It was only Tuesday, and June had already had enough bullshit for the week.
Today was one of the days where she was seriously considering quitting her job. To be fair, she did that almost three times a week, but the sentiment still stands.
As much as she wanted to quit badly, she had bills to pay, and Mr. Henderson paid freakishly large to compensate for that massive ego and all she went through in his firm.
Although sometimes, the bullshit outweighed the money.
Case in point: The silence on the other end of the line after her third ignored call was deafening.
He wasn't picking up. Of course he wasn't. Mr. Henderson was probably drowning in a bowl of pasta while June was left to play lion tamer to a woman who smelled like a sweet kind of oud fragrance and burnt sugar.
She tucked her phone into her blazer pocket and smoothed out her skirt and walked back into his inner office, where a leggy woman was sitting behind Malachi's massive mahogany desk like the deed to the building was signed in her name. The woman was Tinsley, or Kinsey, or something equally melodic and expensive.
One of Malachi's former flavors of the month. And apparently, she hadn't gotten the memo that it was over between them.
"He's not here, Ma'am," June said for the hundredth time, her voice as flat as the sparkling water the woman had refused.
"He's hiding," she said in an equally smooth voice. Reapplying her red lipstick. "And I'm not an idiot. Malachi doesn't just leave at nine o'clock. He practically lives here. I've seen his dry cleaning delivery."
The stalkery nature of that confession wasn't something June intended to dig into. However juicy that fruit may be. And some part of June hated that the woman was right. Malachi never leaves the office, which made the woman's presence even more annoying.
"I know, but he's at a family dinner. A private one. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to lock up the executive wing and leave for the day."
"Oh, you can go. I'll wait." She crossed her legs, her designer heel dangerously close to a stack of sensitive litigation files. "I don't know why he's avoiding me. Do you know why?"
June didn't have to rack her brain to figure out if Malachi had formally broken up with this woman because she could see the huge diamond necklace she had shopped for on Tinsley's neck.
That was her name; June remembered now because her Henderson special parting gift—usually very expensive jewelry—had a T behind it.
June had specially requested that inscription be added because it looked sweet and thoughtful.
Therefore, the only explanation for Tinsley's behavior was that she had 'forgotten' that she had been dumped or that she had thrown the handwritten apology/breakup note June had written without even reading it.
From the two options, both seemed extremely plausible.
June felt a twitch in my left eye. This was the part of Mr. Henderson's breakups she detested the most. The sadness of these women. The point where they realized that he didn't have a heart—he only had billable hourly rates, and when you try to find the man underneath the suit, you only find another suit or maybe a crisp one hundred dollar bill. She doesn't know for sure.
All she knew was that he had made her miss so many dental appointments and events. Her best friend's child's christening and a couple of birthdays in her family too.
She also knew how particular he was in his choice of drinks. His sparkling water came in a crystal glass with exactly two slices of lime and no ice.
One time, June summarized and highlighted his deposition. Red for questionable statements, blue for the inconsistencies, and yellow for the moments the client should have probably kept his mouth shut.
And instead of a thank you, like a normal person, she had gotten: "I pay you to organize my life, June, not to color-code it like a kindergarten project."
"Alright," June said now, feeling a little sorry for Tinsley. "I hear you, but he's really not here."
Who could fault a girl for being in love when it was designed, romanticized, sanitized and packaged in almost every form of media and ads?
"Find him," she whined.
June looked around, exasperated "Okay. I'll just search this open-concept floor for a hiding spot. Maybe he's under the desk you're sitting at?"
Tinsley actually leaned over to check the kneehole of the desk.
Oh my god, June thought. Where does he find these people? Is there a factory for airheads?
"What's your name?" Tinsley asked with a free lilt in her voice when she finally lifted her head back. Her straight blonde hair was settling back softly on her head.
"June Henderson," June said. If her cooperation would make her leave faster, why not try civility? Hell, June would give her her social security number at this point.
Tinsley sat up suddenly. Her curiosity piqued, and she looked at June like she was an angel.
June frowned. It was a really off-putting reaction to a name.
"Of course! You're his sister! That's why you don't want me to see him." She pouted, her eyes scanning June's face for a resemblance that didn't exist. "But you two don't look like each other. Like at all. No offense."
None taken.
"That's because I'm not his sister. Or his cousin or anything related to him. We just happen to have the same last name. It's a common one."
"Coincidence?" Tinsley asked, and June could only shrug.
