“I’m sorry. It’s in my HR script.” Danielle ran her hand through her long red hair, her expression unreadable. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here, but it really is a good company to work for. And I’m sorry about Poppy,” she added.
Aster made a small noise at the back of her throat.
“And I heard about . . . you know.” Danielle’s eyes darted back and forth. “That it might be a murder. I’m usually at work early, but I had food poisoning the day . . . it happened. If only I’d been here, maybe I’d have seen something.” When Aster didn’t answer, she sighed. “I hope it didn’t have anything to do with the issues at work . . .”
Aster cocked her head, wondering what Danielle meant. But she didn’t want to owe her anything, so she stood. “So where am I working again?”
Danielle glanced at Aster’s paperwork. “Private client group,” she said, directing her to the elevators. “It’s the by-appointment end of the business for high-net-worth clients looking for one-of-a-kind pieces. You’ll be working for Elizabeth Cole.” A strange look crossed Danielle’s face, but Aster decided not to ask about that, either.
Private Clients was one flight up and demarcated by transparent double doors. Inside, the music was a little louder, and there was a well-stocked bar cart and several crystal snifters in the corner. Nice, Aster thought, inspecting the spread. They had Hendrick’s Gin and Delamain cognac and three types of infused vodka. Aster inched over and began to unscrew one of the lids. A little nip would definitely take the edge off what had already been a very crazy morning.
“Don’t even think about it.”
A woman with ash-blond hair, narrowed gray eyes, and a fitted black suit marched toward Aster. There was something familiar about her, Aster thought. She’d probably met her at a Saybrook’s party. She’d met most everyone in the Saybrook’s world at some point or another. “I think I’ll take this too.” She plucked the iPhone out of Aster’s hand.
“Hey!” Aster protested.
“No cell phones at work.” The woman started back to what must be her office. “I also don’t tolerate overly strong perfumes, leaving early for any reason, or outfits like that.” She glowered at Aster’s lace dress, fixating on its short hem.
Aster pulled her knees together. “It’s Valentino.”
The woman stared at her. “I’m Elizabeth Cole. As of today, you’re working for me, and I don’t care what your last name is.”
Elizabeth marched into a large office decorated in white and gray, all clean lines and sharp angles. Three walls were lined with pictures of her posing with various high-profile clients—mostly stuffy businessmen Aster didn’t recognize, but Steven Tyler was in one, and Beyoncé in another. Dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk looked out over the Hudson River, which was gray right now, under an overcast sky. It matched Aster’s mood perfectly.
Elizabeth slammed down a pile of papers, picked up a coffee flask, and thrust it into Aster’s face. “Skinny latte, no foam, and a gluten-free muffin from the bakery on the corner of Greenwich and Harrison.”
Aster stared at the mug. “You want me to get you coffee?”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “There are a lot of qualified girls who actually want this position. Not socialites with daddies who get them jobs. If you aren’t here to work, please see yourself out.”
Aster wanted nothing more than to go home and spend the rest of her life under her Frette duvet. But something kept her from moving. She was already here. She’d gotten up early, faced the painful memories of Poppy and the surprise appearance of Danielle Gilchrist, and she was still standing. She thought of Poppy, who had been so certain she would succeed. “You’re smart, Aster,” Poppy had said after Mason cut her off. “Smarter than you give yourself credit for. You can do great things, I just know it.”
“I’m staying,” Aster said firmly.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and offered a quick nod. “Fine.” Then she whipped around, shoved past Aster, and walked down the hall again. Halfway down, she swung back and stared at her. “Are you coming?”
Aster blinked in confusion, holding up the carafe. “What about your coffee?”
“After,” Elizabeth snapped.
She led Aster into a tiny cubicle with a low desk and a dusty computer. A tall, lanky guy with unkempt hair and Clark Kent–style glasses was typing something and squinting at the monitor. Aster wondered if she’d have to sit on his lap.
Elizabeth glowered at him. “You’re not done yet, Mitch?”
The guy scooted forward on the chair. “The server’s acting weird again.”
Elizabeth pressed her hand to her forehead, then looked at Aster. “Well, when he’s done, I want you to start on this.” She gestured to a large pile of papers on the edge of Aster’s desk.
Aster lifted the cover sheet and stared at a page. It was a list of names, addresses, phone numbers, and other pertinent information. “What is it?”