The CEO's Dirty Secret

"She was everything I had," Leo hiccups into the sleeve of his thrift-store blazer, the crushed velvet already blotched with tears and cheap drug-store mascara.

I let my palm hover an inch from his shaking shoulder, then land with practiced gentleness, the way you pat a stranger's dog before the owner says it bites.

"Poor Leo," I murmur, voice pitched to the frequency that makes wallets loosen, "Yuppie's probably stretched across a cloud right now, batting at sunbeams and judging angels for bad grooming."

Three days since the tabby slipped out his cracked loft window and became a missing-poster staple on every lamp post from Liberty Avenue to Carter Lane.

Three days, and he's still crying like he lost a child, not a seventeen-pound ball of attitude who once shredded my favorite leather tote.

Tourist season is in full bloom; the sidewalk vibrates with out-of-towners clutching six-dollar almond-milk mochas like sacraments.

Their desperation perfumes the air--vanilla syrup, Instagram anxiety, the metallic tang of coins ready to drop into any open palm that promises a story.

I guide Leo two steps left, out of the pedestrian current, and plant my back against the warm brick of the old clock-repair shop whose owner pretends not to watch.

"Maybe I can do something," I whisper, letting the offer dangle, unfinished, bait glistening.

Leo's head snaps up; smeared kohl makes him a tragic panda.

"You can't bring her back, can you?!" he bellows, loud enough that a cluster of German backpackers swivel for drama.

Perfect.

His volume draws eyes, and eyes draw tips.

I angle my body so the onlookers see only his collapse, not the corner of my mouth twitching upward.

I swallow the smirk, taste copper from biting the inside of my cheek.

"No miracles," I say softly, "but rituals help. A send-off. A proper one."

The word ritual lands between us like a spark on dry leaves.

Leo blinks, with tears suspended.

"What kind?"

I let the pause stretch until the traffic light clicks green and the crowd surges past, leaving us in a pocket of stillness.

"Lanterns," I answer. "Biodegradable, rice-paper, shaped like cats. We light them at dusk on Harbor Skyport pier, watch them float over North Bay. One for every life she gave you."

I don't mention I buy the lanterns in bulk from a party-supply site, thirty for twelve bucks, markup five hundred percent when the client's grief is fresh.

Leo's lower lip trembles.

"How much?" he croaks.

Here it is: the hinge.

I fold my arms, sweater sleeves riding up just enough to flash the tiny gold star tattoo that marks me as a member of Bloom Crew--street-certified grief concierge, though the ink looks official enough to imply therapy credentials.

"Two fifty," I say, "including handwritten blessings, keepsake photos, and a cedar-ocean candle from Diptyque to take home."

I watch the numbers sink in.

Two fifty is less than he paid for the limited-edition cat tree Yuppie ignored in favor of the windowsill.

He nods before his brain can object.

I slip my phone from my pocket, thumb open the secure gateway app, and hand it to him.

"Fill in your details. Emergency contact in case the coast guard mistakes our ceremony for a distress flare."

While he types, I study the top of his bent head--thinning hair, pink scalp already sunburned.

He hands the phone back; the chargeable 120 min clock starts ticking.

"Meet me at the pier at seven," I instruct. "Bring one personal item that smells like her. Blanket, toy, your ex's hoodie--whatever carries the scent."

Leo wipes his face with the heel of his hand, smearing despair into war paint.

"Thank you, Sienna," he whispers.

My real name is Beth, but Sienna's the brand, so I smile like a lighthouse keeper who's just sold him safe passage through rocks I planted myself.

He shuffles west toward the MetroLink station, shoulders still hitching, and I pivot east, blending into the caffeinated river.

The mocha cups are everywhere, with cardboard sleeves printed with motivational slogans that age like milk in the sun.

I slip between languages--French teenagers debating filters, Spanish honeymooners arguing over hashtags--until the noise thins and I reach the alley behind FreshLeaf where Molly waits with tonight's inventory.

She's perched on a stack of pallets, vape pen glowing like a firefly.

"Score?" she asks.

"Two fifty, plus gratuities if he cries on camera."

Molly exhales a plume of watermelon mist.

Grief is the only crop that never goes out of season.

She hands me the tote: ten flat-packed lanterns, a box of tealights, and a bundle of calligraphy pens in case the client wants to write their own haiku.

