Perfectly Imperfect

  They continue to talk about work while I work on moving my food around and keeping their glasses filled. Of course, as I was concentrating so hard on making sure I put the minimum number of bites between my lips, I miss Eddie's next question.

  "I hear your sister is trying to get her job back. Know anything about that, Will?"

  My fork drops, flinging the piece of food I had been shifting last in the air before it lands with a wet slap on the table.

  "Excuse me?" I implore, ignoring the mess I just made.

  "How did you not hear about this? Jesus, you sit outside your father's office every day, Will! Have you been living under a rock?"

  "Tell me?" I whisper. God, I know my father couldn't care less about me, but I really thought we had been turning a corner when Ivy quit. Well, that's a lie. But it felt better to be at work when I had just one person's hate to deal with instead of two.

  Eddie's concerned gaze rolls over my face as he assesses the damage he knows this turn in the conversation is causing me.

  "Just tell her, Eddie. She deserves to know so she can be prepared."

  "Right, well ... it's all rumors, of course. But I heard from Pam, who heard it from Stacy, who heard it from Janelle when she was filling in for you last week while you were on vacation, that your sister had a meeting with your dad. Apparently, when they finished, he said he would look forward to seeing her around the office next week. Which I'm assuming means tomorrow. Shit, I'm sorry, Willow. I thought for sure he would tell you."

  "Yeah? Because we have such a close relationship," I snap, pushing my plate away. At least they won't question my lack of appetite now.

  Eddie looks at my plate before looking over at Kirby. They continue to have some silent conversation while I let my mind drift to what it would mean if Ivy were to come back to work.

  We all work together at my father's agency. He's been a driving force in the modeling world for the last three decades. His offices, one of many, are headquartered in New York City, and he handles everything from models to photographers and everyone between.

  Kirby, being one of those inbetweeners, works for my father as a well-sought-after makeup artist who he hires for various events such as on-location photo shoots, fashion shows, and here lately, television and movies. Luckily for my father, she's happy to remain in New York and has no dreams of moving on to work on her own, like Eddie.

  Eddie had been working for the Logan Agency as one of his top photographers, but because of his superior work and in-demand status, he's recently branched out on his own. Thus, our little celebration of his 'promotion' and leaving the Logan Agency. I couldn't be more thrilled for him and his new path in life. Even if I'm sad that when he leaves for some commitments he has in Europe, our girls' nights will never be the same.

  And me? I'm a glorified secretary for the owner, my father, but all that boils down to is I'm his gofer, coffee maker, and overall little bitch. Ivy had been working as his personal assistant, right hand, and general face of the Logan Agency before leaving to 'start her life with Brad.' Apparently, if rumors are true, her life got started and she's ready to torment me a little more while getting all the gratification she can from being fawned over constantly at the agency.

  And here I am, the stupid little girl who believed she could make her father love her during my quest for healing. If it weren't for Kirby still being there, I would have left when Eddie did last week and never looked back. But I've sunk the better part of my twenties into working for a man who hated me just so I could attempt to earn his love. Stupidly believing the impossible possible. And now, well ... who would hire a twenty-nine-year-old woman with a dusty degree in business administration and the only experience under her belt being making coffee and answering the phone?

  "Will? You okay, honey?" Kirby asks.

  Giving myself a mental slap, I look over at her and give her my best smile.

  "Yeah, just lost my appetite thinking about what that might mean for me."

  She looks over at Eddie and then down at my plate before looking back into my eyes. "You sure? You didn't eat much," she states; obviously, since I probably had maybe four full bites.

  "Yeah. Ivy tends to do that to me. I'm going to go clean up." I don't wait for them to ask any more questions; I gather my plate and walk into the kitchen, scraping the food into the trash before washing off the plate.

  Well ... at least I didn't have to pretend to actually eat it any longer.

