Bound by Design

Five

Nadia’s POV

I left at ten-thirty with my shoes in my hand, and a highly particular emotion in my chest that I would call relief and refrain from scrutinizing.

Three weeks in that building. Three weeks of fighting for every decision, defending every action, explaining and re-explaining everything that had no business needing an explanation. Three weeks of Kyle Sullivan strolling into rooms while I was in the middle of work and treating the project plan like a document for other people.

The renovation was completed. It was a success, and I had made it through it alive.

The elevator ride down was thirty seconds of quiet and the hum of cables. Standing in the far corner with my borrowed shoes dangling from two fingers, I thought: 'I will never work for that man again. Not for any amount. Not for $47,000. Not even for $470,000.'

There was a fine line between being challenged and feeling actively humiliated, and for three weeks, Kyle Sullivan had stood on the incorrect side of it.

The marble of the lobby floor felt icy against my bare feet. It was momentary and gratefully refreshing.

I thought of the flash. His face as it had gone off. The clench in his jaw. The instantaneous, cold assessment in his eyes.

The way he had told me, 'stay here,' like I was an object that could be easily repositioned on a chessboard.

What I thought of was the image captured and what it could potentially mean for a job that I was technically yet to invoice for, and if whatever meeting scheduled for tomorrow will in fact prevent me from doing so.

That's what I was thinking about. The invoice.

My phone buzzed as I pushed open the main doors.

"Mr. Sullivan's office," came the voice on the agency's end. "There's a meeting request for tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. His office."

"Did they say what it was about?"

There was a pause. "Only that it was important."

I stood in the lobby with my shoes in my hand and thought of the word 'important'.

Kyle Sullivan did not waste words. Three weeks working for him had confirmed that much at least.

He spoke what he meant, and usually what he meant was blunt and decidedly unpleasant, but there was never any padding. He had used the word 'important' for a reason and there was no room for any other interpretation of it.

This meeting was important.

I needed to prepare for it.

I slipped my shoes back on, pushed the glass doors open and stepped into the frigid air. I walked back toward my dilapidated car and watched, with an added pang of weariness, as it flat-out refused to start. I had to walk back to the entrance, where a porter hailed me a cab.

I stood on the sidewalk while I waited and looked up at the looming structure that was Sullivan Tower. Forty-two floors of glass and cold power, and the most hellish three weeks of my career to date.

I thought about the hospital bill — $47,000 — still sitting on my kitchen table, still demanding an answer I did not possess.

I thought about Lena. 'Don't give up on me. Promise me that.'

I thought about tomorrow's meeting.

I thought about my mother, lying in the hospital, her health faltering and how I had only managed to see her three times in the span of three weeks.

The cab arrived. I slid into it, rested my forehead against the windowpane and let out a long, defeated sigh.

I watched the glittering metropolis roll by outside, mentally steeling myself against whatever was to come.

Though the fact that Kyle Sullivan would call a meeting in his office the morning after a photographer caught him with me certainly didn't sound like promising news, based on any rational calculation.

However, I had done nothing wrong. The work was well done and my behavior impeccable.

I was prepared to sit through whatever he had to say calmly, respond to it equally so, and not allow it to show just how bone-weary three weeks of dealing with him had left me.

I was being pragmatic about it all on the way back to the apartment, while standing in the elevator to my floor, in the shower, while I tried to make tea I wouldn't drink and while I lay staring up at my Queens ceiling.

I played through the various scenarios the meeting could involve. The most likely being that he would bring up the photo, wants to discuss it professionally, possibly an agency statement to quell rumors. Clarification about the working relationship and a desperate attempt to protect himself from whatever damage limitation Page Six would likely pursue to milk the story. I could handle that. I had acted professionally in all regards.

There was another possibility I kept forcing back out; that the photo was less of a complication to be managed and more of a prelude to something entirely different.

I rejected it again and again.

Kyle Sullivan, the man who fired three designers in a month, dismissed project decisions with barely a word and criticized work with no rationale behind it. Anything he wanted from tomorrow’s meeting would be to his benefit. There was no other logical explanation.

I would walk in, hear what he had to say, protect my professional position and leave. That was all there was to it.

I said that to myself over and over again until I began to believe it.

The phone vibrated within my bag. I fumbled for it.

Lena.

I answered with a sigh.

"Hey, sis. How are you doing?"

I was silent for a few moments, and then: "I'm okay, I guess."

"You don't sound okay."

"I'm okay, Lena."

"How was the gala?"

"I don't know." I hesitated for a moment before deciding not to bring up the photographer. "It was alright, I guess."

"Okay. I guess that's fair," he said. "Mom says hi."

The wave of overwhelming guilt washing over me at the thought of how infrequently my visits had been threatened to drown me.

"Tell her I said hi. I'll visit tomorrow."

"Sounds good, Nadia. Get some rest."

I dropped the phone on my lap.

I had fewer than twelve hours before the meeting with Kyle Sullivan. I had to be ready for whatever came next.