I tuck the tote into my oversized Vera Wang micro bag, next to the collapsible tripod and the burner phone labeled "Ceremony Hotline."

"Harbor Skyport, seven sharp," I remind her.

"Dress code?"

"Think spiritual, not cult."

She salutes with two fingers, silver rings clacking.

I leave her to finish her break and head toward Harrison Plaza, where the next lead grazes on artisanal popsicles and breakup songs.

The app pings--another inquiry, subject line: "Hamster, elderly, passed peacefully."

I archive it for later; rodents are low margin, too much risk of accidental cremation.

Instead I open Leo's file, add a note: "Susceptible to upsell, consider luxury bundle if cat lantern lands."

I attach a stock photo of a lantern drifting past the moon, filter set to nostalgic.

By the time I cross Mercer, the sun has begun its slow dive, glazing the glass storefronts molten orange.

My reflection flickers across them: mid-thirties, sharp elbows, eyes that have learned to price sorrow by the ounce.

I pause outside the boutique hotel Grandview, where doormen wear gloves even in summer.

Inside the lobby, a woman in Stilettos clutches a jeweled carrier; a tiny snout pokes through mesh.

I make mental inventory: designer pet, designer owner, designer grief.

I flick my wrist, business card appearing between two fingers like a coin from a magician's sleeve.

The card is eggshell, raised ink, minimal: Bloom Crew--Rituals for Transition.

No phone, only a QR code that opens a booking portal encrypted end-to-end.

I glide past the woman close enough for her to read the card in my wake, close enough for the Diptyque cedar-ocean sample I dabbed this morning to linger.

She turns; I keep walking.

Hook set.

My phone vibrates--Leo has already posted a tribute story, tagging @yuppie_the_queen, geo-located at Harbor Skyport.

Free marketing.

I screenshot it, forward to Molly with a caption: "Pre-heat the crowd."

By six-thirty I'm on the pier, salt wind whipping hair into my lip gloss.

Molly has arranged the lanterns in a half-moon, battery candles glowing steady so no drunk tourist sets themselves alight.

Leo arrives at six-fifty, clutching a faded bandanna that probably reeks of catnip and memories.

His eyes are swollen but hopeful, the way children look at bedtime stories they know are fiction but need anyway.

I greet him with a two-handed clasp, channeling every loss counselor I've watched on StreamCall.

"Ready?" I ask.

He nods, throat too tight for words.

I hand him a calligraphy pen.

"Write her name. One word you want to carry to the stars."

His hand shakes as he inks Yuppie across the rice paper, letters blobbing where tears fall.

I light the tea candle inside, the flame a tiny sun born inside a paper sky.

Around us, a semicircle of strangers gathers--some filming, some wiping their own eyes, pockets loosening by sympathetic magic.

I raise my arms like a conductor.

"On three, we release."

We count.

We let go.

Ten lanterns rise, orange hearts against violet dusk.

The wind carries them over the black water, a slow parade of private galaxies.

Leo sobs openly now, sound swallowed by waves.

I stand beside him, face tilted upward, calculating drift rate, burn time, probability of coast guard intervention.

One lantern sputters, dips, then catches an updraft and soars.

The crowd sighs as if choreographed.

Phones flash.

Platform gratuities ping into the business account.

When the last lantern becomes a star and vanishes, Leo turns to me, with cheeks salt-streaked but lighter, as if grief itself floated away on paper wings.

He hugs me, ribs shuddering under thrift-store velvet.

I pat his back, eyes already scanning the pier for the woman from Grandview, who arrived five minutes ago clutching a jeweled carrier.

She stands at the edge of the lamplight, tears catching like crystals.

I whisper to Leo, "Stay here. Breathe. I'll fetch water."

I approach her slowly, voice low.

"Loss is hard," I say.

She startles, then nods, knuckles white around the carrier.

"Would you like to send a blessing?"

I produce another lantern--this one smaller, silk, priced for premium pockets.

She looks at the QR code on my card, then at the dark water.

"How much?" she asks.

I give the number that pays next month's rent.

She pays without blinking.

Another flame, another name, another star born above North Bay.

By midnight the tide has erased every trace of paper ash.

Leo texts: "I feel her peace."

I reply with a moon emoji and a discount code for future rituals.

Then I shut the phone, pocket the night's take, and walk back up Liberty Avenue, where tomorrow's mourners are already lining for six-dollar almond-milk mochas and someone to sell them the sky.

