Page 109 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I slide off the bed, pocket my phone, and my unsteady legs amble toward the door.
Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it.
Despite the voice of reason’s warning, I open the door.
Miranda stands in the hallway, wearing an impeccably tailored black blazer and pencil skirt, and an unreadable expression.
“My office.” Her voice is crisp, businesslike. “Now.”
The words land like stones in my stomach. “I—what?”
“Upstairs.” She’s already turning away, expecting me to follow. “I have work to do, so you can follow me up there while we have our little discussion.”
Discussion?
Will it be like last night’stalk?
Miranda’s heels click against the hardwood with military precision, making her way to the second staircase that leads to the third floor.
I’ve never been up there. I’ve never even had a passing thought of exploring the space. The stairs are narrower than the ones leading from the first floor to the second. It feels like the walls are pressing in on each side. Maybe someone would enjoy the feeling of privacy, but this leaves me feeling claustrophobic.
The steps themselves are dark wood, worn smooth in the center from decades of footsteps. Each one creaks under Miranda’s heels as she climbs. As I follow, my hand grips the bannister, and the air grows warmer as we ascend. Up here, there’s an intimate feeling that somehow feels more threatening.
Maybe that’s just the fact that Miranda wants totalk.
The third-floor hallway is short and only has two doors. The one on the left stands slightly ajar, and through the gap I glimpse cream-colored walls and the corner of a four-poster bed draped in lilac silk.
Miranda’s bedroom.
The door on the right is closed. Solid dark wood with an old-fashioned brass handle that gleams in the low light. Miranda produces a key from her blazer pocket, unlocks the door and pushes it open. She steps inside and holds it for me.
I hesitate on the threshold.
“Come in, Alice. I don’t have all evening.”
I force myself into the room.
Miranda’s office looks like what I expected after hearing Mrs. Rodriguez’s brief description of my aunt. It’s warm, rich, and deliberately curated to project success. The walls are an off-white to make the space feel larger. Original crown molding runs along the ceiling, freshly painted in gold leaf that catches the light from the brass desk lamp. A Persian rug in deep reds and golds covers most of the hardwood floor, thick enough that my footsteps don’t make a sound.
The massive mahogany desk with carved legs dominates the space. Miranda’s laptop sits open on it, surrounded by neatly stacked papers, contracts, and a coffee mug with a lipstick-stained rim.
Behind the desk, a leather chair faces the window. The curtains are open, revealing the valley below, painted in evening shadows and fading light. Awards and plaques from Knox Records cover the back wall, along with photos of Miranda with various bands and artists I half-recognize. All professional shots with everyone smiling at the camera.
There’s not a family photo anywhere in sight.
In the corner, three metal filing cabinets stand like soldiers, and each bears a label.
‘Clients.’
‘Financial.’
‘Personal.’
The ‘Personal’ cabinet is different from the others. It’s older, brass instead of silver, and slightly tarnished. It’s out of place and looks like it came with the house, and Miranda uses it for the less important things in her life.
Miranda circles the desk and settles into her leather chair, the material creaking softly. She gestures to the chair across from her. It’s lower than hers. A power move designed to make whoever sits there feel small.
“Sit.”