  THE NEXT DAY, WHEN MY alarm starts blaring, I wake up with a sense of dread over the news that Ivy might just be back in the office today. It doesn't matter that I've changed mentally and physically since the last time I saw her. It doesn't matter that in that time, I've gained some of my confidence back. I've been stronger. At that moment, the feeling of hate and fear instantly pushes me back once again. Hate for her, but even that is overshadowed by the hate I feel toward myself for being so weak that I forget every step I've made to better myself over the last six months. And fear that being around her again is going to cause me to slip and forget the strength I've earned.

  Physically, I've worked hard to shed some weight and have dropped a solid fifty pounds from my body. I no longer look in the mirror and hate who I see looking back. I don't love it, but I'm getting there. I had been a size twenty for so long that sometimes I still struggle to see the size fourteen I've earned through basically starving myself of the food I crave and maintaining daily--sometimes twice a day--trips to the gym. Getting ready this morning, though, no matter how hard I try, I see the old me. I feel the same helpless self-loathing I had for so long. Just because of Ivy and what her return could mean.

  I know the problem. I know why I see the old me. It's taken months of deep theory to understand that it is a trick my mind plays on me. I have a preoccupation with finding my flaws. All of this stems from suffering from what my doctor calls body dysmorphia. I've made the vision I see for myself a product of the imagined flaw. Even realizing this and working daily to overcome it, I still find that it's easier said than done. A week after my divorce was final, she started me on anti-depressants, and with the help of our sessions, my journaling, and a lot of extensive therapy I had been able to put it behind me ... for the most part.

  To be honest, I'm mad at myself for allowing Ivy to bring me back down to my lowest of lows with just a thought.

  You're better than this, Willow. You've come so far. Don't let her take everything you've earned from you. You aren't weak anymore. No one has that power over you but yourself.

  I dress with care, picking one of my more flattering black dresses and black pumps. The dress hugs my ample chest, covers my arms to the elbow, but more importantly pleats at the skirt to hide the slight roundness of my stomach I can't seem to rid. Even I feel pretty in this, so hopefully, it will add some much-needed confidence to my mentality going forth today.

  The ride to work, like always, is uneventful. The ascent to the floor of Logan Agency's offices has my pulse spiking. I try to mentally prepare myself, but when I step off the elevator and into the glamorous lobby, I lose every ounce of careful preparation. Like a sixth sense, I just know she's here. As if Ivy's very being has left her twisted vines of evil behind with every step she takes.

  Why would he bring her back? God, really, I can be so stupid. Why wouldn't he bring her back? She's his pride and joy.

  "Hey." I jump when Kirby's voice calls out to me from behind Mary's desk, the floor's main receptionist. Mary, an older woman who has been with the agency from conception, gives me a kind smile and wave before lifting the ringing phone from the cradle.

  "What's up?" I ask, shifting the weight of my purse and giving Kirby a small smile.

  "You look pretty, Will," she praises.

  "Thanks."

  "You know, don't you?"

  "That she's here?" I ask. Kirby's eyes soften before she nods. "I know. It's okay, Kirb. I'm not worried about it."

  Lie. Big freaking lie.

  "What can I do? I can start
a small fire in the break room? We could be out of here before you ever saw her face. Run off to Mexico? Drink those yummy tropical drinks until we pass out in a drunken stupor?"

  Despite my unease, I laugh. "Nothing you can do. I just need to get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. Who knows, maybe she's going to be happy to see me." I laugh; the sound hitting my ears is as fake as it feels coming out.

  "We could quit," she continues. "I wouldn't mind being a kept woman and staying at home all day," she jokes, trying to lighten the dark mood that has settled over me.

  "You would be bored out of your mind, and I wouldn't be able to pay my bills."

  "Right, well ... it's a suggestion. If you want to run, just pull the fire alarm or something ... I'll follow your lead."

  "I love you, Kirby Quinn."

  "I know. And I love you back, Willow Elizabeth."

