Gloria's Revenge by Nelle L'Amour Read Free Book Online Page B

from all sides. From the many windows, I could see downtown skyscrapers, the majestic mansion-dotted Hollywood Hills, and the sparkling Pacific Ocean. The spectacular panoramic view usually brought me peacefulness, but today it did nothing to alleviate the sick sinking feeling in both my heart and stomach.
    After Ty took my luggage upstairs and departed, I immediately tried calling Kevin. No answer. He must have been on ten phones at once putting out fires. I left him a message to call me back ASAP.
    With my cell phone in one hand and my handbag in the other, I trudged up the stately winding stairs and collapsed onto my sumptuous four-poster bed. Outstretched on my thick duvet, I stared blankly at the high ceiling. My stomach twisted with nerves, and my heart beat a mile a minute. I couldn’t think straight. My head was pounding. Was my job really on the line? Was I going to have to give in to Victor’s lascivious demands to save myself and the company I’d built from the ground up? I closed my eyes and dug holes into my temples with my index fingers, hoping to numb the pain and get some clarity. It was futile. I was close to hyperventilating. Breathe, Gloria , breathe. Inhale. Exhale . I did it again and again and again. Finally, the deep breathing exercise kicked in, and my torrent of emotions settled. I snapped my eyes open and glanced at the alarm clock on my night table. 2:30 p.m.
    “C’est la guerre,” Madame Paulette had often said when things got rough. The strength of this amazing women seeped into my veins. Yes, this was war, but I had faced worse battles before. The memory of Boris Borofsky holding a gun to my chest flashed in and out of my head. I had stared death in the face and beat it.
    Propping myself up on my elbows, I reached for my cell phone and dialed the front desk.
    “Can you please bring my car around,” I asked the building attendant. I was going to drive myself to my office and find out first-hand what was going on.
    I jumped out of the bed and quickly shed my leggings uniform. I ambled over to my hand-painted lingerie chest and rifled through it until I found what I was looking for. They were not hard to find: my cherry red lace push up bra with the front bow closing, matching thong, and garter. From the drawer below, I pulled out a fresh pair of black sheer silk stockings. I scrambled to put on the undergarments and then sat back down on the bed to slip on the stockings. I gingerly rolled them up over my bruised legs and clipped them to the bow-tipped garters. My legs went from being mush to steel.
    I then paraded into my walk-in closet and yanked one of my favorite power suits off a hanger—my red bouclé Chanel. Red, the color of fire and blood. The color of power. I quickly slipped it on. I then scoured my Louis Vuitton travel trunk for the pair of shoes I was seeking. I found them quickly—spiky black patent pumps with killer red souls—the Louboutins I’d worn to the ZAP! pitch. I slipped them onto my feet and suddenly I was six inches taller. Jaime had called them my “fuck me” shoes. I had a new name for them— fuck you shoes.
    I had set my priorities straight. Fuck Jaime. Fuck Victor. What mattered most was the future of everything I’d worked for. Gloria’s Secret. I was not going to let any man make me—or my empire—fall apart.
    I quickly re-braided my hair and applied my favorite red lipstick. I was back to being in control.

 
    Chapter 7
    T he drive from my condo to my office took fifteen minutes. It was located in Culver City. Occupying the lot of a former movie studio, it was a compound consisting of executive offices, a design studio, and a manufacturing plant. I was proud to say that all Gloria’s Secret garments were made with love in America. And I equally prided myself on the high company morale. Employees were paid fairly and received excellent benefits, including childcare and opportunities to further their education. I never forgot my roots and felt