Page 7 of Her Sloth

What I can do, is reclaim power. Phoneix rising from the ashes.

“Yes,” I say, drawing myself up. “Get me an org chart across all companies, organize a meeting with all acting CEO’s for tomorrow, fly them in, I don’t care. I want to speak to them personally, and headquarters will be moved to L.A.”

I hate being in New York. I hate everything about the city. I am an L.A. girl, always have, always will, even if the industry is as rigged as it can be. But at least it’s warm there. Being here goes against everything I am, with every cell of my body revolting.

I look into puzzled eyes.

“It is impossible to move headquarters to L.A, at least not this fast⁠—“

“I am not going to stay in New York any longer,” I say. “This is Whitney-Morgan; it’s not that we don’t have offices everywhere. Don’t try to fool me,” I say harshly, but I don’t care. Others have called me a bitch before, because I am one, at least to those who don’t respect me.

“I may not be deemed fit by you to run this firm, but let me warn you, I have more life experience than all you hobbyless book fuckers in one. You work for me now, so you do what I tell you to, and that is headquarters in L.A. and a meeting with the CEOs tomorrow at noon.”

With that, I slam the pen onto the desk, get up, and walk away.

A man in functional wear follows me from the moment I exit the room.

“Fuck off,” I tell him.

“Can’t,” he says in an efficient tone. “You run Whitney-Morgan, you need protection.”

I stop, turn, draw myself up. I am tall, but because of my blonde hair and slim figure, everyone mistakes me for being a fragile princess. But I am not. I cry. But I am everything but fragile.

“I don’t need a bodyguard in fucking L.A. I won’t need one here. You will back off, or you’re fired,” I say. “You work for me, not the other way round.”

Gladly, he doesn’t attempt to follow me again.

I get out of the building.

Slip into my car.

Close the door.

It’s the first moment where I feel like myself again.

I close my eyes.

I am not made for the corporate world.

I am not made for any of the things I do.

Being the actress everyone admires.

Being in the middle of everything.

Being pushed around for even more publicity.

I hate, hate, hate everything right now.

I take a deep breath in.

The scent of the Mustang is the only thing that calms me. The car that had been my sister’s.

What I need right now is to forget whatever just happened.

Meaning to recklessly speed my beauty over concrete, preferably in a race. I

I take my phone.