Yours to Please, Daddy

Phoenix "I just got here, Dad." I press the phone tighter against my ear, shifting my portfolio bag higher on my shoulder. "I'm standing right in front of his office building." I look up at the sign on the tall, glass-walled building. Crowe Atelier. The biggest real estate company in the state. And the man on the other side of those doors is Victor Crowe, my father's best friend of thirty years, a walking, talking, obscenely well-dressed reason my nerves have been in shreds since I landed yesterday. "Have you gone in yet?" my dad asks, worry threading through every word. "Have you seen him?" "I haven't gone in. I'm literally standing outside." "You call me the second you see Victor, okay?" "Dad." I let a little exasperation creep into my voice. "I'm not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself." There's a pause on the other end, the kind he takes when he's deciding whether to push or let it go. "I know," he says finally, quieter. "I know you can." "I'll call you tonight." "Okay." I'm about to hang up when his voice comes again, softer this time. "Phoenix. Please don't give Victor any trouble. You promise me?" I smile despite myself. "Of course, Dad. I'm here to work." That last part is a lie. I'm here to work, yes. But that's only one truth. The bigger truth is the reason my heart has been beating erratically since I landed yesterday. I'm here to see Victor. My father's best friend. A man more than twice my age, and about as off-limits as a person can get. The last time I saw him, I was twelve. It was my birthday, and he was thoughtful enough to bring me a box of my favorite chocolates. I still don't know how he found out I liked them, but it was the biggest gesture anyone outside my dad had ever shown me. And that was the first day Victor Crowe stole my heart. I've had a crush on him ever since I was old enough to understand what wanting someone truly means. At first, it was nothing more than childish admiration. I thought he looked like the prince from the storybook Dad used to read to me before bedtime. He was handsome, confident, and always seemed larger than life whenever he walked into a room. I was twelve. Of course I thought he was perfect. What I didn't expect was for that little crush to follow me into adulthood. But it did. Year after year, it stayed. And now, after all this time, I'm finally standing outside his company, about to see him again. I check my watch. It's eight-oh-two. I still have plenty of time. When I finally walk into the lobby, my heels clicking sharply against the limestone, I almost forget to breathe. The place is exquisite. Pale stone stretches across the walls, broken up by enormous panels of glass so clean they look like sheets of water. Everything is polished, expensive, carefully placed. Getting an internship here took months of research and more rejected applications than I want to remember. Standing in this lobby now, I finally understand what all the fuss was about. I glance toward the massive logo displayed behind the reception desk. CROWE ATELIER. I swallow. I made it. Now I just have to survive the part where I actually have to meet Victor Crowe. I walk toward the woman behind the reception desk. "Hi. My name is Phoenix Veyl. I'm one of the newly recruited interns." She doesn't look up. Her fingers continue moving across the keyboard. When it becomes clear she has no intention of acknowledging me anytime soon, I use the opportunity to look around at the space instead, at the light falling through the glass, at how deliberate every inch of it feels. The woman deliberately clears her throat to get my attention back to her. "The internship coordinator will be with you shortly." She slides a visitor lanyard toward me like it costs her something. "You're Phoenix Veyl?" I turn. A woman is cutting across the lobby toward me, tablet clamped under one arm, already three tasks ahead of this conversation. "Yes. I'm Phoenix Veyl." "Jenna Hale. Mr. Crowe's personal assistant." She doesn't stop walking, just angles toward the elevator bank and expects me to follow. My feet move before my brain agrees to it. "You were supposed to be here forty minutes ago." The floor drops an inch beneath me. "The email said nine." "The email said eight-fifteen." She jabs the call button. "Mr. Crowe addresses the new interns personally on the first morning. He started without you." My mouth goes dry before I can think of anything to say back. The doors slide open and we step into a mirrored box, and there I am. Blazer pressed within an inch of its life, hair pinned, portfolio bag held against my ribs like it might stop something from getting in. My reflection looks like a girl about to be sick. "Is he going to—" I stop. Try again. "How bad is it?" Jenna's eyes cut to me sideways. Something there that isn't quite pity. "He doesn't love tardiness. That's the polite version." The elevator opens on thirty-seven, and I hear his voice. I would recognize that voice anywhere. Even in my sleep. Deep and hoarse, the kind of voice I used to imagine saying my name. The kind that could make a simple sentence sound like an order. I've listened to all his TED Talks. Followed every interview I could find, pretending I was interested in what he had to say. I was. Just not as much as I was interested in hearing him speak. I follow Jenna past reception, through a set of glass doors, into a studio where fifteen interns sit in a loose semicircle, all of them angled toward the man at the front of the room. Victor. His back is half turned toward the door, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing toward the screen behind him. Grey suit. No tie. He's taller than I remember, or maybe I just measured him differently as a child, always looking up instead of almost level with him now. But it isn't his height that makes me stop. It's the man himself. Nothing about him feels like the Victor from my birthday. That version is gone, replaced by someone sharper, colder. A stranger wearing the face I used to know by heart. He's aged beautifully. There are strands of silver scattered through his dark hair, just enough to make him look older without taking away from his face. If anything, they make him more striking. Somehow, time was kind to Victor Crowe. Jenna's hand finds my elbow and steers me toward the edge of the group. I keep my spine straight. My eyes forward. Then he turns. The room. My chest. Everything just stops. "You." His eyes stay on me for a moment before moving over my clothes, my portfolio, then back to my face. I wait, stupidly hoping he might recognize me, but his expression gives me nothing. "You're late." I swallow. "I'm sorry. I thought—" "This session started forty minutes ago." He glances at the clock on the wall, then back at me. "Do you know what I think of people who can't respect the time of everyone else in this room?" I open my mouth, but nothing useful comes out. "No, sir." "You will soon find out." He turns back toward the screen. "You're not joining this session. Wait outside." "Sir, please. I can catch up, I just need five minutes to—" "Get out." No heat behind it. Just an order he expects to be followed. My face is hot and my legs don't feel steady under me. A couple of interns glance over, then look away fast, the way people do when someone else's embarrassment feels contagious. "Yes, sir." I walk back out through the glass doors before I can do anything else embarrassing in front of everyone. They close behind me with a soft click, and I stand there listening to his voice pick back up on the other side like I was never in the room at all. I stand in the corridor, staring at a potted plant like it owes me answers. A year of planning and rehearsing on how to introduce myself when I finally meet him, and this is how it starts. I tell myself it's fine. That it's recoverable. I believe that for about twelve minutes. Then the doors open and the interns file out, nobody looking at me, and Jenna comes out last. She raises an eyebrow and nods toward the end of the hall. There's a door down there. Heavy wood, a brass nameplate: Victor Crowe, CEO. "He wants you in his office," she says. "Which is weird, honestly. He never lets interns near his office. “Did I do something else wrong?” “No idea.” She’s already walking away. “But I’d hurry if I were you. He doesn’t like waiting either.” I glance toward the conference room. Victor is still in there, and now I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Am I meant to go into his office and wait for him, or stand out here until he comes out?