Too Late for Love

Chuck moved fast. By the time I arrived, Grandma was already settled in a new suite.

A nurse was changing her IV bag.

Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed, her hand a map of needle marks. I smoothed the worry lines, tears threatening again.

“Miss Scott,” Chuck's assistant appeared, holding documents, “this is the top oncology team in the country. They'll oversee her treatment plan. Mr. Carter has covered all expenses. Please sign here.”

I took the pen. The wound on my fingertip stung sharply from being rubbed by the paper.

Signing my name felt like shattering something vital, burying the last shreds of my dignity alongside it.

“Report to the top floor of Carter Corporation at nine AM tomorrow,” Chuck commanded from the doorway. ”Don't be late.”

As he turned to leave, my phone buzzed. A message from Amy: a photo of me at the Conservatory's freshman welcome party six years ago, in a white gown at the piano, the tattoo just visible on my shoulder blade.

The caption: “Usurper. Know your place.”

I deleted it, transferred the monthly payment to Grandma's nurse.

Dawn was breaking as I left the hospital. Passing a 24-hour convenience store, I caught my reflection in the glass door. The fading bruise on my cheekbone, the thin scab on my forehead.

Six years ago, I never could have imagined ending up in such a state.

Back then, I was the prodigy of the conservatory. When my fingers danced across the piano keys, even the sunlight seemed willing to linger just for me.

But now, these hands are only good for wiping tables, carrying drinks, and even kneeling to kowtow on the ground.

My phone rang. It was the doctor. I hurried to answer it, terrified of hearing bad news.

“Miss Scott? Good news,” his voice held relief. “We've received a shipment of the targeted medication. It's ideal for your grandmother's case.”

My heart leaped. “Truly?”

“Yes.”

I stood frozen on the bustling street, tears welling.

I knew without Chuck, that medication would have remained a dream. He ground me into the dirt, then offered a candy.

I wiped away my tears and walked into Carter Corporation.

I followed the secretary into the elevator. As I watched the numbers climb higher and higher, my heart rose to my throat.

I had no idea what was waiting for me, but it was certainly not going to be an easy job.

His office was vast, the city sprawled beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Chuck sat behind an imposing desk, impeccably suited, gold-rimmed glasses lending an air of quiet and cold intellect.

If it weren’t for what he did at the KTV last night, anyone would be fooled by this appearance of his.

“Your access card,” he said without looking up from his files. “Your duties are simple: refreshments, document organization, available whenever I require you.”

I picked up the card. The photo was a grainy still from the KTV security feed – pale, hollow-eyed. The title: Personal Assistant.

“Sir,” I asked, forcing a smile, “does 'available' include sleeping with you? If needed, I'm at your service. You did compliment my skills six years ago.”

He slammed a file shut, his eyes glacial behind the lenses. “Beth Scott, drop the act. Here, compliance is your only path to survival.”

“Yes, Mr. Carter.” I bowed.

He ignored me, absorbed in his screen. I stood like furniture until noon when he finally stood, grabbing his jacket. “Come with me.”