My Assistant’s Girlfriend Called Me a Poor Old Hag

After that, Justin behaved himself for a while.

Daily reports came in on time. The restaurants he booked were ones I actually liked. My calendar ran clean.

Vivienne didn't show her face again.

I figured he'd learned his lesson.

Then last week, he started coming in late.

Monday—twenty minutes late. Subway signal issue, he said.

Wednesday, fifteen minutes. Broken elevator.

Friday, half an hour. Dead phone, alarm didn't go off.

I didn't bother calling him out. I was busy. And there was still his mother to think about.

What finally caught my attention was an expense report.

Friday afternoon, Connie from finance brought me a stack of receipts to sign off on.

I flipped to the back and stopped.

Seven restaurant charges in a row. All billed to my business entertainment account.

Amounts ran from three thousand to twelve thousand.

Six different Michelin-starred restaurants. Plus one private club.

All this month.

Every line read the same: "Business entertainment, Ms. Sinclair."

I had never set foot in any of those places that month.

I called Justin in. "These charges. You remember these?"

He leaned over. Took a quick look. Smiled.

"Oh, those. A few partner companies came in last month for site visits. I set up the dinners while you were traveling. Didn't want to bother you. I handled it myself."

I pulled up my calendar.

He was right that I'd been out of town those days. But no partners had come in for site visits. Not one.

I didn't push it. Just nodded. "Loop me in next time."

"Of course, Ms. Sinclair, of course." He smiled and walked out.

The second the door closed, I called the front desk at the Round Table.

"Can you pull up a record for me? Night of the twelfth, dinner charged to my account. How many people. Which room."

"One moment, Ms. Sinclair." Pause. "VIP Room 2. Party of eight. Your assistant Justin made the booking. Said it was an important client of yours."

"Eight?"

"Yes. He brought a young woman. The other six came with her."

So that was the "business entertainment." Justin, Vivienne, and her friends. Eating on my account.

"Anything they said during dinner?"

She hesitated. "The young woman was pretty loud. Something about how her boyfriend ran a big business, and all those restaurants were under contract with him. Eat whatever, basically."

I hung up.

I opened my laptop and pulled every charge Justin had run through the company this month.

Seven restaurants. Three high-end florists. Two luxury orders. One five-star hotel stay.

All under "general operating expenses." All labeled "Ms. Sinclair."

Grand total: one hundred and thirty-seven thousand.

I closed the folder.

Mrs. Brennan. You raised yourself one hell of a son.