Chapter 6 - The Coffee (2/2)
”Y-yes, sir.” Mrs. Gomez gives Claire a meaningful glance.
Did he really just say ”Stupid girl?” Was he referring to me? Claire's outrage seethes in her ċhėst. How dare he? How dare he? She could really smack this man in the face with the way he treats women. He doesn't have the right to say these things!
Mrs. Gomez solemnly opens the heavy doors and ushers Claire in. They find Mr. Tan facing the glass wall overlooking the city. He's wearing a different suit now—he looks every inch a sartorial titan in that all-white ensemble. If you look at him and not actually know him, you'd think he's an angel, a white knight sent by the heavens to save damsels in distress.
”Here's the girl, sir,” Mrs. Gomez mutters before she quickly slips out and closes the door.
”The girl”—the phrase reverberates in Claire's head. She doesn't even have a name. They don't even call her properly like a person here. ”The girl.”
”Four hours,” Mr. Tan says, still gazing toward the city. ”Four stupid hours for one stupid coffee.”
Claire dumbly looks at the coffee she's holding with her two hands now. ”But sir…You…You could have sent someone else. You know I was busy at Leed's—”
”How dare you—” Mr. Tan turns to her, glaring—”question my motives, my decisions? If I send you for coffee, you do what I say!”
”Y-yes, sir, but…but that business at Leed's was…”
”Four hours? It took you four hours to return here? At the very least you could have called!” Mr. Tan screams, to which she screams back, ”But I don't have a phone!”
”What?”
”I don't have a phone! I don't have cab fare! I walked those four blocks!”
Mr. Tan says nothing; he just stares at her dumbly, as if he's just discovered a new species of insect.
”So please,” Claire says, her outrage and the opposing pressure to appear submissive, to submit to this man's will no matter how stupid it all seems are fighting for space in her heart, ”please forgive me. It's just my first day today. Beginner's mistake.” She steps gingerly towards him, her hands bearing the coffee outstretched, like she's making an offering to some angry god. ”Please, here's your coffee, sir.”
”What coffee is that?”
”Black, sir.”
Mr. Gabriel Tan grunts. He takes the coffee from her hand, glares at her—and savagely throws it at the glass wall. The dark liquid explodes and stains all the surrounding furniture, even drenching Mr. Tan's own immaculate white suit. But Mr. Tan's scowl remains the same; for a few minutes, he stares transfixed at the black-brown supernova of coffee stains on the wall, on the carpet, even on the otherwise flawless white ceiling.
Claire's jaws drop on the floor—she's stunned. What kind of a person is this? Going full ballistic over the small stupid matter of coffee? Is this the person who's running TXCI Industries? Is this the top CEO that Forbes magazine keeps featuring on its cover? This isn't a person. This is a monster.
”Miss Monteverde,” Mr. Tan says coldly. ”As my personal ȧssistant, you, of all people, should know the coffee I like.”
Still too stunned and angry at the same time, Claire mutters, ”What coffee do you like, s-sir?”
What Mr. Tan says next doesn't make sense at first; he actually has to buzz Mrs. Gomez in to explain to her. And even as she's back on the street, she's still reading the note Mrs. Gomez slipped in her hand. The note says…