em·ul·si·fi·ca·tion: /??m?ls?f?'kaSH(?)n/: noun
1: the process of combining two ingredients that naturally repel each other into a stable mixture.
2: when oil and vinegar discover they need each other more than they hate each other.
“Did you just—” Eliana blinks, once, twice. “Did you seriously justshredmy resignation?”
“As always, nothing gets past you.” The fluorescent lights catch the honey undertones in her skin, and there’s a flush creeping up her neck that has nothing to do with embarrassment. It’s pure, smoldering rage. “Next thing I know, you’ll be pointing out that I told you that you couldn’t quit, either.”
“You’re insane.” She says it as if she’s just discovering this fact, like the past six years of working for me haven’t provided ample evidence. “You’re actually, certifiably insane. And evil. Did I mention evil? I think you might be evil, too.”
“Sticks and stones, Ms. Hunter. You’re not the first person to call me that, and somehow, I doubt you’ll be the last.”
She snorts. “Color me surprised. You reap what you sow, though. Can’t exactly get offended at being called evil when you’re literally blackmailing me.”
“I’m explaining the reality of the situation.” I keep my tone level. It’s a trick I learned years ago: The calmer you sound when delivering devastating news, the more devastating it becomes. “Chicago hospitality is a small world. Everyone knows everyone. Word travels.”
“So that’s it? Work for you or don’t work at all?”
“That’s capitalism.” I shrug. “Supply and demand.”
She stares at me like I’ve just told her I eat babies for breakfast. Which, given her apparent delusions about my character, might actually be an improvement.
She thinks I’m being cruel, but it’s not that. This isn’t personal—it’s merely good business. Project Olympus launches in three months, and losing Eliana now would be catastrophic. She knows the specs inside and out, better than anybody else in the company without the last name Hale. She’s also the only project manager I’ve had who’s never once asked me to explain the same thing twice.
Do I enjoy watching her squirm? Perhaps more than I should. But that’s not why I’m doing this.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
“This is all just completely batshit and—and—andwrong,” she continues, running her hands through her hair until it stands upin angry little tufts. “There have to be laws against this kind of thing.”
“Against what? Sharing my professional opinion about former employees who abandon major projects without notice?”
“I haven’t abandoned anything! I’ve done everything you?—”
“You’ve done the bare minimum required to avoid a lawsuit.” I lean back against my desk, crossing my arms. “Project Olympus requires more than bare minimum, Hunter. It requires someone who doesn’t get their panties in a twist over a fucking pastry, too. Hurt feelings don’t make money.”
She spins around to face me, eyes bugging out of her head. “Panties? Pastries? You— For God’s sake, you still think this is about myfeelings?!”
“Isn’t it?” I tilt my head, studying her. There’s something else here, something beneath her surface anger that I can’t quite identify. She keeps rubbing her temples like she has a headache, and there are dark circles under her eyes that weren’t there last night. “You got your feelings hurt this morning, and now, you’re throwing a tantrum.”
“Right. Yeah, totally. Of course that’s what this is to you.”
“What else would you call it?”
“Self-preservation.”
There’s this thing in her voice, this rawness that’s like glimpsing someone’s emotional skeleton showing through their skin, something so nakedly vulnerable that every instinct I’ve cultivated over the past decade of corporate warfare is screaming at me to step closer and see what in fact makes Eliana Hunter tick.
Which is, of course, completely ridiculous on multiple levels, not least of which is that Eliana Hunter is an employee—a valuable employee, granted, the kind whose brain works in ways that occasionally surprise even me—but still fundamentally just a cog in the vast machinery of my business.
So why, then, does the bone-deep exhaustion pooled in her eyes make my chest constrict in this weirdly specific way?
“Self-preservation from what?” I ask. “A demanding boss? Welcome to corporate America, sweetheart.”
“Yes, from you. You and whatever sick satisfaction you get from making people feel small.”
“I don’t make people feel small. I make people better.”
