money. I dropped everything,” the girl said with panicked eyes.
“Well, that’s honorable of you,” Aaron said, slipping two hundred-dollar notes into her shirt pocket. “…but I insist.”
Unsure of how to handle the situation, the girl sighed, radiating nervousness. Finally she turned her face upwards to return his gaze and found herself visibly stirred, caught in the rising tide of the ocean in his eyes.
“What’s your name?” Aaron asked, smiling.
“Vanessa,” she replied, in a trance.