Page 21 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“I assure you, Rob, Miss Bennett is the same as the rest of her kind.”

“Right,” says Robert, seeing himself to the door. “Which is why you hired her for the position.”

7

OPHELIA

I catch the subway to Soho, hot, humid air greeting me the second I step out onto the street.

Glancing at the time on my watch, I pace down the street, conscious of the time. Mr. Moretti values punctuality. The look he flashes people when they turn up late for his meeting is frightening. New recruits adapt to his extremely high standards very quickly, not wanting to face the consequences of turning up a minute late to his meeting.

Will an exception be made for me, seeing as though he now wants to bang?

I suppose I’ll find out soon enough when I step into his office late, running over my lunch break. Aunt Viv likes to speak for the nation when we catch up, the concept of time, sometimes even social awareness, lost on her.

She spends six days a week floating through her own world, selling luxury paintings to clients. Abstract art should not be sold for more than two figures, but hell, what do I know? I’m an investment billionaire's assistant, not a creative hippie who syncs her cycle to the moon.

“Phee,” she says, rushing to grab the door for me. “Oh, do come in. I have the air on, blowing nice and cold in here.” She shuts the door behind me, the street traffic fading away.

My nostrils fill with the smells of acrylic paint and her perfume. She’s worn the same brand of perfume for two years. The scent used to be my mother’s favorite, and now I’m experiencing nostalgia as she brings me into a hug, kissing me on each cheek. I understand the sentiment, but smelling like my mother tricks my brain into thinking she is still here.

“You said you wanted to speak to me, sweetie.”

“Yes,” I say, wandering around the gallery as she flips the front door sign over, closing the place up.

I look at the paintings framed to the walls, some big, others small, the cheapest on sale for five hundred dollars. Angling my head to the side, I try to understand why someone would buy a canvas with one single blue streak of paint across it for this price. Mr. Moretti could do better than this, and that guy is even less artistic than me.

“Who exactly paints these?” I ask, still focused on the single blue streak.

“You mean, who is the artist?”

“Yeah?”

“This particular artist is from Peru,” says Aunt Viv, handing me an expensive bit of card. “Here, you can read about their mission.”

“Maybe later.” I force a smile, slotting the card into my purse.

“Art is what helped me grieve your mother,” says Aunt Viv, placing a hand on shoulder.

“Does the perfume not bother you?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“Mom used to wear this fragrance all the time.”

The smile disappears, something more serious landing on Aunt Viv’s face. “It keeps your mother’s memory alive, the scent encouraging me to look back on our memories fondly.”

I nod, partly understanding. Everyone deals with death differently, I guess.

Aunt Viv has always been an interesting character. The colorful feather earrings, along with the drapey skirts and crystal necklaces, make her look like a living painting, like someone splashed a bunch of random colors onto her and she went with it. Aunt Viv is good at going with the flow, moving through life at her own pace.

Where my mother was more practical, working as an ER nurse with Sapphire, Aunt Viv has always been more creative. My mother would tell us about horrendous cases at work. Aunt Viv's response would be: “The universe will hold them close, preparing their spirit for their next journey.”

My mother and I would flash each other a look. There’s no life after death, no second journey, no reincarnation.

My mother’s death caused Viv’s bubble to burst as she waited for ‘signs’ from the universe that would prove my mother was still living on the earth. Two years later, we’re still waiting for those signs.

But we do have evidence, something that may connect to her death.