Journey to Fortune [Power SurgeBy: Dixie Lynn Dywer
She felt the anxiety, the fear of her father’s strikes against her skin, from afar. She closed her eyes, willed away the tears, the pain, and fear she had. Missouri was behind her, so why was she not cutting ties with them?
Because you have no one. No one loves you here. They don’t love you there either, but any attention, negative as it may be, was better than no attention at all.
She swallowed hard then opened up her bank account information, withdrew the thousand dollars, and sent it off to her mother’s account. As she hit send, she felt bile rise in her throat. It was making her sick to send them money, but she couldn’t stop herself. If she were a day late, he’d call her. He’d hound her until she answered or sent the money. Her father hated her. But he should hate her. She wasn’t anything like her mother. She wouldn’t stand there and take his abuse anymore. Instead she ran. She got the hell out of town, out of the state, and started her new life. That move had brought on five years of panic attacks. Especially when her father called and demanded the money.
He called it “restitution for having a worthless child like Tia Rose.”
The tears burned behind her eyes as she clenched her teeth and forced the feelings away. She was at work. This would be her sole focus now. Work, work, and more work. She exited out of one screen and tried to log onto the main computer.
Her password wasn’t working. She tried again, it went through, and she sighed in relief. But when she looked for the files, the ones she created for the new catalogue, they were nowhere to be found. She explored her options. Now either she fucked up big-time and deleted them, or stored them elsewhere by accident, or someone was snooping around her files.
She felt her chest tighten. All the hard work, all the time spent on creating the custom designs.
Bethany, you bitch.
Tia Rose slammed her hands down on the desk. She felt herself begin to choke up. Those insecure feelings of not being good enough, pretty enough, or skinny enough to compete with the likes of women like Bethany hammered through her mind. She felt sick to her stomach, angry and at her wits’ end. If she showed up to that board meeting in—
She glanced at the clock, and then checked her watch.
Five fucking minutes! Five minutes?
She was shaking she was so angry.
The phone on her desk rang. She quickly picked it up and cleared her throat as it cracked with emotion.
“Yes, there’s an order of diapers waiting for you in the hallway, Miss Richman. We heard you needed them pronto, so someone is bringing them up right now.”
She heard the roar of laughter in the background.
“Who is this?” She shook harder, her temper flaring.
“The entire staff at Malone’s,” the voice said, and she knew who it was. That twit, Mark.
“Go to hell.” She slammed the phone down and laughter filtered through as she hung up.
She ran her hands through her hair. She turned and looked into the mirror by her desk. She paused, shocked at what she saw. It was as if she were seeing the real her, what she had become, for the first time.
Her big green eyes stood out. Not just because of the thick, black eyelashes, but also because of the fire she currently had within them. Her lips were full, and she needed lipstick. She hadn’t even had a chance to apply any makeup. The blouse she wore was conservative, plain, but she reached up and undid two buttons. The move instantly made her look sexier.
She smoothed her hands down her hips, pressing the material of the slim-fitting skirt against her hips. She wasn’t flabby, per se. She was solid. A size twelve in most clothing, but strong. She worked out a bit. She loved it, but her size and her weight were set. There wasn’t anything she could do about it. This was her physique. Her extra large breasts were real. They were full, and finding comfortable bras were a bitch, but her breasts were hers.
She licked her lips.
“You’re not ugly. You’re not that fat. You just need to believe in yourself and to stand up for what is right. Stop being a loser. Stop being so shy and reserved that life passes you by. Start opening up your mouth and stop being a doormat.”
The phone on her desk rang again.
She rolled her eyes.
What mean joke would they create now? Were the diapers really waiting for her outside her door?
She reached for her purse, pulled out her little compact of makeup, and added a bit of color to her cheeks. Chubby cheeks.
She ignored her sour thoughts as best she could.
She added the lip gloss, then some color to her eyelids.
There. That’s better.
Straighten out your shoulders. Stand up and be confident. You’ve worked too hard. You’ll get through this meeting, this day, and then be home safe and in your boring little world.