Sterling’s Fortune

If bad luck had a smell, Elodie Rose knew it would smell like cinnamon, pine needles, and impending litigation. Elodie adjusted her grip on the silver tray of champagne flutes, her knuckles turning white. She took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of her heart against her ribs. Just walk, she told herself. Left foot, right foot. Do not trip. Do not sneeze. Do not spontaneously combust. It was December 23rd. The "Hazard Season," as her best friend called it, was reaching its peak. For most people, the holidays were a time of warmth and cheer. For Elodie, they were a final destination movie franchise waiting to happen. Last year, her apartment heating unit had exploded on Christmas Eve, flooding her downstairs neighbor’s unit with boiling water. The year before that, she’d been bitten by a reindeer at a petting zoo—a reindeer that was supposedly sedated. But this year was going to be different. This year, she had a job at Prestige Catering. It was a temp gig, sure, but it paid triple because it was the annual Sterling Industries Holiday Gala. "Move it, Rose," her supervisor, a woman named Brenda who wore a headset like it was a crown, hissed into her ear. "Mr. Sterling is due in the lobby in ten minutes. If these flutes aren't polished and placed by the Ice Angel, you’re fired before you can say 'severance'." "On it," Elodie squeaked. She stepped out of the service elevator and into the lobby of Sterling Tower. She stopped dead. It wasn’t a lobby; it was a cathedral to capitalism. The ceiling soared three stories high, made of glass that looked out onto the snow-choked skyline of Manhattan. The floors were marble so polished they looked like black water. And in the center of the room, dominating the space, was the display. A twenty-foot Christmas tree dripping in real Swarovski crystals stood to the left. But the centerpiece was the Ice Angel. It was a massive, intricate ice sculpture of a seraphim, wings spread wide, carved from a single block of glacial ice. It stood on a pedestal surrounded by a shallow fountain system that was currently dry. It was breathtaking. It was priceless. It was terrifying. Stay away from the ice, Elodie told herself firmly. Your job is the champagne tower. Ten feet away. Safe zone. She hurried toward the designated table, her sensible black flats squeaking softly on the marble. The lobby was buzzing with last-minute activity. Florists were arranging white poinsettias; lighting technicians were yelling about lumens. Elodie reached the table and began setting down the glasses. One by one. Perfect pyramids. She was doing it. She was actually functioning like a normal human being. "Hey! Watch out!" The shout came from behind her. Elodie spun around—mistake number one. A guy hauling a massive speaker on a dolly had lost his grip. The dolly lurched forward, clipping Elodie’s hip. It wasn't a hard hit. In any other universe, she would have just stumbled. But the Universe had a special algorithm for Elodie Rose in December. She stumbled back. Her heel caught on the edge of the plush red carpet runner. Her arms flailed, seeking purchase, but found only air. She fell backward, not onto the floor, but directly into the control panel pedestal for the fountain system. Click. A heavy mechanical thunk echoed through the cavernous lobby. Elodie froze, sprawled on the carpet. "I'm okay!" she announced to the room, her face burning. "Nothing broken!" Then, she heard it. A hiss. Like a snake the size of a subway train. The fountain jets surrounding the Ice Angel—which were supposed to gently mist the sculpture to keep it glistening—roared to life. But the pressure regulator, the one she had likely just bashed with her elbow, was gone. Instead of a mist, a high-pressure geyser of water shot straight up. It hit the left wing of the Ice Angel with the force of a fire hose. "No, no, no!" Elodie scrambled to her feet, frantically jamming buttons on the control panel. "Stop! Off! Down!" CRACK. The sound was like a gunshot. The delicate ice wing sheared off. Gravity took over. The massive chunk of ice, weighing easily two hundred pounds, plummeted into the fountain basin. The splash was tidal. Gallons of water surged over the marble rim, washing across the floor like a tsunami. "Turn it off!" Brenda screamed from across the lobby. Elodie slipped in the water, went down on her knees, and finally found the emergency kill switch. She slammed her palm onto it. The geysers died. Silence fell over the lobby. Absolute, horrifying silence. Elodie sat in a puddle of freezing water, her catering uniform soaked. She looked up. The Angel was ruined. It looked like a melted pigeon. The water was spreading rapidly across the black marble, soaking into the pristine white poinsettias and shorting out the floor lighting with ominous zzt-pop noises. "Well," Elodie whispered, closing her eyes. "At least I didn't set anything on fire." "Is that the standard by which you measure competence?" The voice was deep, smooth, and colder than the ice sculpture. Elodie’s eyes snapped open. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The frantic workers had parted like the Red Sea. Walking toward her, stepping carefully over the expanding puddle with shoes that probably cost more than Elodie’s entire college tuition, was a man. He was tall, with shoulders that filled out his charcoal-grey suit with military precision. He had dark hair, swept back but looking slightly windswept, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes that pinned Elodie to the wet floor. They were grey, not a soft, cloudy grey, but the color of steel and storms. Alistair Sterling. The CEO. The billionaire. The man who supposedly didn't celebrate Christmas because it was "inefficient." He stopped three feet away from her. He didn't look at the ruined sculpture. He didn't look at the flooded floor. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, terrifyingly calm. "Miss..." He waited. "Rose," Elodie croaked, scrambling to stand up. She slipped again, flailing, and managed to right herself, dripping wet. "Elodie Rose." "Miss Rose," Alistair repeated. He took a slow look around the lobby, calculating. "You have destroyed a forty-thousand-dollar commissioned sculpture, flooded the lobby of a Fortune 500 company three hours before the largest gala of the season, and I believe that smell is the electrical wiring beginning to smolder." Elodie winced. "I... I can explain. The dolly... the carpet..." "I don't care about the physics of your incompetence," Alistair said softly. He took a step closer. He smelled like expensive scotch and winter air. "I care about the solution." "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry." "Sorry doesn't dry my floors, Miss Rose." He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. Not to dry herself, but because she had mascara running down her cheek. She took it with shaking fingers. "Brenda," Alistair said, without looking away from Elodie. The supervisor appeared instantly, looking pale. "Yes, Mr. Sterling. She’s fired. Immediately. I’ll call security." "No," Alistair said. Elodie blinked. "No?" "Firing her would release her from liability," Alistair said, his voice flat. "And she has a debt to pay." He looked at his watch, a platinum masterpiece on his wrist. "My personal assistant resigned twenty minutes ago because she couldn't handle the stress of tonight's schedule. You, Miss Rose, seem to be chaos incarnate. Perhaps you can absorb some of the madness." "I... what?" Elodie stared at him. "You’re hired," Alistair said. "You will be my shadow for the next twenty-four hours. You will run every errand, fix every problem, and ensure this gala happens seamlessly. If you succeed, I wipe your debt for the damages. If you fail..." He leaned in, his grey eyes darkening. "I will sue you for every penny you will ever earn for the rest of your life." He turned on his heel. "Follow me. And try not to drown on your way to the elevator."