The Boxing Champion CEO's Hidden Little Sister

4: 4

4

I let out a cold laugh. "So what did Ms. Fox say back?"

"She hasn't replied yet. But think about it—"

He stood, came around the desk, and stopped half a meter from me, the reek of cigarettes off his breath enough to make me gag.

"You know what kind of person Ms. Fox is? Worth hundreds of millions, young, already made a name for herself, and the national boxing champion on top of it. If she found out you slept your way up and caught some filthy disease along the way, she'd sooner bury you than protect you."

I looked at him, and all at once it made sense.

Bernard had moved to fire me before my sister could say a word.

He was buying loyalty. Handing over a token to prove himself.

He just didn't know one thing.

The person he was groveling to was my own sister.

"Manager Lambert." I pressed my fingertip to the sheet of paper and slid it slowly back toward him.

"Fine, fire me. But I'm not leaving until my sister gets back."

"Bonnie Fox, are you out of your mind? The company's letting you go and you're waiting for your sister to come pick you up?"

I gave a cold laugh. "Manager Lambert, hasn't it occurred to you that Ms. Fox and I share the same last name? That we look a lot alike?"

Bernard froze. When it sank in, every bit of color drained from his face.

I didn't spare him another glance. I pulled the door open and walked out.

The hallway was strangely quiet. Only in the break room could I hear people talking under their breath.

"She really got fired?"

"Manager Lambert called her in himself. You think that's fake?"

"Serves her right. Should've thought about today before she went crawling into bed with someone. And here I used to think she was pretty capable."

I walked past, expression blank, and the voices cut off at once.

Not long after, Bernard sent me over a hundred messages.

Telling me not to work so hard, to go get that rash looked at right away.

Those clients that were supposed to go to Jeanette—he wanted me to come back and keep handling all of them.

The fawning was a complete reversal of the man from minutes ago.

I didn't answer a single one. I grabbed my bag and went to the clinic downstairs to buy medicine.

The rash was itching worse and worse. I had to get something on it.

I hadn't expected to walk straight in on Michael steadying Jeanette as they came out from between the shelves,

a bottle of heart medication in his hand.

My push on the door stalled.

Michael's hand sprang off Jeanette's waist as if he'd been scalded, and he frowned. "Bonnie Fox, are you following me?"

"You own this clinic?" I stepped around him toward the counter.

"What's your problem?" He grabbed my arm, then something crossed his mind and he jerked back a step. "You've gone and caught some filthy disease out there, and you still think you're setting foot in the Gilbert house?"

"Michael, I'll say this one last time."

I turned around, out of patience, and stared straight into those pitch-black eyes.

"One, we broke up. Two, if there's no mirror at your house, go find a puddle and take a good look. At yourself—arrogant, delusional, and out of your mind."

The white light off the counter hit his face, and it went a frightening shade of pale.

I didn't look at him again. I raised a hand and waved it in front of the counter clerk. "Hi. I'd like a tube of Elocon."

The clerk snapped back to herself and turned to get it with an awkward smile.

Then Jeanette came over, one hand braced on the shelf, her whole face arranged into pity. "Bonnie, my cousin's in dermatology at the city hospital. This morning I sent her your photos—"

She paused, the corner of her mouth trembling faintly. "She said it's syphilis."

The fluorescent tube overhead flickered.

The clerk's hand, already holding the Elocon, snapped back.

She looked at the rash on my arm from across the counter, the disgust plain in her eyes. "Miss, you really should go to a hospital for this."

I looked down at my own arm. The red rash had spread thick and dense, running together in a solid patch.

The itch dug in like a needle. The allergic reaction was only getting worse.

I drew a breath and explained, "Syphilis doesn't break out on the arm. You work at a clinic and you don't even know that much?"

"But this lady's cousin said—"

I cut her off. "Her cousin's a dermatologist? Licensed? And she diagnosed it off a photo?"

The clerk had nothing to say to that. But she still made no move to hand over the Elocon.

I didn't want to keep going around in circles. I turned to leave, and Michael's voice chased me from behind. "Bonnie Fox, you stop right there!"

"You bullied Jeanette at work, you set off her heart condition, and today you're getting on your knees and apologizing!"

I hit my limit and shouted back at him. "Michael, if your eyes are bad, go see a doctor!"

But Jeanette leaned into the shelf, right on cue, her body going half-limp,

lips white, her breathing turning quick and ragged. "Michael, my chest hurts so much—"

Michael whipped around to look at her.

Jeanette seized his hand, tears dropping one after another.

"Michael, don't blame Bonnie. It's my fault. I shouldn't have told her a woman should have some self-respect."

He turned back to me, his eyes churning with fury.

Seeing me stand there without moving, he gave a cold laugh and crossed to the door in two strides.

One push, the glass door swung shut, and the lock clicked into place.

"Bonnie Fox, you don't apologize today, you don't get out that door!"

The two other customers in the clinic pulled out their phones and aimed the lenses at me.

The fluorescent light droned.

My arm itched like it had been set on fire, and my head was going hazy.

Michael was a stubborn man. I'd figured that out back when he was chasing me.

But this was urgent now, and I didn't want to waste more breath on him.

I took out my phone to call my dad, and the clinic's glass door exploded.

Shards scattered across the floor with a crash.

My sister stood there against the light, the lines of her arms drawn taut as steel bars.

The boxing gloves on her hands were still smeared with blood—one look and you knew she'd rushed back straight from the middle of a match.

It was close to a hundred degrees out, but her voice came cold as ice.

"Who locked the door?"