a man who'd struggled with the infinitely familiar comparison to his father, when despite it all he'd rather breeze the exclusive meadows of green with rich billionaires.
Seated in a deep armchair across from her, Roman swiveled and looked down at his expensive watch glimmering 10:15 a.m. against its rose gold casing. Clenching his palm against the beautiful fusion of function and fashion, his hand navigated the armrests, pricking huge dimples into it.
After a moment, he released his grip, weaving his fingers in a stiff massage. Gentle pops sifted his knuckles and cracked his bones, as Finch writhed the hollow in the chair anchoring the table.
Beads of sweat glittered Finch's forehead under the incandescent lights, popping like pimples as he vented his jacket. Roman's sudden impulse to speak was tamed the moment Finch started the meeting.
"You may have wondered why I've called the both of you here this morning." Danielle rose in her chair as she turned her attention to the business at hand, as Finch dotted his forehead with a pocket-handkerchief. "Frankly, Danielle, this concerns you...and your employment with the firm."
"Well, then why is he here?" She paused, and then nodded at Roman.
"Frankly Danielle, Mr. Jules presence doesn't really concern you." Finch muffled a sound of irritation, as his dominance wrestled Danielle's dogged tenacity. "Well, what I mean is, that it won't concern you." His eyes narrowed as his expression turned a deeper layer of serious.
"So what is it? Is this about the work, cause you know these last three weeks have had me running around frantic, but I'm up for the challenge," Danielle contested.
It wasn't until Roman heard her say the words, running around , that he'd jiggled a sudden illusion of her pink suede stiletto boot fused to his frontal. She was the image of fashionista in her peony tweed skirt and cropped jacket. Roman was still tingling from the impulse to taste her opalescence. He'd almost completely lost track of where he was, just when he fought the all out urge to spring towards her.
"Make no mistake Finch; you'd chosen the best to be your right-hand, and I'll continue to live up to that."
Finch crossed his legs. His argyle socks peeked beneath his tan trousers, as his hand smoothed angora herringbone tucked under his dark jacket. "Yes-- about that. Danielle I--" There was a growing annoyance in her eyes that he'd been stalling. Danielle shifted defensively in her chair. Drumming her fingers against the table, she saw the way Finch kept looking at the door, as if he'd expected someone.
"If this is about Peterson-Macgregor, I've got the files handy and I'll send them over a.s.a.p." She said promptly. "Oh, and the Strayhan matter is coming to a close...and I'm following up with the departments, we're on track to close out this quarter by--" Danielle barely caught a breath when Finch cut her words sharp.
Not wanting to spend all day going back and forth about it, Finch frowned a second before he shrieked her name so loud that his coffee sprinted out of his cup from the table's vibration.
"Danielle!" Finch said, as he raised his hands, yielding her to stop her endless yakking. His tone instantly neared a normal pitch. "This has nothing to do with--" Finch stalled when his eyes darted from the swelling gloom as he continued. "Well, it shouldn't have anything to do with--"
"Finch, what in the world are you trying to say. It's so unlike you to stall like this." Danielle drew a sharp breath. "Alright," she said irritably. Just cut to the chase .
Finch straightened. "Okay. You want it flat out then, I'll tell you." After a short pause, he continued callously. "We're going to have to let you go."
A small army of brooding uniformed men roared past the ceaseless strip of private offices toward the boardroom sounding like a militia.
"I can't say anything further," Finch clamped the sturdy armrests, pushing back his chair. "Your work here is terminated."
Chapter Four
There was a
Seated in a deep armchair across from her, Roman swiveled and looked down at his expensive watch glimmering 10:15 a.m. against its rose gold casing. Clenching his palm against the beautiful fusion of function and fashion, his hand navigated the armrests, pricking huge dimples into it.
After a moment, he released his grip, weaving his fingers in a stiff massage. Gentle pops sifted his knuckles and cracked his bones, as Finch writhed the hollow in the chair anchoring the table.
Beads of sweat glittered Finch's forehead under the incandescent lights, popping like pimples as he vented his jacket. Roman's sudden impulse to speak was tamed the moment Finch started the meeting.
"You may have wondered why I've called the both of you here this morning." Danielle rose in her chair as she turned her attention to the business at hand, as Finch dotted his forehead with a pocket-handkerchief. "Frankly, Danielle, this concerns you...and your employment with the firm."
"Well, then why is he here?" She paused, and then nodded at Roman.
"Frankly Danielle, Mr. Jules presence doesn't really concern you." Finch muffled a sound of irritation, as his dominance wrestled Danielle's dogged tenacity. "Well, what I mean is, that it won't concern you." His eyes narrowed as his expression turned a deeper layer of serious.
"So what is it? Is this about the work, cause you know these last three weeks have had me running around frantic, but I'm up for the challenge," Danielle contested.
It wasn't until Roman heard her say the words, running around , that he'd jiggled a sudden illusion of her pink suede stiletto boot fused to his frontal. She was the image of fashionista in her peony tweed skirt and cropped jacket. Roman was still tingling from the impulse to taste her opalescence. He'd almost completely lost track of where he was, just when he fought the all out urge to spring towards her.
"Make no mistake Finch; you'd chosen the best to be your right-hand, and I'll continue to live up to that."
Finch crossed his legs. His argyle socks peeked beneath his tan trousers, as his hand smoothed angora herringbone tucked under his dark jacket. "Yes-- about that. Danielle I--" There was a growing annoyance in her eyes that he'd been stalling. Danielle shifted defensively in her chair. Drumming her fingers against the table, she saw the way Finch kept looking at the door, as if he'd expected someone.
"If this is about Peterson-Macgregor, I've got the files handy and I'll send them over a.s.a.p." She said promptly. "Oh, and the Strayhan matter is coming to a close...and I'm following up with the departments, we're on track to close out this quarter by--" Danielle barely caught a breath when Finch cut her words sharp.
Not wanting to spend all day going back and forth about it, Finch frowned a second before he shrieked her name so loud that his coffee sprinted out of his cup from the table's vibration.
"Danielle!" Finch said, as he raised his hands, yielding her to stop her endless yakking. His tone instantly neared a normal pitch. "This has nothing to do with--" Finch stalled when his eyes darted from the swelling gloom as he continued. "Well, it shouldn't have anything to do with--"
"Finch, what in the world are you trying to say. It's so unlike you to stall like this." Danielle drew a sharp breath. "Alright," she said irritably. Just cut to the chase .
Finch straightened. "Okay. You want it flat out then, I'll tell you." After a short pause, he continued callously. "We're going to have to let you go."
A small army of brooding uniformed men roared past the ceaseless strip of private offices toward the boardroom sounding like a militia.
"I can't say anything further," Finch clamped the sturdy armrests, pushing back his chair. "Your work here is terminated."
Chapter Four
There was a
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