𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐌𝐞 𝐔𝐩 𝐒𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐲

𝙞: 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨, 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙨

My eyebrows urgently crammed, "Where's my raisin bagel and strawberry cream cheese, Lauren? You've been here for almost a year now. Is this not a routine?"

"Um, y-you told me that you w-were fasting and that carbs were a part of that list of goods to stay away from, ma'am." She gulped, as her bright dimpled smile soon vanished, becoming an expression of worrisome.

I'm not sure why, but I sort of felt like the villain here. Unbeknownst, they happen to be my favorite character in every storyline.

"Okay? Soooo, if I'm fasting from carbs, then that should've given you an ounce of consideration to- I don't know.. prepare fruit as a great alternative. Hell, even a couple of scrambled eggs, well beaten. I can't only survive off coffee! I'd literally die, and then you'd be in jail for murder because you can't do shit right." I pinched the bridge of my nose, releasing a frustrated sigh. "Damn it, Lauren, get a clue!" I snapped. I instantly noticed wetness forming in her glossy brown eyes.

"I-I'm so sorry Mrs. Fenty! I can run down to the cafe—"

I eventually broke character, starting with a smirk forming on my lips, before bending over as laughter escaped my mouth. I held my knee as I stumped my foot because I was beyond tickled at my antics.

"Whew!" I stood up, wiping a tear. "I'm just fucking with you. Tighten up, London."

I proceeded to my office and slammed the door shut with the heel of my pump.

"One day she's going to spit in my coffee. I just know it." I mumbled, sitting my items down on my desk, and shortly removing my cream colored trench coat.

I tidied away my personal items into the metal steel storage I had recently bought from an IKEA catalog. I then marched over to my marble-coated desk, plopping down into my office swivel chair gently, as I crossed one leg over the other. With one press of a button and a simple swipe of my mouse, I summoned my iMac monitor so that I could check my incoming business emails with the short amount of time I had ticking down my back.

I guess this would be a great time to formally introduce myself. My name is Beyoncé Giselle Fenty. Age, 29, and I am a crisis therapist, or psychologist, whichever you prefer. I typically take on clients who have already been diagnosed and have lived with chronic mental disorders. Some consider me the big dog because I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I do take on some of the most challenging cases yet. It's a demanding work atmosphere, but I love what I do.

This beautiful twenty-two carrot rock weighing my ring finger, does intel that I am married to my gorgeous wife, Robyn Fenty, who has been recognized by the critically acclaimed, food network, as one of the top bakers in the country.

We currently don't have any children as of yet, and that's due to us being highly career-driven people. Our relationship is quite different than your typical partnership, but that's enough about me. Oversharing isn't my strong suit.

After dissecting a few emails, I logged onto my work portal. Although my assistant hands me everything manually within a folder, the same information is also sent to me virtually, directly from the patient. In this company, when being linked to the proper therapist for your current condition, we advise sending in the most needed information in, so that we perceive an overview of what to expect, ensuring we have the perfect person on top of their needs.

Because I deal with a lot of traumatic events, and a heavy workload, I take about three to four clients a day, depending on the requirements needed for each person. I have to wrap my head around a lot, as well as prepare a proper treatment and plan to get the patient to where they need to progress in life. Furthermore, our job is to be problem solvers, and not all heroes are draped in capes.