Athena's Story Ch 13

Sal never thought she’d see anything glossier or more pristine than the Salogal Corporate HQ, but such a thing is possible. She can’t even find a smudge or a fingerprint in this office. Dulcita is on her left while Annette is on her right.

Across the desk sits a woman with dark circles under her eyes behind dignified glasses. She has her thick braid over her shoulder, and although she’s Annette’s age at least, she could be very distracting if she made an effort. She’s Irish.

The woman removes her glasses, and she manages to look even more exhausted than Annette usually does. “Is this meant to be an olive branch?”

“Sal is hot right now. Lot of new stuff, lot of buzz,” Annette explain, touching Sal’s shoulder. “Sign this deal, and the media will forget all about your daughter, Glynda. You can take her place in the spotlight.”

“How mental are you to think I’d model your bloody lingerie?”

“It’s not lingerie,” Annette says calmly.

“I wasn’t sure about this proposal either,” Sal says hesitantly. “But now that I’ve met you, I think you have what it takes.” Her eyes linger on Glynda Darcy’s vast chest, which makes any other shortcomings she might have irrelevant from a marketing perspective. “I think if we frame you in a stern, please punish me, step on me, mommy way, it’ll work really well.” It’s the truth.

But it’s obviously not what Glynda wants to hear. She looks murderous.

Annette leans forward. “Glynda, I didn’t bring this to you because I thought you’d like it. I brought it because I thought you might want to make a move for your daughter, even if it was difficult.”

Glynda snorts. She’s the general manager of FUTA Racing, FUTA’s Formula One team, which is getting a ton of bad press because Glynda’s daughter has been selected to drive. Annette is gambling that there’s nothing Glynda won’t do to get the attention off the nepo baby discourse. Annette owns the FUTA brand, but the Formula One team is its own thing. She can’t force Glynda to do this, but this is a big play if it works. It’s another huge win for Salogal, it makes Irina Orlova happy because she loves Formula One, and it keeps the buzz around Sal’s designs sizzling hot.

Glynda has the papers in front of her. She’s already read them twice. With an unfriendly look at Annette, she uncaps a fountain pen.

Sal’s heart and adrenaline are still elevated as they leave the office. There’s just too much to be excited about.

A tall, skeletal figure strolls down the corridor toward them wearing FUTA branded gear and a lopsided grin. She rather openly checks out all three of them, paying particular attention to Dulcita’s cleavage.

“Hey,” she says when she passes, and Sal’s heart skips. It’s one thing to be worshipped by Irina Orlova and her little team because they have an agenda. It’s different when a younger woman shows interest like this. Sal blushes and smiles, but then the tall girl is past, and they’re nearing the lobby. This thing with Orlova is blowing up in all sorts of positive ways, but it’s also destroyed their itinerary. They’re supposed to be working on FUTA Tennis stuff in Belgium right now, but here they are in England.

Irina’s up ahead with Cosette.

“You OK?” Annette asks as they approach.

“It’s a lot. I need to call my mother-in-law.” Yes, Sal missed some attempts from Athena and then dragged her feet about reaching out, understandably, because she’s in no hurry to tell her what happened. But now Athena’s ghosting her, which is not proportionate to the offense of Sal being out of touch for 24 hours at most. Sal’s not about to hold it against Athena, who is struggling with her job loss more than she lets on. And after Sal’s less-than-sterling show of willpower the other night, she knows she doesn’t have grounds to be critical of her wife.

Sal’s phone rings, and she checks the number. She frowns and answers.

Annette and Dulcita wait patiently as Sal’s eyes grow progressively wider, and she stammers through her replies.

“Oh my god. OK. OK. OK, yeah.”

Shell-shocked, Sal lowers the phone and stares without seeing. Irina and Cosette head over curiously.

“Sal? You good?” Annette asks, touching her arm.

“My wife’s in jail,” Sal says, close to panic.

Irina’s expression doesn’t change. “Jail or prison?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“Jail or prison?” Irina repeats, touching Cosette’s elbow. The French woman already has her phone in her hand, fingers poised.

“Uh, is there a difference?”

“Yes.”

“Jail, I think.”

“The charge?”

“I don’t know. Obstructing something? I guess she got in ICE’s way.”

“ICE,” Irina repeats, looking blank.

“Immigration cops,” Dulcita says sourly.

“Your wife is an immigrant?” Irina asks.

“No. No, she’s not. I don’t know what happened. I need to get home.”

Irina raises a calming hand. “No. I will take care of this. Your wife should be here. With you. You said she is not working. She should enjoy all of this.” Irina looks expectant. “We will take care of this and bring her here.”

“Even if we bail her out, if there is bail, if she’s got legal stuff pending, she can’t leave the country. She probably can’t even leave town,” Annette says sensibly.

“There will be no legal trouble,” Irina says.

There’s a lot going on. Sal doesn’t doubt that Irina has the influence to do more or less anything, and she’s pretty sure it’s not like Athena robbed a bank or killed someone. Tears are coming.

“Sal, breathe,” Dulcita murmurs.

“Athena’s gonna get shanked! Oh my god. Oh my god. I love her so much. I fucked up so bad.” Sal covers her mouth with both hands, breathing fast.

“Sal? Sal? OK, you’re OK.” Dulcita wraps her arms around Sal and glares at Annette, who looks indignant.

Should Sal go home and bail Athena out?

Or let Irina take care of everything?