In fact it had taken her until her mid-twenties before she’d realised she should be doing a lot more with her good fortune than attending parties and buying everything she liked on every fashion festival catwalk.
And so she’d started the Molyneux Foundation.
She’d deliberately chosen not to be the face of the foundation because it wasn’t about her. In fact she’d asked her mother to be the patron. But there was no question that it was April driving the foundation. It had become her project and, along with a small team, she’d made sure the foundation had continued to grow—and for every dollar donated to the foundation Molyneux Mining matched it twice over.
April had experimented with a few different ideas for the foundation—a website, later a blog—and by the time Instagram had gained popularity April had known exactly how to monetise it best to help the foundation. She’d had her team reaching out to any company that sold a product she could include in a photo, and she’d carefully curated the images to ensure that she mixed promotional pictures seamlessly in with those that were just her own.
And it had worked. She didn’t think her mum had expected it to take off the way it had when April had talked her into the two-to-one deal, but it was certainly too late now!
She was incredibly proud of all the foundation had achieved, and of her role in that. But she’d still really just considered it a little side project. She was as hands-on as needed, but it was hardly a full-time job. She’d still had plenty of time to shop and socialise—and until Evan had left her it had never occurred to her to live without the Molyneux money.
The Molyneux money to which she had contributed in absolutely no way at all.
And the brittleness of all that—the fact that without the Molyneux money she had literally nothing...no means to support herself...not one thing she’d bought with money she’d actually earned herself—was quite frightening.
Ivy: How’s the new job going?
April: Good. Mostly. Lots of boxes.
She’d love to post a photo to show the magnitude of the hoard to her sisters, but photography was one of the many things expressly forbidden by the confidentiality agreement she’d signed. Along with any discussion of the contents of the boxes.
April: My boss is interesting.
She’d typed that before she’d really thought about what she was doing.
Ivy: Oooh! Interesting-interesting? Or INTERESTING-interesting? ;-) ;-) ;-)
April: Both.
She’d never been good at keeping secrets from her sisters.
Mila: Photo?
April: No. I can’t even tell you his name. But he’s tall. Dark hair, dark eyes. Stubble. What do you call it...? Swarthy?
Mila: I’ve always liked that word
April: But he’s my boss.
Ivy: From an HR point of view, that’s not really a problem unless there is any question of a power imbalance. And I doubt nepotism is an issue in your current role.
Mila: It’s handy having a CEO in the family.
April: I’m not going to do anything about it, anyway.
Mila: WHY NOT?
Ivy: WHY?
April: It’s not the right time. I need to be single for a while. Right? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when your husband walks out on you?
Mila: I don’t have a husband ;-)
Mila did have a very handsome, very successful boyfriend who adored her, however. Everyone knew they’d get married eventually.
April: Not helpful.
Mila: Sorry. Too soon?
Too soon to be teased about her situation?
April: No. I’m not curled up in the corner sobbing or anything.
She welcomed a bit of levity—she had right from the day that Evan had left her.
Plus, she was well past that now. Now she slept easily—no thoughts of Evan whatsoever. Working fourteen-hour days possibly also helped.
Ivy: I think being single for a while is a good idea.
Ivy was always good for keeping things on topic.
Mila: But you can still be single and do interesting things with an interesting man ;-) ;-)
Ivy: Exactly.
There was a long pause as her sisters clearly awaited her response.
This was not what she’d expected. She’d expected words of caution. Now the possibilities had short-circuited her brain.
Mila: April?
April: I don’t know what to do.
Ivy: But you know WHO to do!
Mila: Ha-ha-ha!
April: Can you post some more photos of Nate?
Mila: Boo. You’re no fun.
Ivy had taken the bait, though, and bombarded them with three adorable photos in quick succession. The conversation swiftly moved on, for which April was extremely grateful.
But that night it was Hugh Bennell who crowded her dreams.
April was almost finished for the day when Hugh opened the front door. The charity truck had just left, taking away the latest boxes full of donated things.
It had left the foyer almost empty, with only a neat stack of flattened boxes near the door and the ‘Hugh’ box sitting on the bottom step of the grand stairway.
‘Hello!’ April said, smiling as he stepped inside. She hadn’t seen him since the stripy blouse debacle, but had already determined her approach: regardless of her sisters’ opinion, she was going to remain strictly professional.
Even considering another approach made her...
Well. It didn’t matter. It was too soon after Evan, and Hugh was her boss. These were compelling supporting arguments for professionalism.
No matter how compelling Hugh himself might be, simply by walking through the glossy black door.
April had just sent him her summary email, but was doing a quick sweep-up of the dirt that the charity man had tracked inside before going home.
‘Hi,’ he said, shooting only the briefest glance in her direction before striding for his box. It was the first day since that afternoon in his basement that she’d had anything to add to it, and of course she’d let him know.
Hugh picked up the box in the swiftest of motions and then immediately headed down the hallway—which led through the kitchen, the utility room and then outside to the skip.
April had assumed he’d come and check the box after she’d gone for the day, so she wasn’t really prepared for this.
‘Wait!’ she said, before she could stop herself.
He stopped, but didn’t turn. ‘Yes?’ he asked. His tone was impatient.
She knew she shouldn’t have said anything.
‘Nothing—sorry,’ she said.
There. Professional.
Then, somehow, she was jogging up the hallway. ‘Wait...please.’
Again