Persistent knocking on the door to her suite disturbed her sleep.

“What do you want?” she shouted.

“Ms. Chiges. It’s time to leave. We have to be at the airport in twenty minutes.”

“Isn’t the plane mine?”

“Technically, Ms. Chiges, yes. But Ms. Chiges, we have a schedule to keep. If we are even a few minutes late, that will push everything out by fifteen minutes at the end of the day.”

“Not my problem, Sasha.” She pulled the covers over her head. The door’s electronic lock opened. Sasha held open her day planner, scribbling and scratching out a few items on a detailed scheduled list of meetings. “Oh, good Lord.” Ms. Chiges threw off the covers, staring at her personal assistant through eyes still crusty with sleep. “Now you have carte blanche access to my suite?”

“Yes, Ms. Chiges, because you said if I needed to drag you out of this bed . . .”

“You don’t need to remind me, Sasha. I know what I said.” Ms. Chiges straightened the oversized t-shirt she wore as a nightgown. It once belonged to the girlfriend of a wrestler. Ms. Chiges didn’t care for wrestling, and after her girlfriend cheated on him, she asked if she could have the t-shirt. There was a large picture of Jason Momoa on it, so she pretended to sleep with him every night.

Sasha set her day planner on the foot of the kingsized bed as Ms. Chiges slid out of bed, slipping her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers. A fruit tray sat on the dresser next to two porcelain coffee cups and a freshly brewed pot of hot coffee. Sasha poured two cups, knowing Ms. Chiges would take her time no matter where the timeline said she needed to be. She watched Ms. Chiges stretch and shuffle into the bathroom.

“Do you want cream in your coffee,” Sasha asked, watching her employer strip off the t-shirt and turn on the shower.

“You’ve worked for me for how long, Sasha?”

“Six years, Ms. Chiges.”

“And in six years, have you ever known me to put cream or anything, for that matter, in my coffee?”

“Only when you are hungover, Ms.”

“And am I hungover today, Sasha? You were with me all night. Did I have anything to drink?”

“Yes, Ms., you did.”

“To excess, my dear?”

“No, Ms.”

“So,” she closed the shower curtain, “do you think I want cream in my coffee?”

“I’m not a mind reader, Ms. Chiges. I’m confident I do not know.” Sasha lasted so long as Ms. Chiges’s personal assistant because she never backed away from direct questions. The staff mentioned this to Sasha long ago, which Sasha used often, many times to her advantage. “Ms. Chiges?”

“Hmm?”

“Is that a ‘yes’ to the cream?”

The shower’s water turned off, and the curtain opened. Ms. Chiges was toweling herself off. “That would be a ‘no,’” she replied, toweling her hair dry, pressing sections between her hands and the towel. “What time are we scheduled to be in New York?”

“I don’t know. Can we make it to the airport in the next twenty minutes?” She scrolled through her smartphone. “We will be in New York by 4 o’clock East Coast time if you are ready to walk outside,” Sasha pointed at the door, “in five minutes.”

Ms. Chige smiles. “Of course I can,” shutting the bathroom door.

Ten minutes later, Ms. Chige walked outside to the car, waiting for her and Sasha. Sasha knew the car made no difference to her employer – but the temperature inside that vehicle best be comfortable. And comfortable for Ms. Chige was 70 degrees Fahrenheit, no matter what. Even if there was snow on the ground. 70 degrees. No exceptions. The first time the driver didn’t have it set to the correct temperature was the last time that the driver would drive Ms. Chige, let alone anyone else.

Janice Chige, heir of the Chige Foundation, was an extraordinarily wealthy socialite from Beverly Hills, California. Janice never wanted anything. Her Daddy made sure of that, giving her more than she could ever ask for, including three homes on three different continents. She never knew what poverty was, other than the two times Sasha scheduled board meetings in downtown Los Angeles and Long Beach. To hear Ms. Chige retell the story made it sound like a group of black gang members attempted to rape her in broad daylight. The truth was less impressive: four young, well-dressed black men asked Ms. Chige if she would support them in attending a function to promote civility in their community, asking her to donate a small amount of cash – $30. Instead, Sasha’s employer screamed at the young men, yelling rape as loud as she could manage. Ironically, Sasha gave the four youths $120 to support their charity. The young assistant had seen the youths around, connected to one of the charities Ms. Chige was championing.  

Standing outside the car, the driver was waiting to open the door for Ms. Chige and did so with flair, finesse, and precision. Ms. Chige slid inside, Sasha walking around the other side, opening the door herself. Ms. Chige glanced at her watch, a Bulgari Serpenti Seduttori. “Four o’clock, you said?”

“Five, Ms. Chige.”

“Nonsense. I didn’t take more than five minutes.”

“Yes, Ms. Chige. Eleven minutes and thirty-three seconds.”

“You timed me?”

“Yes, Ms. You asked me to.”

“When?”

“When you hired me.”

“How is it you remember everything I’ve told you?”

Tapping her fingers on the planner, Sasha said, “I’ve got a great memory, Ms.” She wrote down everything Ms. Chige said on the off-chance that she would need it for later. Which she often did.

“Do you have reservations at 5 for us at Luigi’s tonight?”