The shaved-headed contractor beside me is a mid-tier Quantum Valley manager spending his signing bonus on "loss counseling," which is a fancy way of saying he pays me to watch him fall apart. He's thirty-five, maybe forty, with a jawline that used to win bar fights and eyes that haven't slept since the IPO. I perch on the lip of his rented StayNest bed, the mattress still wrapped in plastic crackling under the sheet. He buries his damp face into the hollow between my neck and shoulder--meter running, sixty credits a minute--and sobs like a kid who dropped his ice cream on the subway tracks.

So much for the "elite partner listing" I posted last night: "Discreet. Empathic. Luxury bundle available." The algorithm bumped me to the premium carousel because my response time is under three minutes and my confidentiality pact is ironclad. Still, I didn't expect the first bite to be this loud.

I let him leak on me while I study the room. Generic tech-bro terrarium: one succulent dying in a ceramic cube, a framed stock photo of Hawthorne Isle at sunset, the obligatory Diptyque cedar & ocean-mist candle that smells like a car freshener had a midlife crisis. His phone buzzes on the nightstand--probably a push notification from the company wellness bot asking if he's hydrated. He isn't. His tears taste of last night's tequila and the metallic tang of beta-blockers.

When the timer on my wristband vibrates--chargeable 120 min complete--I detach gently, the way you peel a sticker off glass without leaving residue. "You're going to breathe now," I whisper, more command than comfort. I fold a fresh tissue into his palm like a magician producing a dove, then swipe the confirmation code on his secure gateway. Funds transfer instantly; platform gratuities already cashed, minus the twenty-percent service tithe.

He tries to prolong the moment. "Same time tomorrow?" voice cracking like old varnish.

I give him the same calibrated smile I give everyone: lips closed, twelve milliseconds long, ends before it reaches the eyes. "Submit a new request. The calendar fills fast." I stand, smooth the static-cling from my dress, and leave him clutching the damp pillow that still smells of my coconut shampoo.

Downstairs, the communal kitchen is a collage of stainless steel and reclaimed wood. The blond barista--Beth, according to her hand-drawn name tag--steams almond milk behind the counter. She's dyed streaks of pink and teal through her high ponytail, very Coachella circa 2018. A tiny diamond stud winks in her left nostril every time she laughs with the freelance coder waiting for his six-dollar almond-milk mocha.

"Here you go, Sienna." She slides the cup across the counter, voice pure Cali sunshine, the kind that burns if you stay in it too long.

"Thanks, Beth." I flash the same fake smile I give clients. The ceramic is hot against my palm; the aroma bittersweet, like childhood and overdraft fees. I sip, scald my tongue on purpose--pain is a palette cleanser--and head for the exit.

Outside, Liberty Avenue is already a bloodstream of drones and sneakers. I elbow through the crowd massing at the Carter Lane cable-car turnaround. Commuters queue three-deep, eyes glued to newsfeeds: Senator Whitaker's impeachment odds, Orion Works' quarterly earnings, a cat that can play checkers. A MetroLink train rumbles overhead on elevated tracks, dropping rust-flavored rain.

I weave between bodies, counting steps until I can breathe again. Ten, nine, eight--someone's backpack knocks my shoulder, sloshing mocha onto my knuckles. Seven, six--an influencer in a Vera Wang micro backpack live-streams her own morning commute, squealing gratitude to an audience I can't see. Five, four--my phone pings: new booking request, priority flag, advance fee pre-paid. Three, two--I break free of the clot and duck under the awning of FreshLeaf where the air smells of wheatgrass and ambition.

The message is from Ms. Caldwell, an agency fixer I've never met in person.

"Client": Male, 52, recently widowed, Kingsland-based.

"Service": Grief role-play, two hours, Harrison Plaza penthouse.

"Code-word": "Mayflower."

"Finish reward": Triple my usual rate if he signs the post-session evaluation with fewer than three frown emojis.

I type back: "Confirmed. ETA 09:40." The platform auto-generates a Ryde; black sedan, tinted windows, bottled water temperature-controlled at 39°F. While I wait, I scroll through the client's public profile: hedge-fund oracle, collector of first-edition sci-fi, donor to marine-conservation charities. No kids, one dog--golden retriever named Copernicus--euthanized the same week his wife died. The internet is a merciless biographer.

