Dear God.
Who was the lady standing before him? Mr Reynold goggled down at the petite prestige human, her gloaming brown hair did not deceive him, Just last week, he presumed she was done with working with him.
"What happened to you?" He asked her calmly.
Jenna, bewildered with herself, and the first phrase to say, bobbed and shuddered her head at the same time. "Good morning, Mr. Reynold."
Oh, she could talk.
"What happened to you?" He challenged again, skipping her hellos. There was no time to exchange formalities, it was the right time to upbraid her, or maybe, call off her duty as a PR in his Insurance.
"I am sorry, sir." Jenna stuttered, heaven learned she didn't schedule to come back here. Of course, she held dear the job, but coming back? Hell no.
"I was sick and rested all through the week."
"You were sick," Reynold reiterated. "Were you so sick that you couldn't talk, or answer your calls?" He questioned this time, settling on the office seat.
Good Lord, he had guessed something went awry with the family and intended to visit before the new week ran out.
Now what? The woman he was worried about was right there, in front of him—staring at the foundations of his tiled office.
"Get back to work." He merely said.
Was that all? The Mr. Reynold Jenna knew would like to ask all the queries in his head, not allowing her to get on like that.
There must have been so extensive work to be done, deferring for her in her office. Poor him, and fortuitous him, too. She should not be at the office, never.
Walton's buzz had done a good job of her diverting from an already taken decision.
About an hour ago, Eliana gaped at her in perplexity.
"Why did you change your mind?" She asked, walking into the good bouquet of Jenna's oil. "I thought you won't go back to the office, what happened to your judgment?"
"I just have to be there," Jenna simply answered. "The calls and emails were becoming too much, and I had a rethink—plus, are we not broke already?"
That was a fact, Eliana inferred. "We are going broke, not broke yet. Plus, the answers are invariably in your hands, anytime."
What did she mean? Jenna wondered, seizing an impulsive curiosity in her sister's thoughts. "What do you have up there in your head, young woman?"
Eliana laughed. "Nothing much, I just guessed—never mind."
Where was Blair? She didn't ask, anyway. Everyone was busy, going about their businesses, including the unoccupied Eliana—her dance rehearsals came first, before music and art.
Now she gazed at her desk, the mound of files loaded up on the small berm close to her desk, the ones on the desk made her blood pump, excessively. If she comprehended she would come back here, she would do that days ago, last week, and not now when there was so much to be accomplished.
Little wonder Mr. Reynold dismissed her before he should.
Her phone beeped.
The fear of picking up the appliance plagued her lately. Walton had dropped bunches of texts, demanding the ransom, and of course, he did not shirk to add menaces at the end of each paragraph.
How ridiculous.
But damn, those snapshots of herself and the man from the other night looked excessively salacious.
Someone would mistake the pictures for a porn-modelling photo.
Jesus. No, she would not yearn for such for herself. Was this how she was on that ample mattress with him? Jenna's introspections drifted, and suddenly, raucous fantasies crammed her head, and she was clueless about the moment an associate stepped in.
"Jenna Harrison." The short man dubbed, hitting her desk.
Terrified, Jenna looked up to see the piercing eyes of Peter.
"Hi, Peter" she greeted. "Is there something I can help you with?"
He shook his head, what could she conceivably help him with? His position was above hers in the Insurance.
"No," Peter muttered. "I came to be certain all is well with you. You have been out for a few days, and this is very unusual."
How astute of him, Jenna thought. But they are all duplicates, after all.
Men!
Men like Walton, men like Aaron: the man fucked her and that was all—disencumbered sex for a night.
"I am alright, Mr. Peter."
"Why then were you away from work?"
"Health issues." The lie wafted voluntarily from her mouth, her blameless complexion did rectitude to everything, and Peter, on the other hand, was left with no alternative but to believe.
"How do you feel?"
"Better," She rumoured. "Thank you for coming to check up on me. How have you been, too?"
"I have been well, my Lady," Peter giggled. "I should leave already, this was a how-are-you visit."
The short man left the next moment, hitting his feet on the marbled floor, one after the other. A habit she finds aggravating.
Jenna hurled a sigh, a sigh of relief.
Was there any fraction of a lie in her voice? On her countenance, even? She had told two lies in one day.
Holy God.
It was barely six hours since she ambled into the Insurance.
Her gaze swung around itself to the computer system planted into the desk. There was a lot to be accomplished, bookings to be made, she recollected, checking out the list of people she passed over an appointment with.
God. This was too much.
Almost thirty appointments were neglected within a week! How worse could it be? Without thinking any further, Jenna latched on to the system, her intellect was not in the right perimeter to carry out these tasks. There was a necessity to calm her nerves and try to shirk off all that happened recently.
Everything was forgettable, possibly, save one thing.
Walton's threats.
Suddenly, a ripple of rues, contempt, and her craving for his death, flushed over her. Should she lease some assassin to terminate him? Or possibly, cluster him up with some sluts from the streets of New York.
Probably one of the foreigners rooming in the state, then ask someone chummy to her to make a record of their sex.
Blair could do that.
She has a tape camera and an application meant for recording sessions with her students, installed on her smartphone.
No, that was not a reasonable idea.
This is your mess, deal with it! The still small voice in her echoed. That was the certitude, nothing but the truth, Jenna realized.
Setting Walton up was a cowardly act to portray, she thought, reaching for something on her neck.
Wait, what?
Where was her worker's ID?