Beyoncé Knowles can't believe her annoyingly perfect personal assistant has actually resigned from her cushy, highly paid position, and she intends to tell her exactly what she thinks about it.
But when she gets to her place, she comes to realize s...
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She was lucky that the ride took longer than she'd expected; her white-hot rage defused a little in the next few minutes, morphing to something calmer, colder-and perhaps even more dangerous.
"We're here, ma'am," the driver told her.
Beyoncé's clenched fists loosened as she stared, unable to understand what her eyes told her.
"That can't be right," she whispered, getting out of her car. "Wait for me," she instructed the driver. Then, seeing at least two different groups of tattooed skinheads eyeing her and her car with interest, she backpedaled, "Or drive around the block-stay close by. I'll call shortly."
This couldn't be where Onika Maraj, one of the Maraj's of Fifth Avenue, lived. The dilapidated exterior chilled her bones. Broken windows, graffiti on the walls.
What the hell?
She walked straight into the building listed as her address; the front door lock was broken, allowing anyone to get in without being checked.
Climbing the staircase, she found that some floors smelled of piss, while others smelled of pot. Finally, she arrived at the seventh floor and found the number 13.
Knocking on the door, she half expected it to be opened by a total stranger; that would have meant that she needed to set her private investigator on a wild goose chase to work out where the woman actually lived, but at least she wouldn't have to shout at her for living somewhere where she could get raped and murdered any given day.
"Who's there?" asked a little voice that most definitely didn't belong to Onika.
It was a child. Beyoncé exhaled in relief. Wrong address. Definitely. Unless she had some friends around...
"I'm... I'm here to see Onika Maraj."
The child on other side of the door stubbornly repeated, "And who might you be, ma'am?"
She had to smile. She sounded very young, but that was the kind of thing she'd expect to hear from an adult.
"Beyoncé," she replied. "Beyoncé Knowles, lady. Is Onika around?"
Please say no. Say there's no Onika here. It was bad enough that she knew children lived in such dumps.
"You're Ebenezer."
She stayed silent, unsure how to respond to that.
"Tell me: what Christmas decorations is there in your office?"
"None?" she replied, wondering what that was all about.
The door unlatched and opened in front of a girl wearing a headband, leggings, a sparkling tutu, and a Christmas sweater. A girl with russet brown curls, deep brown eyes, a cute nose, and a smile she recognized stood before her.