“No, but I will make a call and arrange it.” Pulling out her smartphone, she held it to her ear. “Good day, Sid. Yes, I’m sorry about the time. We’re in London and need a reservation for four at 5 o’clock tonight. Of course, we can. Is Ms. Chige’s table available tonight?” She held up her index finger to Ms. Chige, asking her to wait to ask if it was available. “Excellent. We will be there at five minutes to five o’clock. Thank you again, Sid. Bye.”

“They didn’t have my table available?”

“No. Sid was double-checking. He has a party of ten coming in two hours before you, so it will be fine. He’ll rearrange the existing reservations for you.”

“Oh, thank God,” she exclaimed. “You know how I feel about sitting anywhere else. How anyone can eat in that place with those vents blowing on them constantly! You would think that Luigi would fix that damn air conditioner.”

Sasha muttered something under her breath.

“What was that, dear?”

“Maybe if you tipped the staff better, Luigi could fix it.”

“Of all the nerve! I’ve never.”

“No, Ms. Chige. It’s rare for you to leave any gratuity.”

“And those servers call themselves servers? Seriously Sasha. How dare you talk to me like that?”

“Like what, Ms.? Like the rude person you tend to be with everyone else? Talking down to every person who waits on you or takes care of your needs?”

“You are on thin ice, Sasha.

“Yes, Ms. Chige. I am. But I am not wrong.”

Ms. Chige stared out the window, watching those stuck in traffic on the right side of the highway. “No,” she sighed. “You are correct.” She faced Sasha. “But I don’t need you pointing it out to me.”

“Who else has the guts to stand up to you, Ms.?”

Ms. Chige smiled, then started laughing. “Yes, of course. You are right. No one else has the balls to stand up to me. Not even those who’ve served me much longer than you.”

“Yes, Ms.”

The two sat listening to the road noise, feeling none of the bumps on the M25. Thirty minutes and two security checkpoints later, after validating their United States Passports, the pair exited the car a mere hundred feet from the private Lear Jet on the tarmac. The driver took their bags planeside while the two women entered the plane.

“Are you sure Mr. Danica is the best choice?”

“Ms.?”

“I understand that he’s been connected with the Russians. Power-hungry, ruthless people, Russians. They would blow you up if they thought for a second that you doublecrossed them.”

“Ms.? How would you know that?”

Ms. Chige clicked her safety belt, watching the young, attractive male flight attendant eye her belt. He did this every time she flew from London. On their first flight, Ms. Chige thought she saw Sasha trying to flirt with him, which was unfortunate for her young assistant because Serg was very much into the pilot, not her. He had been dating the older gentleman flying her private plane for a few years, which she found odd, considering the age difference. Not that she cared. As long as they were doing their jobs, Ms. Chige didn’t care if they were doing each other.

“I met an attractive Russian gentleman years ago, Viktor something-or-other. He was part of the elite class of Russia, which is similar to the top 1% for us. Class. Wealth. Power.” Ms. Chige looked out the window, the plane’s engines whining, indicating their departure. “Oh, he was very handsome, my dear. But he also ensured Afghanistan and Iraq were well stocked on stolen Russian weaponry. Everything from tanks to air-to-air hand-held rocket launchers and everything in between. In a few years, he ran guns to other countries, like South Africa and Indonesia.”

“How do you know any of this is true?”

“I read declassified intelligence briefings from three countries not connected to the United States. These influential people were into things the Chige family need not be tied to. We have too many charities that we support and fund. To be seen with the likes of Viktor would be highly volatile for our family.”

“Ms.? Did you ‘date’ Viktor?”

Ms. Chige felt a smile cross her face but just as quickly snapped back to the conversation. “No. Of course not.”

“Why tell me all this?”

“Just making conversation. I do not want to talk business. At least not for a few hours, if that’s all right with you, Sasha.”

“Yes, Ms. Chige.”

The remainder of the flight was quiet, Ms. Chige reading various magazines hand-picked by her staff to keep her mind occupied. All were current issues, some of which she’d read, cover to cover, at least three times. Before landing in New York, the smoking hot flight attendant reviewed their passports, filing out all the required documentation for private flights, which meant no customs check. Sasha sighed, knowing that this evening would require her utmost attention. Reviewing their itinerary for this late afternoon, Sasha made sure that Ms. Chige didn’t need to do anything – except tip the staff at Luigi’s.

“Yes, Sasha,” Ms. Chige said as they deplaned. “I will make a point to,” she went out of her way to gasp a giant gasp, “tip the staff tonight.” Then she winked at Sasha. “Forty-five percent seem reasonable to you? As often as I dine there, I think that will make up for it, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ms. Chige.”

“Excellent.”

The car, a similar make and model to the one in London, stood next to the plane, waiting for the two women to get in. “Ms. Chige,” the driver addressed her, “How was your flight, Ms.?”

“Fine.” She looked at her watch. “Can you get us to Luigi’s?”

“Of course, Ms. What time is your reservation?”

“5 o’clock.”

“You will be five minutes early, Ms. Chige.”

Sasha smiled, not saying a word.

“Thank you, Trevor.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Chige. Sasha, is there anything else I need to know?”

“No, Trevor. That will be all.”

“Thank you, Sasha.” He tipped his hat to both women, helping Ms. Chige enter the back of the car.

“Sasha.” Trevor looked at her after the door was shut. “Are you sure about this? Viktor is not one to be trifled with.”

“Da. It will be fine, I assure you, comrade,” she answered.