[Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine; they belong to others who abused them with too little screen time.]

At Least It Was Here

Part One
CC clutched her heavy leather briefcase in her left hand, then switched to her right. She toyed a few moments with holding it in both hands in front of her, but that felt awkward. No more awkward than him opening the door and seeing me switching this stupid briefcase from hand to hand, CC reasoned silently.

She hadn't wanted to carry the briefcase. This was entirely her father's doing. Ever since she'd bargained with her mother to attend college with the promise that she'd find a husband there, CC had been forced to forge a relationship with her father. It wasn't that she'd actively not looked for one, but it certainly hadn't been her priority. Thus, as a fairly ambitious young woman, she didn't work towards something that wasn't a priority and a husband was nowhere to be found.

Her mother was livid but, in a truly Babcock fashion, had commended CC's cunning in making a promise she'd never intended to keep. She'd grudgingly admitted that CC was, after all, her father's daughter. That was when the compliments stopped and the threats began, the foremost being disinheritance.

As a blue-blooded child of a fortune rooted in many different money-making sectors, disinheritance was a constant threat to her and her siblings. Her brother Noel had once quipped that threatening disinheritance was like sex: even if you weren't entirely invested in it, it was still moderately effective. So, CC had gone to her father who'd done his best to assuage her fears…and then, in another truly Babcock fashion, had worked the scheme to his advantage.

He'd keep BB Babcock at bay, he promised…if CC lived up to her potential and became a business mogul to increase the Babcock fortune even more. During this exhausting conversation—as all conversations with either parent often were—CC immediately ran through everything Babcock, Inc., had dabbled in. He hadn't left CC with many options.

"What should I become the next mogul in, Father?" CC asked drolly. "Beans? You know, nobody gives the lima bean its due."

"Don't be silly, kitten," Stuart Babcock had replied. "We've thoroughly covered the bean industry."

CC rolled her eyes and wondered if maybe she ought to return to grad school to find a husband.

"I know," Stuart said with a smile. Instead of being warm and comforting, as a father's smile should be, Stuart Babcock possessed a singularly CEO-esque smile that neither warmed nor comforted. Instead, it put a person on the edge of his seat, rather like a fish about to be hooked against its will. "How about the arts? That might even please your mother."

CC perked up at that. She'd taken a full load nearly every semester just to squeeze in an art history class. "You mean museums and such? I'd love to get into that sort of—"

"Oh, no, no," Stuart disregarded immediately. "You have such an adorable sense of humor. I was thinking of something a little more lucrative. How about the theater?"

CC grimaced slightly. "The theater? Come on, Father. It's dying."

Stuart shook his head. "This is a true businessman's dream." Businesswoman, CC supplied in her head. "Take something seemingly inaccessible to most, like the theater. Revamp it, present it like a new product, and watch the people come in droves. It would look so nice on the letterhead, too. Everyone loves a company that's invested in the arts."

Is it considered "invested in" if we're only looking to make a profit? CC wondered.

Despite her misgivings, it proved to be the only way to secure the money she had coming for her. And so CC had set out to contact her friend from prep school who, according to her father, had married a British up-and-comer with his eyes set on the theater. CC had scoffed when she'd read the list of duds he'd attempted to produce but she couldn't help admiring his ambition.

"He needs a secretary," Stuart had finished with a flourish, grinning expectantly at his youngest daughter.

"A secretary," CC repeated.

"That's right."

"I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia with a finance degree to become…a secretary."

Stuart sighed the wearisome sigh of a teacher with so much to teach in so little time. "Kitten, you're a Babcock. Apply to be his secretary and during the interview, convince him he needs a partner."

"That seems a little…forward."

"Are you a Babcock?" was all Stuart deigned to say.

Before CC had left his palatial office, her father gave her the cumbersome briefcase she carried now. "All businessmen need an impressive briefcase," he'd told her. She'd had to bite back a retort about size and penis metaphors, whispering disinheritance to herself over and over. Instead, she'd smiled and accepted the hideous monstrosity.

She finally shifted it to her left hand and stood still in time for the front door to open.

CC looked past the servant who'd opened the door and surveyed the house that lay behind it. She wasn't particularly impressed; it spoke of old-world wealth and an obvious desire to display the cost of everything that was there. Most of all, it spoke of money, and it reminded CC who she was.

"Maxwell Sheffield," was all she said, stepping around the butler and walking through the vestibule. She thought she heard him mutter something as he walked away but she paid no more mind to it than she would a passing moth.

"CC!" a voice greeted warmly. A slender woman with dark blonde hair rushed over to CC and embraced her, albeit awkwardly with the small baby in her arms.