  Might as well get this over with. I give Kirby a hug and walk around the corner to begin my walk down the west wing of our offices. This side, the whole west end of the floor, belongs to my father. One long, narrow hallway full of pictures of the popular signed models he's had over the course of the agency, no doors, and dim lighting with little spotlights on each picture. The other wing of our floor, being the meat of operations, is full of offices, studios, and chatter from all angles. But not here ... nope, this hallway is long and silent.

  That is until I hear her high-pitched giggles carrying down from the open door of my father's office. I reach the end of the hallway and walk around to my desk tucked in the corner. I always thought its placement was my father's way of placing me away without actually losing sight of me. Keeping me close, but far away at the same time--which really makes no sense because, from the way his eyes go hard every time he's within a few feet of me, I'm not sure why he would even want to have me around. Hell, I'm not really sure why he even gave me a job to begin with.

  My area is basically just the outer room to his huge office. I have no windows and the only natural light is from the glow of his office of glass. All the lighting around me is dim. What isn't coming from a few strategically placed lamps comes wholly from his office's walls--even when set to the fog privacy setting. His whole office takes up the back half of the room, paneled in floor-to-ceiling glass on my end and the one inside his office. But like now, when he has the fog-like setting turned on, those glass walls make this room almost dungeon like. My desk takes up the right side of his outer sanctum. The other side of the room has two chairs, one leather loveseat, a sleek glass coffee table, and one longer console table against the far wall. A huge television flashes pictures of the talent he's held or holds under the Logan Agency's name. The room my desk is in is used only for clients to sit while they wait for him to call them in.

  That calling always being done by Ivy when she worked here. In recent months, since Ivy hasn't been around, he's actually let me take more of an active role as his secretary. But I'm sure that now that she's around, I'm going to be back to being a wallflower, stuck answering phones and gathering his coffee and meals.

  Cinderella probably had it better than I do.

  Storing my purse in my desk, I sit down and power up my computer. I can hear them laughing as I sort through the emails from overnight and make note of all pressing issues. Checking the calendar for today's scheduled meetings, I frown when I see a huge blank spot on the lunch hour with a notation I'm to have lunch catered and arriving no later than noon for three people.

  "Willow!" My father bellows through the intercom, spiking my already frayed nerves.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Get me my coffee," he demands before severing the connection. I hear him through the opening in his office door as he slams the receiver down, grumbling his complaints.

  After a few deep breaths, I stand and walk through the doorway behind me and into the small kitchen area housed in our wing for him and his clients' needs. How hard would it be for him to just walk to his door and speak to me like a human and not some robot slave?

  I plop the K-cup in the machine and wait while the water heats before it starts spitting coffee into his mug. Making sure I measure out the correct amount of sugar--no cream--I walk back through the doorway, careful not to spill the hot liquid.

  With my focus on my feet and my concentration on avoiding burning myself, I don't even see the person standing in my path until it's too late.

  "Watch where you're going, dumbass." And with those venomous words, my sister twists her body and knocks into my arm with her elbow, sloshing the coffee over the edges and all over my hand.

  "Crap," I hiss and jerk my arm to attempt to ease the pain, completely forgetting the mug itself is attached to my burning skin. And like most of the things in my life that Ivy touches, disaster hits in the form of a frontal attack of caffeine as the coffee hits my body, soaking through my dress in a liquid fire burn.

  "Nice to see some things haven't changed, sister." Ivy laughs before turning again and slapping me in the face with her long, sleek ponytail. I watch as she walks down the hallway and away from the office.

  "Willow! My coffee!" My father's voice comes booming through his partially opened door, making me jump slightly.

  Crap. God, that is hot.

  "One second," I call out.

  I turn, ignoring that my sister just effectively ruined my morning, and make my way back to the kitchen. Dabbing my body with a towel the best I can, I wash my hands and fix his coffee once again. I need some Excedrin and quick.

  I add the right amount of sugar packets--three--and grab one of the stirring sticks from its tidy bin next to the sugar.