It was a running joke in the office that June was a product of nepotism—the 'Hidden Henderson'—maybe it was because she had put up with him the longest.
Six whole months. Almost seven now.
Her time here doesn't even compare to her short stint in law school.
"Are you sure?" Tinsely asked skeptically. "Are you really really sure?"
June paused, staring at her, and for a fleeting second, she let herself imagine all the terrible, unprofessional things she'd love to do to Malachi Henderson for leaving her in this mess. Pour glitter in the pockets of his suits. Swap the inks of his red and blue fountain pens. Rip out tomorrow's date from his work diary. Make his OCD tick.
June felt a slow, dark smile spread across her face.
"Yes, I'm pretty sure."
Tinsley sighed and collapsed back on the chair. Not even attempting to leave.
Guess we never went past square one, June thought.
She glanced at the clock, and panic flared in her chest.
8:58pm.
The sitter would leave her little sister by 9:40.
June never stayed past that time except when there was an emergency at work.
"Give me a quick second."
Tinslay shrugged one shoulder, and June stepped out of the main office and ducked into the kitchenette, hitting Mr. Henderson's speed dial again.
She had a little window of time before her little sister would start worrying if she'd been hit by a bus and was in the hospital somewhere. For a sixteen-year-old, she had a morbid imagination.
Pick up, Mr. Henderson. Pick up before I call security and make this a PR nightmare.
The phone rang.
And then the line clicked open.
Finally.
"Hey June," Mr. Henderson's voice came through, sounding strangely… strained? Like he was speaking through gritted teeth.
Huh? She took the phone away from her ear and looked at the screen. She had dialed the right number. This was Mr. Henderson, but something ticked in the back of her head. A premonitory nag of sorts.
He had never, ever, in all the months she had worked here, called her June.
"We have a situation." She pushed the weirdness aside to whisper. Emphasizing the capital S. "Your 'friend' from the Hamptons—the one with the penchant for vintage Chanel and those scarves—is here, and she won't leave. She thinks you're hiding in the vents or something."
There was a long pause on the other end. June expected dry wit or a sharp command to call building security. She expected him to tell her to handle it and hang up.
Instead, he cleared his throat. "Honey?" he said.
June froze, the phone nearly slipping from her hand. "Excuse me?"
"I know, I know," he continued, his tone suddenly dripping with a warmth that felt deeply wrong and chemically altered. "I miss you too. I'm just finishing up with my mother. I'll be home soon, okay?"
June stared at the microwave and spluttered, "Mr. Henderson?"
Did he hit his head on a tractor?
"It's June. Your assistant. Have you been kidnapped? Is this code language?"
Had she missed the chapter in the employee manual on what to do when kidnapped?
"Got it," she said. "I'm calling the cops."
"No, I'm fine. It's fine," he said. "Yes, I know. I love you too, sweetheart."
June's jaw hit the floor just as he hung up.
She walked listlessly back into the office and found Tinsley rifling through Mr. Henderson's mail.
"That's federal property, Ma'am," she said, her voice low from shock. "And this building is private property. As I've told you time and time again, Mr. Henderson is unavailable and specifically requested no visitors; that means your presence here is classified as trespassing."
June couldn't hear herself over the buzzing in her ears, but she hoped she made sense.
Tinsley didn't even look up. "He wouldn't arrest me. We have history."
"It doesn't matter," June snapped, finally having enough.
She moved behind the desk and snatched the mail out of Tinsley's hands. "In the present, we have a security team downstairs who are very bored and very eager to use their badges. I can call them and a paparazzi friend, or you can walk out of here with your dignity—or what's left of it, anyway—and I won't mention to the Post that you stalk your exes. Imagine how that news would go in your social circle."
Tinsley bristled, her eyes flashing. "You're just like a servant, June. An assistant. Don't get ahead of yourself."
June didn't blink. She had been called worse by people with much higher net worths. She smiled. The specially curated one her sister always said made her look like a shark. "You have exactly five seconds to decide. Five. Four. Three—"
Tinsley grabbed her clutch, hissing something about getting Malachi to fire her, and stormed out.
9:12.
June let out a breath and slumped into Malachi's chair. It was too big for her. Soft and smelling faintly of expensive leather and his usual sandalwood cologne.
Honey? Sweetheart? She shuddered. Whatever game he was playing, she didn't care, but she knew
he owed her big time.
And to June, repayment comes in the form of a massive bonus.