Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I have more specific suspicions about Marcus. I think he’s much more than a businessman. I think he is essentially leading one of the biggest criminal networks that America, and perhaps the world, has ever seen. Waterstone Corp is the perfect cover for a whole lot of very shady activities that I—and some dedicated online sleuths—have been putting together for months now.
This interview probably won’t reveal much overtly, but I am hoping to get him to say something that ties him to one of the many criminal activities my friends and I think he is responsible for.
I’m almost at his personal reception desk where a large W on the wall echoes the large W on the outside of the building. Billionaires aren’t really popular now, but Marcus Waterstone has avoided the worst of the flak by being one of the most powerful men on the planet nobody has ever heard of outside of the boardrooms of America.
There’re all different kinds of famous. There’s Internet famous. That’s what counts for actual famous these days. Then there’s the niche kind of famous.
Marcus Waterstone is famous among people who are richer and more powerful than most of the people that normal people hate for being rich and powerful.
The Met Gala would seem like a downmarket meat market for the sorts of people who move in Marcus’ circles. He is elite among elite, and the fact that I am standing here is nothing short of a small miracle.
An expansive desk sits below the W. I make a beeline for it.
Marcus’ secretary is a woman who exudes a surprising amount of warmth, considering the atmosphere. She is a model of efficiency and kindness. Her gray hair is swept back in a lovely vintage fashion and kept in place with a pin. She is in her fifties, I would guess, and she seems as though she has the wherewithal to run this entire company. She did not so much as glance at the calendar. She is clearly very familiar with Mr. Waterstone’s schedule for the day and has committed it to memory.
“Hello,” I say. It feels like a weak greeting, even though it is really the only possible greeting.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Charlotte Crown,” I say. “I’m here for a ten o’clock interview with Mr. Waterstone?” My inflection rises at the end, which makes me sound uncertain. That’s deliberate. I don’t want to come across as too put together. I want to seem properly awed by this place that is designed to inspire awe.
“Miss Crown, right on time,” she says, giving me an approving smile. “Let me get you settled. Please, follow me.”
I follow her through the door that sits alluringly behind and to the side of her desk. It has a frosted glass panel at the top, through which amber light glows. If I were a fanciful sort of person, I’d say there’s something almost enchanting about this place. I’m not, of course. There’s no magic here, except that which can be performed by vast amounts of cold, hard cash.
We step through the door, and the temperature rises ever so slightly. The carpet beneath my feet feels thicker and more luxurious. The smell of leather, mahogany, and pure fucking power hangs in the air. I now realize the reception area I was just waiting in is about as refined as the subway at 125th and Lexington compared to this inner sanctum.
Mr. Waterstone’s secretary leads me into a room that looks like an office, but can’t possibly be his office. There’s no way I would be allowed in that room. This has to be a dummy office, a room that looks like he inhabits it from time to time, but which certainly contains no personal or sensitive documents.
“Mr. Waterstone will be here in a moment.”
There are two comfortable armchairs set in front of the skyline. I take a seat in the one that puts my back to the door. I know Marcus wouldn’t want to sit in that one. He’ll want his back to the expansive view, to be silhouetted mysteriously against the light. He’ll also want to be able to see the door from where he’s sitting. The chair I’ve chosen makes me vulnerable.
The second she closes the door, I get up. I am not going to waste time scrolling through my phone when I could be examining an office in the Waterstone building. Even if this one contains nothing at all…
“What the hell…” I murmur the inquiry under my breath.
There’s a painting on the wall. I didn’t notice it because it’s on the same wall as the door, and I walked right past it. It’s the sort of art that only very, very rich people have the balls to display. I come from a world where lions on soft plastic blankets and psychedelic tiger motifs reign supreme. His art is not like that in the slightest, though it is rather provoking.