C15, PT. 1

Her phone pinged. It had been doing that a lot lately. Unfortunately, she couldn’t turn it off or put it on silent since she was waiting for some calls. But, text messages could wait.

The kitchen island was covered in stacks of papers and folders. Colorful sticky notes covered up the sparkly quartz countertops. As Roth walked into the increasingly messy kitchen, she finally accepted the fact that she needed her own office. She chose a talented interior designer from the list Sarai sent her. During their meeting to discuss what she wanted, she apologized to Cazandra for being a boring client. All she wanted was a set of matching pieces to make up her office. She made up some lame story about not being sure whether the room would remain her office, so they shouldn’t make too many changes. Furniture-wise, all she required was a desk, bookshelf, filing cabinet, and possibly an armchair. Sarai (who insisted on being present) and Cazandra gave each other sidelong looks and told her they would take care of it.

For nearly a week, she heard the distant sounds of drilling and pounding in the other wing of the penthouse. She had no idea what the hell they were doing, but she passed men wheeling in massive pieces of furniture. Though they did their best to be quiet, the distant murmur of half a dozen people was driving her a little crazy. She couldn’t wait for it to be over. She hated having so many people milling around, and she really did need a place to work and think in peace.

Those ambitious plans she made in Berlin came back to haunt her when her board of advisors and classmates from Wharton’s followed up with her to meet. She reluctantly agreed to one appointment, which led to another and another. Suddenly, every day she had an engagement—and lately, two or more. The flurry of business meetings and reunions with old friends dragged her out of her fictional daze and plopped her firmly back in reality, where she now managed over three hundred million dollars of assets.

She met with her tax and estate planning attorney first and now had her own trust in place. As it stood, her nieces and nephew would inherit her fortune if something happened to her, but she planned to allocate a portion of the money to a worthy cause and had lists of charities and foundations she needed to research. She also met with CPAs, financial advisors, and a handful of Wharton’s classmates. That wasn’t counting the endless phone calls from other people who now answered to her. She created a spreadsheet to keep track of everyone and wondered how the hell her sisters did this for Hennessy & Co.

She flipped through a report, highlighting and making notations for a follow-up meeting she had with her financial advisor next week. She suppressed the urge to ask her sisters for advice. This is why she had advisors. She could do this on her own. But that didn’t stop her from wanting a second opinion. Making decisions involving tens of millions of dollars was nerve-racking, but the anxiety of doing nothing was worse. There was no right or wrong. There were risks whether she kept her investments as they were or switched to something she suspected may be more lucrative, but carried more risk.

Her friends from Wharton’s were a great source of information and quickly caught her up on industry news, stocks, and startups. Becoming an angel investor was downright reckless, but there were several small businesses that sounded extremely promising. She wanted Roth’s take, but he’d been preoccupied with his work project, and she wasn’t sure she should cross that line. Asking him to look through financial statements and business plans after making countless decisions for his own company all day didn’t feel right, so she sought counsel elsewhere.

The past two weeks had been rough. He was back to working insane hours. She hoped, for his sake, the project wrapped up soon. They had dinner only a handful of times. After, he retired to the home office and didn’t emerge until the wee hours of the morning. She missed him, but with her own schedule suddenly taking on a life of its own, she wasn’t in a position to complain when she, too, was on the go and absorbed in her own business decisions.

A series of insistent pings from her phone let her know someone really wanted an answer to something. She made a few more notes before she tore herself from the report and walked over to the stove, where she left her phone.

Daiyu: I need to talk to you!

Daiyu: Are you avoiding me?

She rolled her eyes. After countless unanswered calls, Daiyu was finally catching the hint. Daiyu was being annoyingly persistent about this fashion show thing, and there was no way in hell she was doing it. She was about to turn her back on the phone to go back to her report when another message appeared.

Daiyu: If you don’t call me, I’m telling everyone what you and Roth did in my dressing room.

She froze. Daiyu wouldn’t… She cursed as she snatched up the phone. Daiyu fucking would. Part of her knew the story was already circulating. Her friend was a notorious gossip and couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, but so far, the juicy details hadn’t been leaked to the press. On the heels of her father’s death and her recent nuptials, such a story would cause a sensation neither she nor Roth needed right now. She dialed Daiyu, who answered halfway through the first ring.

“Finally.”

“Blackmail, Dai? Really?”

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Daiyu said, all business. “Why are you playing hard to get? Do you or do you not want to walk in my show for Fashion Week?”

“I do not,” she said vehemently.

“I designed this dress you’re going to love,” Daiyu gushed, ignoring her outburst. “I think it should be the opening look. It’s ready for your first fitting, which is why I’m calling. If it requires alterations, I want to get it done ASAP. When can you come down?”

“Never.”

Daiyu ignored her snarl. “What are your thoughts on closing the show in your wedding gown? Everyone’s dying to see it in person. It’ll be great for the masses to see it in all its glory before it shows up in Vogue the following month.”

“Hell no.”

“Jasmine.”

 Daiyu’s admonishing tone made her grind her teeth.

“All I’m asking for is a little favor from an old friend.”

**This is a raw draft of Bitter Confessions. Please do not share or distribute.

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