Page 9 of My Forbidden Billionaire
“Don’t be coy,” she hisses. “It’s the color that’s not up to code. That … horrendous, dazzling color. You might as well be wearing a scarlet letter.”
I press my lips together to prevent any unwanted words from leaving my mouth regarding her reference to the classic, literary novel I most definitely won’t be teaching my class of elementary-aged children.
My suit is navy blue. What’s so scandalous about navy blue?
“Ms. Abadie, I really don’t understand—”
“Jameson Juniper Hall only allows white, black, and muted, neutral tones,” she interjects. “Navy blue—well, any shade of blue, for that matter—is strictly forbidden. It’s too … disco.”
“Disco? Navy blue? I … well, Studio 54 was a little before my time, but I can’t imagine navy blue was a particularly popular wardrobe color at dance clubs—even now. When’s the last time you set foot in a disco, Ms. Abadie?” I reply, hoping that a light joke will take the edge off this, otherwise tense, interaction. But no sooner than the words leave my mouth, I’m stricken with the horror that this has been entirely the wrong thing to say. Ms. Abadie’s face turns to a shade of green.
She looks like a pickle that’s ready to burst.
And I’m pretty certain I just dug my own grave.
“That … is not … the point,” her words come out through gritted teeth, her lips thin as paper. “Find something else to wear before the meet-and-greet with the parents.” Ms. Abadie pivots and storms off down the hall. I can hear the echo of her heels clicking against the creaky, hardwood floors as she rounds the corner and disappears from sight.
Fantastic.
How am I supposed to change my clothes with so little time left?
A woman approaches me through the stone archway on my left, holding a tall stack of folders.
“Do you need some help with those?” I ask, eager to move past my awkward interaction with Ms. Abadie.
“That would be so helpful, thank you.” She hands me half the stack. “I just need to take these to my office. Hey, you’re the new literature instructor, right?”
“Yes! I’m Josephine Andrews. It’s nice to meet you!” I try to shake her hand but it’s impossible now that we’re both carrying heavy folders.
“It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m Stephanie Harris, I teach chemistry. We’re all so happy you’re joining us!”
“Oh, thank you. But I’m not so sure about all that … I just had a run-in with the Head of Education and … I don’t think I made the best first impression.” I grimace.
“Oh no. What happened?” Stephanie’s eyes widen.
“She just informed me that I need to change my clothes before the meet-and-greet with the parents this morning. Apparently, navy blue is not appropriate?”
“Well, she’s right. Navy blue isn’t on the list of permitted colors. But … didn’t she send you an email about all this?” Stephanie carefully balances the stack folders in one arm as she unlocks the door to her office.
“No. Was she supposed to?” I ask.
“Yep. Like you said, she’s the Head of Education, it’s quite literally her job to inform you. But … I can’t say I’m surprised…”
Stephanie’s office is small but cozy. As expected, her walls are lined with chemistry books and all sorts of glass vials and test tubes filled with colorful liquids. I’m dying to ask what’s in them, but this Ms. Abadie business is more important at the moment.
“Wait … are you suggesting that she didn’t share this info with me on purpose?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Stephanie chuckles while I watch her in surprise. “Look, Josephine, don’t even sweat it. Everyone here at the school knows that Ms. Abadie wants to get promoted. She’s been gunning for the Deputy Director position for the longest time. This is her tactic—she basically tries to sabotage every single teacher here in order to elevate herself. We all pretty much despise her.”
“Why hasn’t anyone done anything about it?” I ask.
“Because she’s a sneaky little thing. She does just enough to get under everyone’s skin, but never enough to warrant a formal complaint. Like, take what happened to you for example. What are you supposed to do? Go to the Headmaster and tell him that Ms. Abadie didn’t send you an email?”
“That would sound ridiculous.”
“Exactly.” She nods.
And just like that, my first day at Jameson Juniper Hall has become packed with intrigue and conspiracy. I’m already aware that working as an instructor at one of the best private schools in the country is not going to be a walk in the park, but I haven’t even been here a full hour and the games have already started.