Ivanka was standing on the 76th floor of her office when the phone rang. She froze, her instincts kicking in. Something about the ringing phone just sounded hostile to her "Art of the Deal" ears and she immediately knew this was NOT good news.
"Hello," she answered, hoping FOR ONCE she was wrong.
"Hi Ivanka. This is Blake. Blake Nordstrom. Do you have a minute?"
Five minutes into her conversation with Blake Nordstrom and she had once again been proven right (typical, sad). They were pulling her line from Nordstrom.
"It's nothing personal," Blake finished. "Honestly, the numbers aren't too good."
"Right Blake," she replied. "As if that is even possible."
"I'm serious," he countered. "Look at the numbers."
"Blake..." Ivanka began, her voice rising an active with rage. She swallowed her emotions, composing her face back into the thinly veiled mask of rage America had grown to love. She stared out of the window. The NYC buildings stared back, equally unemotionless. Obviously this was some sort of horrible mistake and she intended to show him so in person.
"Blake, don't go anywhere. I'm coming to your office in 30."
She hung up the phone before he could object. Ivanka rang a bell on her desk the size of a cowbell because her servant Geoffrey was old and going deaf. After ringing for ten minutes, he slowly entered.
"Geforrery! There you are. Fetch me my Hermes wrap. I'm going into town."
Her butler staggered to remove his oxygen tank. "Town? On the street??? But madame...."
"No but's!" With the help of ancient, half dead Geoffrey, Ivanka was able to wrap her hair in a scarf to help conceal her magnificent hair. She got on the elevator and hoped no one would recognize her.
Ivanka had been a great beauty from early childhood, there was no denying it. The face of an angel with just a hint of Donald Trump around the edges, all but hidden from the conscious mind. "A real treasure" her father called her. "A mini-me."
She headed out the doors into the cold New York air. The unchauffered streets were worse than she had imagined. Foreign. Alive. Terrible. Strange sounds and people darted around her as she held her Hermes scarf closer around her face.
Someone called from a moving vehicle. "Hey Ivanka...fuck you!"
Fuck! She'd been spotted. For courage, she took a ciggie out of a small Hispanic woman's hand and stomped it out under her stiletto.
"Smoking is bad for you."
"Yes senorita." The woman scurried away.
She rushed west towards the only answer she knew... seducing Blake William Norstrom (actual person, see below) back into her good graces.
And in his good graces she would be. Even if it meant.... humping him.
TO BE CONTINUED.....