The car glides to the curb. I slip inside, greet the driver with a nod, and watch the city smear past: graffiti murals, glass towers, a homeless veteran selling paper flowers that look like they were folded from stock-market printouts. My reflection in the window is a professional mirage: sleek auburn hair, sunglasses reflecting back nothing, expression set to compassionate neutral.

Halfway across the North Bay bridge, my wristband vibrates again--an encrypted voice ping. I accept.

"Sienna?" A woman's voice, crisp as chilled vodka.

"Speaking."

"This is Marisol, Senator Whitaker's chief of staff. We have a situation. The press caught wind of an… irregular companionship expense on last quarter's disclosure. We need the confidentiality pact honored and the narrative… adjusted."

I keep my tone flat. "I'm bound by contract, not magic. If subpoenaed--"

"You won't be. The paper trail is already bleach-bit. But the opposition research team may contact you under a false flag. Decline any new bookings from Metro University email domains. And if you hear the code-word 'Starlight,' ghost immediately."

"Understood." The line dies.

The sedan exits onto Harrison Plaza. Water fountains choreograph to a song I almost recognize. Doormen in brass-button coats bow like I'm somebody. Elevator doors silver-shine shut behind me; I watch floor numbers climb, heart rate steady because feelings are billable elsewhere.

Penthouse 42 smells of old books and candle smoke. The client waits in an Aeron seat facing the window, skyline at his feet. He doesn't turn when I enter.

"Mayflower," I say softly.

His shoulders rise, then fall. "I was afraid you'd be her," he murmurs. "And afraid you wouldn't."

I close the door, engage the deadbolt, and step out of my shoes--uniform of last resort. "Let's start at the beginning," I tell him, voice tuned to the frequency of impossible comfort. "Tell me about the day she died."

Outside, the city keeps hemorrhaging light and noise, but inside this glass box time pauses, meter running, grief on consignment. I catalog the tremor in his left hand, the catch in his breath, the way grief has carved new hollows beneath his cheekbones. Data points for the invoice.

And somewhere, back on Carter Lane, the shaved-headed contractor is probably still staring at the ceiling, wondering if the premium package included a piece of his soul he didn't mean to spend. I'll appear on his bank statement as "Wellness Consultation," a line item he can expense under mental fitness.

The barista will steam another almond-milk mocha, call another stranger "honey," and never know she served a woman who sells absolution by the hour.

The elevator dings. Session begins.

The late-morning sun ricocheted off the bronze cheeks of the Gandhi statue in Harrison Plaza, turning the calm face into a sheet of molten gold. Around its base, a pack of eight-year-olds stampeded after a flock of pigeons that kept lifting just high enough to stay out of reach. Every time the birds swooped, the kids squealed like seagulls, their sneakers slapping the hot stone. Their mothers sat on the rim of the fountain five yards away, almond-milk mochas in one hand, phones in the other, thumbs flicking upward in an endless, tranquil rhythm. None of them looked at me; none of them ever did. I could have cart-wheeled across the plaza in sparklers and they'd still be scrolling.

I leaned against the statue's shadow, denim cut-offs sticking to the backs of my thighs, crop-top riding just high enough to catch the breeze. Invisible felt good today--no eyes asking questions, no one trying to peel the wrapper off my past. Still, the old itch prickled between my shoulder blades: the need to move, to prove I was more than background noise.

Back when I worked the pavement on Carter Lane, I wore scuffed combat boots and zero makeup--different brand, same hustle. The uniform changed, the game didn't. Then, I'd strut past pawn shops and vape stores, pockets full of flyers for "loss counseling" that were really coded come-ons for whatever a lonely soul wanted to buy. Now I wore mint-polished toes in strappy sandals and carried a Vera Wang micro bag so small it could barely hold a secret. The sidewalk had upgraded to a secure gateway, but the hustle still smelled like hot concrete and adrenaline.

I tugged my phone from the micro bag, the screen already glowing with the little lock icon that meant I was tunneled into the dark. Thumb on fingerprint, second finger on pulse--two-factor, heartbeat edition--and the secure gateway opened, midnight black with a single line of white text: ORION WORKS--CONTRACTOR PORTAL. I selected Senator Whitaker's file, the one tagged VIP-GOV-04. His headshot stared back, all silver sideburns and teeth that had never seen coffee. I typed fast:

Session #4--guilt high, chargeable 120 min.

