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I know it’s late, I know I should just wait until Monday, but this is an emergency. A true emergency, like- millions of dollars on the line. I tried to call him. I tried eight times. He didn’t answer. What else was I supposed to do! Why else did he give me his address if not for moments just like this?
I sprint into his complex, anxiously banging the elevator buttons repeatedly as if it would make them go faster. He’s on the twenty third floor, two from the top. The doors finally open with a ding. I run down the hall to his door, not bothering to knock, lucky that the door is unlocked.
“Sir, Sir!” I yell as I bust in, but I stop cold in my tracks. He’s sitting at a small dinner table by the floor to ceiling windows, the open concept apartment dimly lit only by candle light. And across from him is you. Elegant, in a gown to expensive for me to imagine, sipping wine with a fake smile on your face. I don’t know who you are, though I have my guesses. But I do know one thing- you are not his wife.
(I catch my boss with an escort. What does he do? Share you with me? Offer you to me for the night to keep quiet? Use you to destroy my life for bursting in on him? Open to ideas)
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