  I'm more careful this time, and when I walk into the main office, I make a mental note to avoid looking into his eyes until I'm done with my task. He would flip if I spilled just a drop on his desk. Placing his coffee down, I take a few steps away from his desk before I look up.

  His eyes, so much like Ivy's, look at me.

  "Your sister is back, Willow," he tells me, not looking up from the papers he's shuffling. Uh, yeah Captain Obvious, I noticed.

  "Yes, sir," I reply evenly.

  "I'm going to need you to finish out the work day by getting Ivy up to speed on where we are with upcoming shoots and new model acquisitions, but then I would appreciate it if you cleared out all your personal shit and left by the end of the day."

  Wait. What? "Excuse me?"

  His head tilts slightly, and I hold my gaze with my father, Dominic Logan, and pray this is some sort of a joke.

  "Really, Willow. You didn't think I would keep you on after your split with Bradley, did you? I did him a favor by employing you while you were married, and I did Ivy a favor by keeping you while she and Bradley enjoyed some time together as newlyweds. But now she's back from her honeymoon and ready to take her rightful spot, so there is no need for you here."

  "Excuse me?" I repeat a little more forcefully.

  My father's eyes narrow, and his meaty fist slams down on his desk. The coffee I had so carefully prepared sloshes at the force of his fist and splashes over the edge, causing him to curse.

  "Fucking hell!" he booms. "How much more clear would you like me to be? Catch Ivy up and then get out. I gave you a job out of respect for your mother, Willow, but even that duty has come to a long-awaited end. You were no use to me when I married her, the bastard daughter always attached to her hip, and you damn sure aren't now. We have certain standards here at Logan. Standards you never have and never will be able to excel at."

  "Excuse me!" I yell and lean forward to slam my own hands on his desk. Surprising us both, his coffee tips over from the coaster it was resting on and rains brown liquid over his desk, soaking everything in its path. "You can't fire me! I'm your daughter!"

  "Stepdaughter, Willow. Let's not forget that. And I believe I just did, little girl," he seethes.

  Feeling the carefully constructed control over my emotions snap after years of mastery, I finally ask him the one question that has been burning in my mind since I realized my fathe
r ... no, stepfather hated me. "Why does my very presence bother you so much, father? Do you have no concern you're essentially taking away my livelihood? My income? The fact you're throwing your own stepdaughter away doesn't concern you at all?"

  He doesn't move, doesn't give a single emotion away with his cold stare. But his words, those do all the damage of a thousand knives piercing my body at once.

  "You, Willow, will never be a daughter of mine. I have an image to withhold here, and for the last five years you've worked here, that image has been tarnished. The Logan Agency is about perfection and that, Willow, is just not something you have. You've been nothing but a waste of space since you started to let yourself go."

  "Let myself go?"

  "That's what I said."

  "You freaking bastard! I didn't let myself go. Maybe if you acted like you actually cared about me for one second since Mom died, I wouldn't have let myself go!"

  "Do not mention your mother."

  "Why? Because I'm right? You stopped caring about me the second you walked into the hospital to find out Mom had died and I lived. Is that it? You hate me because I lived?"

  Floodgates open. I can't and won't stop now. Everything I wished I could say to him for years is finally coming to an ugly head at our confrontation.

  His face gets beet red and I watch as his nostrils flare a few times before he responds through thin lips. "Yes, Willow. Are you happy now? The wrong woman died that day, and every time I have to look into your eyes, the same eyes of your mother, I hate you more and more. So do what I fucking said. After today, do me a favor and don't turn back up. It would be nice not to have to see you again. Then maybe I could pretend it was you and not her who died!"

  I hear a shocked gasp from the doorway and spin around; my anger dies instantly when I see Kirby's tear-streaked face. But where that anger was before, burning mortification has now replaced it. When I look behind Kirby, I see the pissed-off face of none other than Kane Masters himself.

  Of course. That makes sense. Fantasy meeting nightmare.