The Orders She Could No Longer Give

Lucy shut the office door and stood beside it as though she expected someone to order her out.

"Please sit," I told her.

"I can get you some ice first."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate that."

When she returned, she had wrapped a cold pack in a linen napkin. She set it in my hand without looking directly at the mark on my face.

I pressed it to my cheek.

On the other side of the door, voices rose and fell. The reception was ending badly. I could hear Victoria calling someone incompetent, followed by Peter's repeated apologies.

Lucy flinched at each sharp syllable.

"Does she speak to you like that often?" I asked.

"She has very high standards."

I waited.

The girl's fingers tightened around each other.

"That wasn't my question," I said gently.

"I know."

She looked toward the door.

"Last month, an assistant packed the wrong belt with a gown. Ms. Delacroix made her stand in the stockroom while she called her stupid in front of the rest of us. She said anyone who comforted her could leave too."

"What happened to the assistant?"

"She quit on Tuesday."

Lucy was twenty-six. I had seen that in the staff files. At twenty-six, I had been living in a studio with a broken stove, trying to persuade investors that I could understand businesses whose owners wouldn't have invited my father through the front door.

I remembered the physical exhaustion of needing a job too much.

"What happened tonight is not your fault," I said.

Her eyes filled, which seemed to embarrass her more than the insult had.

"I should have done something."

"You were the only person who treated me like a customer."

A knock interrupted us. Peter opened the door without waiting.

Victoria followed him inside.

"Lucy, get out," she said.

Lucy rose automatically.

"Stay seated," I told her.

Victoria's chin lifted.

"This is a private conversation."

"Then you should have asked for one."

She glanced at Peter. He stayed near the door, holding it open.

"My father is on his way," she said.

"He can meet with the transition team."

"He built this company."

"And then he agreed to sell control of it."

The last word caught her. I could almost see her trying to push it away.

"He said the investment wouldn't affect our family arrangements."

"I can't explain what your father told you. I can explain what happens tonight. You will have no further involvement in managing this reception or directing these employees."

She gave Lucy a look that made the girl draw back.

"You'll regret enjoying this."

I lowered the cold pack.

"Lucy hasn't said a word to you."

"You have no idea what these people are like when they think they can get away with something."

"Peter, please escort Ms. Delacroix to collect her belongings."

He hesitated.

That hesitation told me more about the business than his entire biography had.

"Peter."

He straightened.

"Ms. Delacroix, this way, please."

Victoria's face went white around the mouth.

"You can't have me thrown out of my own boutique."

"You're leaving because you hit someone and threatened an employee," I said. "The ownership hasn't changed in the last five minutes. Your behavior has simply acquired consequences."

She stared at me. Then she turned so fast her heel scraped the floor.

The door slammed behind her.

Lucy let out a breath she had been holding too long.

I was less composed than I looked. Beneath the desk, my knee had started to shake.

When Elaine arrived with Marcus Chen twenty minutes later, I asked Lucy to get some water for herself and stay with the other staff.

Elaine closed the door and crouched beside my chair.

"Let me see."

"It's a slap, Elaine."

"I know what it is. Let me see."

I moved the napkin.

Her expression hardened.

"We're photographing that."

"All right."

"And you're allowed to be upset before you start running a company again."

That nearly undid me.

I looked away, toward the windowless wall.

"I thought someone would say something," I admitted.

Elaine didn't offer a comforting lie.

"I wish someone had."

Marcus waited until I nodded before opening his laptop.

"The security recording has been preserved. We'll review access and management duties on Monday. Henry is downstairs. I've told him you're unavailable tonight."

"Thank you."

He slid a printed payment summary across the desk.

"There's something from this afternoon's review you should see."

Blake Advisory. An external capsule production project. Payments totaling four hundred and eighty thousand dollars over four months.

I read the description twice.

"Adrian's firm?"

Marcus nodded.

"We asked for delivery records. We received marketing decks. The production support doesn't match the payment descriptions."

"Could it be billed under the wrong heading?"

"Possibly. We're checking."

I traced the project name with a finger: Heritage Renewal.

It was also printed on the little card beside the ivory coat outside.

"Start with what was actually made," I said. "Ask the people who made it."

Marcus wrote that down.

We left through the front at ten. I refused the back entrance when Peter offered it.

The boutique stood nearly empty. Two cleaners gathered abandoned glasses. The doorman held my coat and apologized so softly I had to lean closer to hear him.

Near the stairs, an older woman waited in a plain black cardigan. A tape measure hung around her neck, one end tucked into a pocket.

"Ms. Morgan? I'm Helen Brooks. I run the workroom."

I recognized her name immediately.

"Lucy told me about your embroidery team."

She nodded, but her attention stayed on my face.

"Did I hear correctly that your father was a tailor?"

"He was."

"In Queens?"

I looked at her more carefully.

"Yes. Daniel Morgan."

Her hand went to the tape measure.

For a moment, she seemed to have forgotten how to speak.

Then she glanced toward Peter, who was locking the display cabinets.

"Could you come upstairs on Monday?" she asked quietly. "There's something in the old workroom files I think you should see."

"Something about my father?"

Her eyes shone behind her glasses.

"I should have shown it to someone years ago."