"You said you wanted a guard dog," Sadie replied, dropping her cheap canvas backpack onto a leather chair. "Where do I sit?"
For the first three weeks, Sadie did nothing that resembled traditional assistant work. Beatrice didn't ask her to fetch coffee—the one time Sadie offered, Beatrice reminded her of the diner sludge and politely declined. Beatrice didn't ask her to type memos or manage the calendar. Instead, Sadie became a human barricade.
Richard's strategy for handling his mother was a relentless campaign of suffocating concern: he sent doctors unannounced, scheduled wellness checks with lawyers in the room, and instructed Caldwell to hover near Beatrice's office, constantly taking notes on a tablet.
Sadie stopped all of it.
When a private physician arrived with a blood pressure cuff and a condescending smile, Sadie physically blocked the door. "Ms. Hayes is reviewing quarterly projections," Sadie told the doctor, her voice a flat wall of concrete. "She's not taking appointments."
"I am her primary cardiologist," the doctor huffed, puffing out his chest.
"And I'm her schedule," Sadie shot back, not moving an inch. "Come back when she calls you."
When Caldwell tried to slip into Beatrice's office during a lunch hour, Sadie, who was eating a cold sandwich at a small desk she had dragged into the anteroom, stood up so fast her chair screeched against the polished floor.
"Can I help you, Caldwell?" she asked, wiping mustard off her thumb.
Caldwell's jaw tightened. "I need a signature from Madam on the new acquisition documents."
"Leave them on the desk. I'll make sure she gets them."
"These are highly sensitive."
"Leave them or leave."