Falling for the Rival

Ch. 5: Immature Blackmailer

Juliet

I slam my MacBook shut, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms.

It's already nine. I missed dinner and didn't even realize when the lights turned on outside my office window on the fiftieth floor. Staring at the lit skyscrapers, I massage the back of my neck. My strained muscles ache, reminding me physical therapy is long overdue.

So is some rest. After the last few days from hell, I deserve it more than anyone. Just when I thought I'd put the ridiculous situation with Romeo behind me, he came up with another way to piss me off.

I need to get my ladybug back, but I've got nothing concrete on him, and I don't like it one bit.

A vacuum cleaner hums in the hallway. The cleaners are here. It's my cue to leave, so I rise from the chair, collect my stuff, and shove my arms in the sleeves of my red coat.

Everyone but the cleaning crew has left like I suspected. Doing overtime is common at Milton's headquarters, but my grandfather doesn't encourage it. He always says if anyone needs to miss dinner, it's him, not the rest of the employees.

I walk down the hallway, and as I near his door, I spot light filtering from under it. I didn't expect him to still be here. After hesitating for a beat, I knock.

"Come in," he says.

As I cross the threshold, the smoke from his Cuban cigar wafts over to me. I cover my nose with my forearm, coughing because of the pungent smell.

Grandpa swivels in his leather chair and booms with laughter, raising a glass of whiskey. "I'm in trouble, right?"

I bite my bottom lip, failing to stop myself from grinning. "You would be if Mom was the one to open the door. You're lucky it's just me. Why are you still here?"

"I needed to catch up on paperwork." He rests his glass on a coaster and takes a drag of the cigar. "You, on the other hand, shouldn't be here so late."

"Noted." I press the folder I'm holding to my chest. "I'll make sure to go to a sleazy club instead next time."

Grandpa wags his finger in warning. I'm lucky he doesn't realize I'm only half-kidding.

"Since you're here," I say, coming up to his desk, "I need to talk to you about something work-related."

My palms turn clammy as he waves his hand to get rid of the curtain of silver smoke in front of him and leaves the cigar in the ashtray. "Talk about what?"

"A project," I say, injecting the confidence I don't feel into my voice. "Something I've been working on. It's in this folder."

I carefully rest it on Grandpa's mahogany desk and clasp my sweaty palms in front of me. I don't think I've ever been so nervous.

Grandpa flips the folder open and retrieves the pages. While skimming the first one, he raises his brows. "An on-site daycare, huh?"

"Yes," I say. "I overheard a woman in an elevator a few months back. The nanny let her down, and she had nobody to stay with the baby. She was talking about quitting her job, and I thought it was sad. Not only sad; unacceptable. A parent shouldn't choose between their child and their career, but often they're forced to because daycare is a luxury when it should be—"

"Affordable."

"Yes." I breathe. "I know it's an investment, but I also know we have lots of employees with small kids. By providing on-site daycare, we'd reduce absenteeism and increase employee satisfaction with the company. People hardly ever leave a company that treats them well. Similar projects gave excellent results in other companies, and..."