STILETTO SISTERHOOD - Book Two

Isobel | the power of privilege

Isobel Morgan you are a coward.

Sleep came in fits and spurts, stitched together with dreams that left her breathless and so god damn needy that when sunlight kissed the horizon, she was up and out of bed to work it off at the gym. Marco slept soundly, face down in the pillow. She'd left a note on the fridge, along with her contact numbers, and spare key at the entrance for the nurse to hold onto.

You should've stayed, a voice within her chided. At least long enough to greet the nurse and give Teresa an update, not that there would've been much to report. He'd kept to his room and Isobel stayed hidden in hers for the rest of the evening. She'd heard him shuffle once or twice to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but that was about it.

But instead she'd rushed out the door, and hit the elliptical with a singular focus that would've brought a tear of joy to her trainer's eyes.

Sore but still primed a ridiculous amount of untapped energy, Isobel clocked in at work a full hour ahead of her usual start time, and slunk behind her computer where she hoped to vanish. Emails poured out in front of her—a never-ending stream she was suddenly very, very grateful for.

Emails from viewers and Passivist Activists all around the world. This was the part she loved most. Sharing in their experiences and journeys, seeing different ways her program was touching and affecting lives—moving the youth of today to become globally conscious leaders of tomorrow.

Her bubble of joy didn't last long when her phone rang on her desk and Navid's name flashed across the narrow screen.

"Hi Navid," she said, answering the phone as cheerfully as possible.

"Are you busy?" he asked and over the line she could hear the click of the keys as he furiously typed something.

"Not particularly." Please don't ask me to come to your office.

"Good. Come to my office for a brief meeting. There's something I want to discuss with you."

"Of course." Dammit. Hanging up the receiver, Isobel rose from her desk and locked her screen, a standard code of practice in a bullpen office space. More than half the cubicles had filled up and before long this floor would be a hive of activity. She'd come to love the rush of it, the live news and variety of on-air production. So much more exhilarating then the small newspaper life at The Herald.

Isobel was careful to knock before entering, and Navid closed his laptop as she entered and shut the door behind her.

"Good, okay. Let's get the uncomfortable part of this out of the way," he said, gesturing to the seat before his desk, "We've had a complaint made recently that I want to discuss with you."

"A complaint?" Isobel sat down, her legs shaking. "About me?"

Navid steepled his fingers and leaned back into his chair. "About PA and, in part, about you—well, how you're seemingly given preferential treatment."

A startled laugh burst from her chest. "You can't be serious."

"Look, Isobel, I'm not going to pretend that I agree with this—but the facts are that more than one nose is out of joint over the fact you were given an exclusive pet project that has seen considerable production support. Flights and expenses paid for New York, LA and Montreal—"

"Those were all for major stories," Isobel interjected. "And you told me we had board approval."

"We did and still do," he agreed. "But that doesn't mean other members of our team aren't displeased. Some think you don't want to see PA expand because you're hogging the spot light for yourself."