"Sara, it's wonderful to see you," CC said.

"I haven't seen you since your sophomore year at Columbia," Sara said, running a hand through the long ponytail CC had clipped back.

"Not since your year abroad at Oxford, where you seem to have picked up more than an education," CC quipped.

Sara preened. "You'll adore Maxwell. He desperately needs a business partner."

"Business partner? I thought he needed—"

"I would never have recommended you if he only needed a secretary," was all Sara offered on the subject. She tilted the sleeping baby so CC could see her face. "Say hello to Aunt CC, Margaret."

CC gulped and was spared having to say anything with the arrival of Maxwell. He entered through a door and walked into the foyer.

Moments later, CC sat on a green sofa in Maxwell's office. Compared to the rest of the home, the office was sparsely decorated but contained a simpler elegance that CC enjoyed. It still wasn't necessarily her taste—she preferred sharp lines and black and white—but it certainly wasn't overdone.

"So, CC, I find myself in need of a secretary," Maxwell said, motioning to the papers scattered across his desk. Before he could finish, the telephone rang. "Ah, excuse me."

CC took the liberty to eavesdrop on the entire conversation, naturally, and smiled when she spied Sara sneaking onto the patio to listen. From what she could gather, Maxwell was having difficulty securing funding for his newest production. Not surprising, considering his successes, CC thought. It was best if she kept that to herself, she figured.

When Maxwell hung up the phone, CC cleared her throat. "Maxwell? If I may?"

It was clear he wanted to ask if she may what?, but Maxwell was an English gentleman at best and a bit spineless at worst. So he merely gestured for her to continue.

"If it's backers you need, you're going about it all wrong. You don't have a lot, which isn't surprising considering your successes, or lack thereof," CC said bluntly. She briefly considered working on her inner filter before plundering on, "You need backers who want a profit, not those interested in the arts. You're wasting too much time convincing people that your production is sophisticated, artistically driven, and classically referenced. You ought to be finding people interested in money, something that's innovative, new, and fresh.

"Too many people don't go to the theater anymore and it's because they think it's too sophisticated, artistically driven, and classically referenced. It's too limited. People want to be entertained and when people are entertained, you get sponsors and backers. You have an added bonus, of course, that it's related to the arts. Every company wants the arts on their letterhead, and if it's a flop, people will still get a tax credit.

"Provide them with contracts where they'll clearly see their profits and their cutbacks. It's encouraging for them and secure for you. Then they won't back out and you'll get your money either way. If it's a hit, they make a cut of it; if it's a flop, Uncle Sam takes care of the rest," CC finished.

Maxwell's eyes were wide behind his gold-rimmed glasses; from the corner of her eye, CC saw Sara give her the thumbs-up. For a moment, CC wondered if she'd been too brusque.

"Ah, well…CC, you've certainly given me a lot to think about. I…you certainly seem familiar with…with finances and contracts and things," Maxwell said.

"I ought to be. I majored in finance at Columbia," CC replied.

"Well, you're certainly…you certainly have valuable knowledge and skills that I could use at Sheffield Productions," Maxwell told her. He shuffled the papers in front of him, more from nerves than necessity, CC suspected. For once, she didn't mind how much she could intimidate men.

"I agree," CC said.

"Now, the salary for my secretary would be—" Maxwell began.

"Secretary?" CC repeated incredulously. After she'd just single-handedly clued him in about how to make a real profit?

"Excuse me?" Maxwell asked, his eyebrows raised. CC sensed she'd pushed him a bit far. On the patio, Sara was repeatedly slashing the air in front of her neck and mouthed that she'd discuss it with CC later.

"I'm sorry, Maxwell. I was just…excited that it seems as though I have the job," CC explained lamely.

Maxwell seemed appeased and described CC's salary, which wasn't enough to cover half of the rent on her new apartment. She didn't actually need the salary, though; she just needed to get to a place where her name followed his on the letterhead.

Maxwell and CC shook hands and agreed that she'd return tomorrow to sign her contracts. As CC shut the door to the office, Sara entered the hallway from the patio. She walked as quickly as little Margaret would allow, linking her arm through CC's as she led her through the living room.

"Welcome to the family," Sara said excitedly. "You won't be secretary for long. He just needs to adjust to the idea of sharing." CC smiled and barely nodded in the direction of the butler who'd opened the front door for her.

As the door shut, Sara sighed. "Finally, he brought someone else on board. Maybe now I'll get to see my husband."

"Hopefully," Niles replied, smiling down at the still-sleeping baby. Niles motioned to the blonde walking toward the sidewalk. "Who's your friend?"