One Night with Cinderella - Niobia Bryant Page 0,46

from different county social service departments,” Kylie began. “I’ve placed them on your desk.”

Monica was personally funding awards of five thousand dollars each from money she’d gifted the foundation. “Reach out to other agencies in the tristate area. There are more people who need help. Let’s find them,” she said.

“Right away, boss,” Kylie said.

Boss? I’m a boss! I like it.

She turned to Nylah.

The woman opened up a coral folder on her desk. “I think our plan should be to reach out to large companies who offer local community grants. I researched and I can meet the current deadlines of ten such corporations. I just need to adjust the grant I’ve already written to meet specific guidelines.”

“I didn’t even know these brands offered grant money like that,” Monica admitted after accepting the folder and looking at the names listed.

“That’s my job,” Nylah said. “And I believe in what you’re doing. Remember, I aged out of the foster care system myself.”

Monica gave her a heartfelt smile. “Thank you,” she said with feeling before turning to Choice.

“The majority of my work was done in the setting up of the foundation,” she said. “I won’t be here in the office, but The Bridge Foundation is a client and Monica knows how to reach out to me if a legal matter arises.”

The women all nodded in understanding.

“And Montgomery,” Monica said, turning to the braided beauty who looked divine in a fuchsia pantsuit with turquoise heels.

“Like Choice, I will be working from my own offices, but I agreed with Monica that we all should meet on this first day and put faces to the names,” Montgomery said, giving each woman a winning smile before focusing her sharp gaze back on Monica. “We have gotten a lot of traction from the press kits that were sent out, but even more requests for an interview with you have come in.”

“No,” Monica said with a shake of her head.

The publicist had made it clear she wanted the still-reserved Monica to become the face of the organization. Tell her story. Try to connect with the same people she was trying to help. Try to pull at the heartstrings—and wallets—of wealthy donors.

And use my connection to my father to help promote it all.

Something the NDA would not allow. She shared a brief look with Choice, who was aware of the agreement as her attorney.

“Maybe not live interviews,” Choice suggested. “But taped interviews with specific guidelines and editorial control might work best.”

Monica looked pensive.

“Or speaking engagements minus Q & As,” Montgomery suggested. “Especially as we gear up for the charity gala in a few months.”

Monica released a breath as she turned a bit in her chair to look out the window. Sunlight broke through the towering buildings, and the skies were a beautiful blue backdrop for the concrete-and-steel structures. In that moment of quiet she was facing—and trying to conquer—her fear...

Of public speaking,

Of more public scrutiny.

Of more reminders that her father gave her away.

She tried and failed. “No,” she said, forcing finality into her tone as she felt waves of relief at not stepping out of the shadows. “My intention was never to be the face or the brand or whatever marketing term it is. I just want to help foster kids, not become some pseudo celebrity. Remember for the last five years, I worked as a maid and lived seen yet not seen—if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Choice said, offering her a warm and encouraging smile.

“Give me some time to adjust to everything and we’ll see. Okay?” she said.

Montgomery nodded. “You’re the boss,” she said.

I’m the boss.

Monica glanced out the window again and smiled at the very idea of that. As they ended the meeting and Choice and Montgomery took their leave, she retrieved her briefcase from the seating area and made her way with her chair to her office, closing the door behind her. She set her things atop the desk and moved over to the lone window in the corner, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked out at the world where she was trying to carve her own little place.

Am I crazy? Can I do this?

She shifted her sight to focus on her reflection in the glass. The only way to do it is to do it.

Bzzzzzz.

Monica jumped, surprised by the sudden noise. She whirled to see the electric-blue light of the intercom system flashing.

Calm down, Mo.

She stepped over to the desk to press the button as she cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“Mr. Cress to see