One Weekend with the Billionaire novel Chapter 48

Close up, Jeff Thompson looks even more different than he had at a distance, when he was in his office, working. Or, at least, pretending to work. Normally, whenever he is in my presence, he has a cocky attitude, like he wants to prove he’s just as good as I am, that he is worthy to be in the same room as me.

Today, he is different. His eyes have bags beneath them, as if he hasn’t slept. His suit is disheveled, as if it hasn’t been ironed. I imagine that’s because he hasn’t ironed it himself, and Julia wasn’t there to do it for him, though I can’t imagine that Julia is behind in her ironing, and there weren’t other options.

He sits down in the chair across from me, a smug look on his face. I want to know what he is thinking. Does he feel defeated? Or does he realize he has some leverage here? Jeff Thompson has the only thing in the world I want that I cannot buy.

Except… everything has a price, doesn’t it?

"Thanks for meeting with me, Thompson," I say, trying to meet his eyes. I have offered my hand, and he has accepted it, our shake routine, meaning nothing.

"Of course, sir," he replies, a sharpness about the way he says that last word, as if he needs to remind me that I am his boss. "Anything you want, sir."

I know then that he is angry, resentful. I take a deep breath and blow it out. "I noticed you were hard at work this morning."

He shrugs. "It’s Monday. That’s what I’m here for."

I don’t bother to point out to him that he’s been spending an awful lot of time at work not working recently--for months, actually. There’s no point in saying that. We both know that’s the case. "I just wanted to touch base with you about your duties here, going forward."

His eyes widen as if he thinks I might be about to demote him. I’m not. "Yes, sir?" he questions, still saying sir as if he really means "asshole" every time he says it.

"Yes, sir." He speaks with an air of finality, as if the discussion is now over. And I hear it as, "Yes, asshole."

I stand first, Thompson rising after me. We shake hands again, like robots who have no choice but to follow commands programmed into our arms by society, and then he marches to the door, fussing with the button on his jacket.

I sit back down, wanting to disinfect that chair. I wish he would’ve wanted to leave because I don’t like looking at him. Maybe I’ll move his office to one that I can’t see….

Cindy is at my door, wanting to know if everything is okay--wanting to know if I am okay. I give her a reassuring smile, but it’s a lie. I’m not okay.