Gagged by Aubrey Parker

building and replace them twice each week. Do you like flowers, Aurora?”  
    I feel another flinch, knowing I haven’t told him my name. But I’m sure it’s nothing; someone in Caspian’s office probably checked Jasmine out before she arrived and found our first-degree connection on LiveLyfe. Why they’d have told the boss about the inconsequential redhead’s roommate, though, I can’t imagine.
    “Yes.”
    “I do too.” He runs a hand through a bouquet of what I think is lily of the valley. “Why do we like them, do you think?”  
    “They’re pretty, and they smell nice.”  
    I get a frown, and he says, “Oh come on. You can do better than that.”  
    Silly me; I thought I was being asked about my opinion, not being quizzed for a correct answer.
    “I guess they make me think of life.”  
    “Interesting. It’s the exact opposite for me.”
    He crosses to an ornate set of double doors. The doors are metal, but predictably someone has painted them white. A woman is standing beside them, dressed in a gauzy, milky gown. She pushes a button on the wall so Caspian won’t have to tax himself. I wonder if this is the extent of her job: pushing the elevator button in this converted secondary entrance. But as we get closer, I realize that no, she does more. She also says, Good afternoon, Mr. White; welcome back and offers him a hot towel, though why anyone would need a hot towel before an elevator ride is beyond me. She offers me one too, smiling, but I shake it away.  
    The elevator is fast, which is good because I find myself even more uncomfortable once the doors are closed and I’m stuck in this box with Caspian. He seems to never stop judging me as unworthy, and I keep reminding myself that I loathe him. But trapped between the judgment and hatred, there’s something else. It makes my skin flush, and my knees want to buckle.  
    I assume the elevator will open into his office, but then I remember that we’ve taken the back entrance. We traverse a long hallway from one small lobby to another, and from every passed door I hear the words, “Hello, Mr. White,” as if he’s trained everyone to say it. Twice, office workers carrying stacks of papers press back against the wall to get out of his way despite the hallway being wide enough for three or four to walk abreast. I also see plenty of young, attractive women follow Caspian’s passage with their eyes, gazes mostly averted until he’s past, batting eyelashes as they greet him.
    I try to keep up, but Caspian is taller than me and walks quickly. I feel like I might totter and fall at any moment. I’m incredibly self-conscious, like someone who’s arrived at a fancy ball in a stained T-shirt. I’m chasing him like I belong by his side — and for the purposes of this dash from one side of his building to the other, I suppose I do. But the men seem to have questions in their eyes, and the women challenges, as if they see me as a trifling threat.  
    We arrive in a spacious lobby that, finally, properly befits the private sanctum of the company’s owner and CEO. There’s another large white reception desk, more bunches of white flowers, and an arrangement of white leather couches. For the first time, it dawns on me how hard this place must be to keep clean. Don’t people ever bump into the walls? Does no one ever spill? I lived in a place with tan walls once, and they looked filthy two months after we moved in. Is this special paint? Special fabric? Or do they keep cleaners and touch-up painters on round-the-clock retainer?  
    The man behind the desk — a bit older than me, or maybe Caspian’s age, with a short dark haircut — nods at Caspian. He seems unsurprised by my presence, presumably because the doorman called. The brass nameplate on his desk says, Julian .  
    “Good afternoon, Mr. White,” Julian says. “It’s good to see you again.”  
    “This is Aurora Henley. She’s a friend of Jasmine Lewis, the college