Emerald’s POV

“I just love these white chairs, Sophia. What do you think?” Emerald beamed.

“I can’t believe that I’m here. It’s so beautiful,” Sophia replied with a sigh. Kreuther was not exactly the type of place to which she was escorted by the men in her life.

It would be easy to be envious of Emerald Dane; she was beautiful, brilliant, apparently well off, and blessed with class. It would be easy if Dr Emerald Dane was not also kind, generous, and humble. She had no diva in her, a rarity in the fashion business.

Everyone who was or became eligible campaigned hard to get onto Emerald’s team. She was well known as the nicest boss and the one who would teach you the most.

But, by far, Emerald’s most admired quality was her willingness to step up and take responsibility. Without flinching. Though it was unheard of in fashion, when mistakes were made, as they invariably are, Emerald never dumped the blame on her staff. Nor did she have a problem saying “You were right, I was wrong” when the occasion called for it.

Sophia considered becoming her number one personal assistant (PA) to hitting the lottery.

Emerald nodded. “I really love the watercolors; they are so very French and soft. What do you think of the wallpaper on the accent wall?”

“Ummmm, I’m not sure. I’m not really a fan of flowered wallpaper,” Sophia shrugged.

“Neither am I. I didn’t like it at first, but I am starting to get it. There is definitely a French feeling in there.”

Sophia shrugged. “I guess. I’ve never been to France. Or anywhere else, really.”

“I believe you will get there one day, my love. Would you go to Paris if you had the opportunity?”

Sophia instantly brightened, “Oh, God, yes!” Her joy was short lived, “It’s super expensive though, right?”

“Indeed it is. But, there may be a way. Let me see what I can do about arranging something. In the world of haute coture, a business trip to Paris is not difficult to justify. And you have done a stellar job of keeping us well under our expense budget.”

Sophia could not process what she was hearing.

“It would be entirely reasonable to bring my number one PA.”

“Oh my God. I would DIE.”

“Don’t do that. I was thinking Paris Fashion Week. We could assemble some relevant projects, maybe compare/contrast consumer attitudes. We all understand that Fashion Weeks are handled and accepted quite differently in the US vs Europe.”

“Is Milan as awful as everyone says?”

“Worse.”

“Oh, Emmy, I would so love anything you could do to get us to Paris.”

The plan was already in place. If the bean counters gave her any grief, she would simply, quietly make up the difference out of her own funds. As Emerald saw it, creating such joy for a young woman so deserving was a splendid investment.

Are you thinking about what you want to order, sweetie?”

“I don’t know what any of this stuff on the menu is,” Sophia sounded a bit helpless.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you. You have about a million choices. Just tell me what you love, and we’ll get it sorted.”

Emerald then continued: “Since it’s just us girls tonight, I am seriously considering the onion quiche.”

Sophia scrunched her nose.

Without saying ‘garcon’, they finally gave their orders to the genuine French waiter, a special breed. Emerald knew to begin with ‘Bonjour’ and end everything with sil vous plait.’ She needlessly asked the waiter (who wore no name tag and never introduced himself) for his special recommendations secure in the knowledge that he would appreciate the opportunity to show his skills.

Sophia learned that her boss was fluent in French. The Spanish, she knew about. Emerald never mentioned a third language.

Once the not-garcon was gone, Sophia leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t think our waiter likes us.”

“Oh, darling,” Emerald smiled broadly, “Of course he doesn’t. He’s French.”

A perplexed Sophia tilted her head.

“He’s a French waiter, the French take their food quite seriously. He didn’t even offer his name. But, when was the last time you had service this extraordinary?”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s like he can read our minds or something.”

“Oh, he can; French waiters are born with the sixth sense.”

Sophia looked at Emerald with another head tilt.

Emerald flashed a mischievous smile and both girls again roared with laughter.

Emerald eventually moved on to the thorny matter of Sophia’s shaky love life.

Emerald “On the topic of girls’ night, how are things with that boyfriend?”

Sophia let out a sigh. “Pretty much the same, I guess. I am trying to get him to understand how much his words hurt me but he doesn’t get it. He says I’m too sensitive. Maybe I am.”

“Oh, honey. When someone blames you for being ‘too sensitive’ they’re planning to hurt you. Run from anyone who says that. You have a right to your feelings. And, he gets it just fine. Just don’t settle. Never stay with anyone who makes you feel badly about yourself. Not even for one second.”

Irrespective the gruesomeness of Sophia’s love life, Emerald and her favorite assistant were having a delightful time, helped along by a couple of delicious, ice-cold gin martinis.

They giggled shamelessly about the time loud mouth Leo tripped over his own feet and came crashing down in the catwalk as the finale to his runway show.

“At least it was memorable,” Emerald pointed out, eliciting a roar of laughter from Sophia who made her own contribution, “What about when Gianna was so drunk she couldn’t even walk straight?”

“Leo should have pulled her and walked someone else. He just wanted her name.”

