Claimed by Alpha Price

Chapter 02

I head down to the lobby first, hoping one of the lounge chairs might still be free. No luck. Every single seat is claimed by clusters of Asian tourists, cameras and maps everywhere. I give my forehead a light smack. Right the memo from last week. Busloads of visitors from China for that cultural exchange deal DeLuca struck with some Beijing firm.

The private staff elevator is blessedly empty when I step back in. I swipe my card and hit 5. The library and records sit up there, and in the two months I’ve been stuck in this building I’ve never once run into another living person on that floor. Perfect.

I dig out the peanut-butter sandwich and take a bite. Same lunch I’ve loved since the orphanage, mostly because the only other breakfast option was rice broth. My best friend then, a Chinese girl named Linh Tran, was the sole kid who actually chose the broth. Nothing wrong with it, but my Western stomach still treats it like medicine you only swallow when you’re feverish and stuck in bed.

Turns out there’s a first time for everything, I realize a minute later with a sinking feeling. Good news: other employees have finally discovered the fifth floor. Bad news: they didn’t come for the free books. They came for the free privacy, I guess. Or at least that’s what they thought.

Right in front of the elevators, Brenda Snarkthe towering lipstick-and-heels nightmare who answers phones for Ze Morgueis on her knees, head moving in a steady up-and-down rhythm like some kind of mechanical servant.

Standing over her is Julian Hayes, the balding, seventy-something mid-level boss from the tenth floor, trousers puddled around his shoes.

Ding-dong. The elevator chimes and both of them freeze, suddenly aware they have an unwanted audience.

Oh, shick.

It’s the curse word the twins and I invented so we wouldn’t swear in front of Chloe and Tobi. If this scene doesn’t qualify as pure shick, nothing ever will.

I whirl back toward the elevator, jamming the rest of the sandwich into my mouth so I can mash the down button with my free hand.

Sharp nails dig into my shoulder.

SHICK.

Pinned in place, I turn and offer Brenda the weakest smile I can manage. She does not look happy to see me.

“Hello, Brenda.” The greeting comes out muffled and messy because my mouth is still full.

Behind her, Julian is frantically stuffing his shirt into his pants. The zipper is still open, and something soft and pale is still hanging out. I fight the urge to gag.

For the love of

That was so

Nope. Gagging wins.

“f**k!” Brenda leaps backward as the last of my sandwich hits the carpet. “God, you’re gross!”

I’m the gross one? Coming from a woman who was just

I gag again.

“You will not tell anyone what you saw.”

I nod so hard my neck cracks. I’m already praying the whole nightmare will erase itself from my brain.

“Swear it,” she shrieks.

“I swear,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. A few desperate gulps from my plastic tumbler follow. Powdered juice has never tasted so much like salvation.

“I’ll kill you if I hear one word about this,” she says once I force myself to look at her again.

“I already promised.” If I broke that promise I’d have to describe every second, including the part I just

Tenth gag of the afternoon.

When I finally stop heaving, her face has turned to stone. Maintenance is going to murder me for the carpet.

“One word,” she hisses.

I lock my knees so I don’t step back. Angry Brenda is terrifying. She looks ready to swallow me whole. The last time I felt this kind of fear was when the kids forced me to sit through Paranormal Activity 4 with them.

Her mascara-caked eyes pin me in place. “Not a word.”

“Not a word,” I echo, trying not to sound too eager.

The elevator chimes again, like a referee calling a draw. Brenda sweeps past me, chin high. Julian trails after her. As he draws level he leans in and murmurs in an oily whisper, “Let me know if you ever want the same treatment.”

I’m already sprinting for the restroom before the doors finish closing. There goes whatever was left of lunch.

4:35 PM

My phone buzzes. Martha, my foster mother.

I need $200. Withdraw on your way home.

OK, I type back. No real choice. If I refuse she simply takes the money out of Tobi’s allowance instead. Tobifive years old and the cutest kid on the planet. On my darker days I call her a pedophile because she preys on children the same way the real ones do, only without the s*x. Most of the time I try the Ellen DeGeneres route: forgive her, she knows not what she does. Pray for her, so she ends up somewhere hot.

Another buzz. Kevin this time. He’s eighteen, three years younger than me, and he and Leo are the closest in age. The orphanage claimed the twins were half-American, half-something-European. Some anonymous woman had dumped them into the arms of a half-deaf nun who later couldn’t remember whether the names were Pedro and Pedra or Petro and Petra.

I still vote half-Italian. Chloe swears they look half-Greek because of their “swarthy” skin. I’m three credits shy of a Mass Communication degree and I still don’t know what swarthy means. Kids these days and their vocabulary.

Doesn’t matter. The twins never gave a shick about their roots. The second Martha adopted them they switched to the fully American names Kevin and Leo and never looked back.

I open the new message.

Martha has another.

Shick. Drat. FRACK.

I blame Angelina Jolie. She’s the reason Martha turned fostering and adopting into a permanent side hustle.

I text Kevin fast. We’ll sort it out later.

4:45 PM

“Maya?”

Ed again. This time he won’t meet my eyes. He tugs at his collarbuttoned all the way up and starched so stiff it looks ready to strangle him.

“Yes?”

“You’re, ah, wanted in the CEO’s office. The penthouse.”

My heart flatlines.

Interns do not get summoned by the CEO for ordinary reasons. The word “intern” shouldn’t even exist in a CEO’s vocabulary unless.