This Crazy Rich Boy

For Claire, today is really quite a long day. After waiting for about three hours for Mr. Wong to do Mr. Tan's laundry, the proprietor of Leed's simply informed her to please return another day as the business of performing a miracle on the ruined boxers turned out to be much more challenging than first thought. This after she had to spend the hours killing time at a very stressful place: the hole-in-the-wall where she had lunch was the setting of some domestic drama, as a woman walked in and began screaming at a man and another woman dining there. It turned out, the screaming woman was the legitimate wife, and the man was having an affair with the other woman he was having his lunch with. It was so utterly complicated, and deeply nerve-wracking, as everyone in the place had to listen to the trio air their dirty laundry—that reminded her of Mr. Wong's business—in public. What has the world gone to now?

Bad luck seems to be hounding her. Even this seeming good luck of working for the wealthiest, if not weirdest, tycoon in the country could turn bad at any moment. Now as she walks back—walks because she couldn't afford to take a cab anymore, now that she would have to work for a month without pay—something's nagging her. She seems to remember Mr. Tan wanting something from her when she comes back. When she walks past a Starbucks, the memory hits her: Mr. Tan specifically asked to bring him a coffee.

As she slips inside the Starbucks, the fragrant, heady aroma of freshly brewed coffee makes her feel good. As far as coffee is concerned, Claire's preferences have stayed basic and simple: just black, with a dash of sugar. She never liked milk or cream diluting her coffee, believing that they lessened the effects of the brew on her mental acuity. She survived the university and even excelled in her studies with always a mug of hot, freshly brewed coffee—for some reason, whether it is true or actually an illusion, she understood things a lot better and easier with the help of this powerful brew.

So now as she stands in line, looking at the list of available concoctions, she's shocked to realize two things: she doesn't know what coffee Mr. Tan likes, and she failed to ask Mrs. Gomez for some coffee money. Surely, they don't expect her to buy this thing out of her own purse, do they? She could walk back to the office and ask the woman for some money, but that would mean walking the few blocks and wasting more time. She rifles through her own purse, carefully counts whatever loose change she still has, and decides that for the sake of time and efficiency, she'd pay for this cup for now.

"Hello, there. What would you like to order, ma'am?"

"Give me a… Well, just give me one tall black coffee."

"Would you like cream with it, or anything else?"

"No, thank you. Just black." Because once you go black…

The barista smiles. "Alrighty. One tall black for Miss…"

"Claire. Just Claire."

"…for Miss Clair!"

Back at the office, Mrs. Gomez almost jumps upon seeing her. "Oh, my God! Where have you been? Mr. Tan has been itching for his coffee like ten hours ago!"

"What do you mean? He has all the resources in the world. Why couldn't he send someone else for his coffee?"

Mrs. Gomez couldn't hide her irritation. "Are you being serious right now? Do you even have an idea what kind of an obsessive freak our boss is? When he asks for coffee from you, the world would end but he still wouldn't accept coffee from anyone else."

Claire says nothing. She looks at the coffee in her hand. On the side of the paper cup is written, "Just Claire."

"And what's that?" Mrs. Gomez points at the coffee in her hand as though it committed a crime.

"Tall black coffee," Claire says matter-of-factly. "Isn't it the point of all this?"

Mrs. Gomez turns white as sheet. "Oh, my God. He's going to kill us."

"What do you mean?"

But before Mrs. Gomez could speak, her desk buzzes and Mr. Tan's tinny voice fills the reception area—his impatience is betrayed by the way he enunciates all the wrong syllables in the phrase "Where is that stupid girl?"

"We're just about to enter, sir," Mrs. Gomez mutters, her voice shaking.

"You better have my coffee," he says.

"Y-yes, sir." Mrs. Gomez gives Claire a meaningful glance.

Did he really just say "Stupid girl?" Was he referring to me? Claire's outrage seethes in her ċhėst. How dare he? How dare he? She could really smack this man in the face with the way he treats women. He doesn't have the right to say these things!

Mrs. Gomez solemnly opens the heavy doors and ushers Claire in. They find Mr. Tan facing the glass wall overlooking the city. He's wearing a different suit now—he looks every inch a sartorial titan in that all-white ensemble. If you look at him and not actually know him, you'd think he's an angel, a white knight sent by the heavens to save damsels in distress.

"Here's the girl, sir," Mrs. Gomez mutters before she quickly slips out and closes the door.

"The girl"—the phrase reverberates in Claire's head. She doesn't even have a name. They don't even call her properly like a person here. "The girl."

"Four hours," Mr. Tan says, still gazing toward the city. "Four stupid hours for one stupid coffee."

Claire dumbly looks at the coffee she's holding with her two hands now. "But sir…You…You could have sent someone else. You know I was busy at Leed's—"

"How dare you—" Mr. Tan turns to her, glaring—"question my motives, my decisions? If I send you for coffee, you do what I say!"

"Y-yes, sir, but…but that business at Leed's was…"

"Four hours? It took you four hours to return here? At the very least you could have called!" Mr. Tan screams, to which she screams back, "But I don't have a phone!"

"What?"

"I don't have a phone! I don't have cab fare! I walked those four blocks!"

Mr. Tan says nothing; he just stares at her dumbly, as if he's just discovered a new species of insect.

"So please," Claire says, her outrage and the opposing pressure to appear submissive, to submit to this man's will no matter how stupid it all seems are fighting for space in her heart, "please forgive me. It's just my first day today. Beginner's mistake." She steps gingerly towards him, her hands bearing the coffee outstretched, like she's making an offering to some angry god. "Please, here's your coffee, sir."

"What coffee is that?"

"Black, sir."

Mr. Gabriel Tan grunts. He takes the coffee from her hand, glares at her—and savagely throws it at the glass wall. The dark liquid explodes and stains all the surrounding furniture, even drenching Mr. Tan's own immaculate white suit. But Mr. Tan's scowl remains the same; for a few minutes, he stares transfixed at the black-brown supernova of coffee stains on the wall, on the carpet, even on the otherwise flawless white ceiling.

Claire's jaws drop on the floor—she's stunned. What kind of a person is this? Going full ballistic over the small stupid matter of coffee? Is this the person who's running TXCI Industries? Is this the top CEO that Forbes magazine keeps featuring on its cover? This isn't a person. This is a monster.

"Miss Monteverde," Mr. Tan says coldly. "As my personal ȧssistant, you, of all people, should know the coffee I like."

Still too stunned and angry at the same time, Claire mutters, "What coffee do you like, s-sir?"

What Mr. Tan says next doesn't make sense at first; he actually has to buzz Mrs. Gomez in to explain to her. And even as she's back on the street, she's still reading the note Mrs. Gomez slipped in her hand. The note says…