“Yeah,” Sophia agreed, “Someone who wouldn’t have stepped on her gown and ripped it off her body.”

More howls of laughter as Emerald interjected: “Shoddy workmanship. Leo still claims he was sabotaged.”

“Yeah, by Cuervo Gold.”

Both martini-fueled women found the tequila reference hilarious. After a few moments of giggling, Sophia again leaned in and started using her conspiracy voice again: “Don’t you think Leo is getting worse?”

“I can’t really say, why do you ask?”

“My friend, Amanda works in the sewing room. She says Leo is getting louder and meaner. His tantrums are scarier. She said he’s even broken stuff.”

Sophia’s words sobered Emerald up quickly. “If he has gone to far as to intentionally break things, he has to be evaluated,” Emerald was concerned about Leo’s potential for worse violence. “The best thing Amanda can do is report the incidents to HR. Be sure she documents everything carefully; dates, times, property damage.”

“Can’t you analyze him or something? Maybe we could get rid of him.”

“No, sweetheart. I am the Consumer Psychologist, not a diagnostician,” but, in fact Emerald’s classes in testing procedures and diagnosing were her favorites, her intuitive nature and intellect netted her top grades. Emerald was an excellent diagnostician.

Amanda says he thinks a bunch of people are out to get him.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Seriously, he rants about it constantly. Don’t you think he’s crazy?”

“That’s not a word I use, honey,”

(*Even when it’s a bloody good fit.*)

“I figured that. Do you feel like he’s paranoid?”

“That is a complex diagnosis, my love. It would be unethical for me to speculate on a diagnosis. What I *can* say is that we should never, ever ignore verbal abuse or acts of violence. Breaking objects is violence. It is often a prelude to serious physical abuse.”

“Leo verbally abuses everybody all the time.”

“You’re right, And I have been remiss in not going to HR myself.”

“They have to already know.”

“Quite possibly. But, a formal complaint carries legal implications that HR is unlikely to ignore.”

“Oh, cool! I’ll call Amanda tomorrow.”

“Good. It’s the right thing.”

Sophia was back to being happy and took a healthy swig of her martini.

Emerald was suddenly troubled. She was now ethically bound to report what Sophia told her. Leo’s antics had to be reported. Then, HR would have to decide what to do with him.

*Hopefully, they won’t send him to anger management. Leo doesn’t have an anger problem—he is an abuser.*

This could end badly in more than one scenario.

*They could send him to treatment which will fail. Treatment practically never helps with abusers. Or they could fire him and wait for him to come back with a gun.*

POV: Brad

“What could be better right now than fabulous French cuisine?” Brad spoke out loud, addressing no one. *Gabriel Kreuther* it was, then. Brad presumed that it would be nice and quiet at this early hour.

At Kreuther, he planned to get himself a crazy-comfy stuffed white chair and ponder his next move to win the love of his life.

The moment he entered the restaurant, Brad felt lighter. This was the right choice.

Brad was warmly greeted by the maître de. The staff was always glad to see Brad and horrified to see his father. They had long appreciated Brad’s excellent manners and thoughtfulness. He was, of course, a generous tipper; so, unlike his wretched father.

At times, Brad seemed ashamed of his own father. The man was so naturally rude and belligerent. Get a few drinks in him and dive for cover. He was always tight fisted with the tips, no matter what he put the servers through, or how large the party at his table was. As if a little consideration for the hardworking staff would bankrupt him. When Brad was with his father’s party, the son could be counted on to surreptitiously slip cash to the server.

Brad casually scanned the room, hoping to see no familiar faces. Except for one. The incredibly beautiful one across the room. His heart stopped and breathing became difficult.

Brad was a gem-seeking missile.

The normally charming and glib multi-billionaire had no idea what he could possibly say to her.

All Brad could choke out was: “Hello again.”

Emerald wavered between irritated and amused. It was impossible not to like the guy. With a glint in her eyes, she asked Brad if he drove his creepy white van to the restaurant.

Brad got the joke. “Yes, but I parked it down the street.”

The ice was cracking.

Sophia could not resist asking the handsome stranger to join them and shoving an empty chair his way with her foot.

The die was cast.

Emerald accepted that all escape options had been foreclosed. She found Brad pleasant enough, but she felt oddly overwhelmed by her own thoughts and feelings when he was around. It was as if she became overpowered.

Sophia just had to pipe up, asking how Brad and Emerald knew each other. There were two completely contradictory answers.

Emerald: “At Starbucks.”

Brad: “At work.”

“So, which is it? Work or Starbucks?”

“He works at Starbucks,” Emerald quipped.

Sophia was momentarily puzzled.

Brad played along. “Yeah, tips have been really good lately.”

Sophia glanced at each face. “You so don’t work at Starbucks. Enough already.”

Emerald finally spoke up. “Well, it was part Starbucks, part work. It’s a long story and not a terribly interesting one.”

“I’m finding this pretty interesting,” Sophia countered.

*Au contraire*, Brad thought to himself. These are the most exciting moments of my entire life. So far.