The words felt like snapping a fresh sheet over a bed: taut, clean, ready for whatever mess would land. I hit save, exhaled, and let a grin crawl across my face. Then I reached down to the pavement, lifted the plastic cup I'd set there, and sucked the last slug of cold brew through the lid. Bitter, sweet, gone. Thirty seconds of nothing to do--luxury in my line of work.

The phone buzzed again, a single pulse against my palm. Marisol's name flashed, green and urgent.

Hot job. 10k advance fee. Interested?

My pulse answered before my brain could: a drum kick under the sternum. Ten grand up front meant at least thirty on the back end, and probably a client who wanted something complicated enough to be interesting. I thumbed back:

Details?

Three dots, then:

Client wants luxury bundle. Code-word protected. Harbor Skyport pickup, 19:00. Dress code: uptown angel.

I snorted. Uptown angel meant look expensive but act innocent--my specialty. Harbor Skyport was the new helipad on the roof of the old customs building, all glass and turbine wind. Showy, but secure. Marisol didn't send garbage; if she said hot, she meant scorch.

Across the plaza, a kid finally cornered a pigeon and lunged. The bird exploded upward in a clatter of gray wings, the kid landing face-first on the stone. Mothers glanced up half a second, laughed into their cameras, looked away. Story of the city: everyone chasing something that didn't want to be caught.

I stood, stretched until my spine cracked, and lobbed the empty cup in a high arc. It kissed the rim of the recycling bin and dropped in with a hollow thunk. Good omen. Then I slung the micro bag cross-body, turned toward the MetroLink entrance, and started walking. The sun followed, licking heat across my shoulders, but inside I felt cool, the way a blade must feel right before it's pulled from ice.

Down the escalator, the air smelled of brake dust and cinnamon rolls. I swiped my transit pass, slipped through the turnstile, and caught the first silver car. Seat by the window, legs crossed, I let the city blur past: graffiti, glass, river, sky. In the reflection, my face looked like someone who belonged nowhere and everywhere--exactly the kind of ghost a senator might confess to when the lights were low and the cameras off.

Phone again. I opened the senator's file, added a private note:

Subject expressed heightened remorse regarding Wyoming land deal. Possible leverage for future vote on Richmond pipeline. Recommend follow-up within 72 hrs.

I hit encrypt, watched the words dissolve into static, then reappear as a string of emojis only I could decode: eagle, mountain, dollar sign, hourglass. My own shorthand, the way other people kept grocery lists.

The train hissed into the Uptown Angel station. I stepped off, heels clicking, and climbed the stairs back into daylight. Harbor Skyport loomed ahead, a glass rectangle balanced on stilts, helicopters perched on top like dragonflies. I had three hours to kill, enough time to buy a new dress, charge my second phone, and rehearse the backstory Marisol would have cooked up. Something about a grieving heiress, maybe, or a tech refugee from Quantum Valley--whatever fit the client's fantasy.

But first, coffee number two. I ducked into a cafe that smelled of burnt sugar and vinyl, ordered an almond-milk mocha under the name Beth--easy to remember, hard to trace. While the barista foamed milk, I scrolled through the senator's last session transcript. He'd cried actual tears when he talked about the ranch his father lost during the drought. Guilt high, just like I'd typed. People paid fortunes to feel seen, but they paid double to stay hidden afterward. My job was to be the mirror they could smash when they were done.

Cup in hand, I found a corner table and opened Marisol's follow-up:

Client requests no perfume. Bring Diptyque cedar & ocean-mist sample anyway--he likes options. Confidentiality pact already signed. Finish reward negotiable. Don't be late.

I smiled into the steam. Ten grand advance, maybe forty on the tail, and a negotiable finish reward. Enough to cover three months' rent on the loft, plus a new pair of Stilettos I'd been eyeing on PrimeFinds. I typed back:

I'm always up for something hot.

Sent. The words glowed, then faded, swallowed by the screen. Outside, the sky had gone lavender, the kind of dusk that made the whole city look like it was holding its breath. I finished the mocha, licked foam from the lid, and walked toward the helipad elevators. Somewhere above me, blades started turning, a low hum that vibrated in my teeth.

Invisible in the plaza, priceless in the sky--same woman, different costume. The hustle never changed; only the altitude did. And tonight, I was about to fly.