Mirror

chapter 6

After the day at the pound, I've spoken to Dominic a few times over the phone. Somehow, our conversations drift to slightly personal topics, like if I'm married or have kids, why I wanted to go to the pound. He even asked about my father. A week has gone by, one more remaining until I can finally end this.

Believe it or not, Dominic is somehow one of my more tolerable and yet annoying clients. Maybe I'm just a bitch. Maybe I just need to get a life-it will stop me from wanting to kiss my client, that's for sure.

I arrive at the office, and everyone is "sad" about my impending retirement. That's a lie. I'm polite to my coworkers, don't get me wrong, but I'm the wicked bitch on the tenth floor for a reason. One, it's because my father is the boss, so they think it's nepotism that I made partner. And second, it's because I don't lose-not a case, not a client. I strive for perfection, and that leads to the final point: it needs to be done right the first time. Time is money, and we all just want our check and to go home. No one works for free, and things flow easier when there are fewer mistakes and you're prepared. Maybe they hate me because I'm a woman, because if I were a man, they would respect me and not blame me for focusing on my career instead of wanting a family.

I just need to make it through one more week. There's only so much crap you can tolerate before it gets to you and you feel sick and tired. I go about my day, the same routine over and over again. The same judgmental people, over and over again. So tedious and empty.

I've made hundreds of enemies but just one friend working here. "You're almost done," Johnathan tells me, and I give him a grateful smile.

"Do you need a ride?" I ask. Johnathan comes from a wealthy family but cycles to work. How humble of him.

"No thanks," he says. "I need to stop somewhere first." I watch him get into the elevator. Overtime, again. Yay me. I sit down and finish a report, emailing it off. Just as I'm about to leave, I get an email from my father: "My office now."

I get into the elevator and go up to the twelfth floor. I knock on the door. "Come in," I hear him say. I enter and look at my father, the great Herman Monroe. How the mighty have fallen.

"You called," I say.

"Take a seat, Veronica," he says. I brace myself.

"I'd rather stand," I reply.

"Fine. I wanted a progress report on the Moretti case," he states.

"I've spoken to Mr. Moretti. He knows what to say when he's put on the stand next week," I say.

"I've heard he's a difficult client," he says.

"No, he's been decent to work with," I state. It's a half-truth.

"Veronica, don't fail," he says.

"I never have," I state, leaving.

"I know," he says bitterly.

I don't regret it, not one bit. I go back to my office, grab my bag, and leave. I can't wait for the day I never have to return. I get in my Porsche and drive to Cornwall's, ordering spaghetti and red wine. I didn't feel like cooking today, not after seeing my father.

As I sit and wait for my meal, a figure pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. "Veronica," Dominic says, his voice a mix of irritation and charm. I glare at him.

"You're not on the clock," he states with a shrug. He's right.

"Dominic, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. I just wanted to be alone.

"Just thought I'd check in," he says, leaning back in his chair, looking annoyingly casual. Today, he's wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, as always. I've noticed he only wears black or gray, and he always smells annoyingly nice.

I sip my wine, trying to mask my irritation. "And this couldn't wait until our next scheduled call?"

He smirks, a low, throaty sound that gets under my skin. "You looked like you could use some company."

"I was perfectly fine alone," I retort, my voice sharp. "But since you're here, what will you have?"

He raises an eyebrow and waves the waiter over. "I'll have what she's having. And bring another glass of red," he says, his eyes never leaving mine.

The waiter nods and hurries off. Dominic's gaze is intense, almost unsettling, but there's a flicker of something else there. Interest, maybe?

"You're always so formal," he remarks, his tone light but probing.

"I prefer professional," I correct, taking another sip of my wine. "You should try it sometime."

He chuckles, leaning forward. "Maybe I would, if it wasn't so boring."

"I didn't ask for your opinion on how I conduct my business," I snap back.

"Touchy, aren't we?" he says, but there's no malice in his tone. Just an observation.

Our food arrives, and I'm grateful for the distraction. We start eating, and to my surprise, Dominic matches my pace, not rushing or dragging it out. He's a surprisingly neat eater, something I wouldn't have guessed.

"Do you always work this hard?" he asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Yes," I say, not looking up. "And?"

"And maybe you should take a break sometimes," he suggests, his tone irritatingly casual.

"I don't need life advice from you, Dominic," I snap, setting my fork down. "I'm perfectly capable of managing my own life."

He smirks, leaning forward. "Doesn't look like it."

I glare at him, my patience wearing thin. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he says, his voice low and challenging, "that you're burnt out. You're running on fumes, Veronica. Maybe it's time to start living for yourself."

"I don't need you to tell me how to live my life," I say, my voice cold.

"Maybe not," he agrees, leaning back again. "But someone should."

I can't help but feel a pang of frustration. He's right, but I hate that he sees it. I finish my wine and stand up. "This conversation is over. I have work to do."

"Of course you do," he says, standing up as well. "But think about what I said, Veronica."

I don't reply. I just grab my bag and leave, my mind swirling with his words. As much as I hate to admit it, he's gotten under my skin. And I'm not sure how to get him out.

____
Diary Entry 4:
Dear Diary,

I'm twelve now. Dad doesn't look at me the way other fathers look at their daughters. There's no love in his eyes, only disdain. He barely speaks to me, and when he does, it's with a cold, clipped tone. I try to be perfect, to make him proud, but nothing works.