“Hear me, Betsey.” I try to keep the annoyance out of my tone but utterly fail. “If you come at me with innuendo, I cannot help you.”
“I understand, Meredith. Nerves just got to me.” Her chin, as white as a porcelain doll’s, trembles.
“You’re on the road this week?” I soften my glare as she nods, urging her to regain her composure. “We’ll talk when you’re back. But right now, I have to run. You got this next interview?” I expect only one answer, because I can’t stay. I simply can’t.
“I’m ready.” A smile inches up through the worry still etching her face.
“I know you are. I’ll check in with you later.” I snatch my phone out of my leather satchel. “And hey, we’ll be right back here in a week. We get to ring that closing bell.” I hook my thumb at the white-marble balcony on the other side of the New York Stock Exchange. “Remember, you’ve a lot to be proud of.”
A young producer with a purple bow tie and slicked-back hairmarches toward me. I catch his eye and point at Betsey. It’s her interview. He scowls but shifts direction.
On my phone, a confirmation for my next meeting appears. Although I’m expecting every single word, my mouth goes dry. Not only must we watch our backs, but we all have secrets we’re forced to keep.
I drop my phone back in my bag and look toward Betsey, now standing in the midst of the hair and makeup team. With her shoulder-length auburn tresses swept up into a chignon, she looks regal—a completely different woman from only a moment ago.
She is the woman I’ve come to rely on.
As I whip toward the exit, my left stiletto twists under me. I stagger forward and grab the edge of a trading booth. Somehow, I remain upright. Running my palms down the silken wool of my pencil skirt, I plant a smile and glance backward.
Betsey, her lips now painted a blood red, silently mouths,Be careful.
2
MONDAY
They want me to ruin Betsey’s life. They’ve compiled their case, down to this last career-crushing document, but they need me to land the final blow.
I can’t do it. This is Betsey we’re talking about. She’s a colleague, a friend. Years ago, I plucked her from Columbia’s applicant pool. I’ve been her champion ever since.
Alternative ideas leapfrog through my mind. I could simply march from the office, only to be tracked down. I could insist on hiring my own lawyer, only to delay the inevitable. I could fake a heart attack.
My head throbs.
Though I’m often lauded for my strategic savvy, the only thing looping through my head right now is how to convincingly slump to the broadloom carpet without wedging my hips between chair legs. And is the pain supposed to radiate down the left or right arm?
Hardwin clears his throat. “The last line.”
He slides the forms across his mirror-polished desk, the pages almost hidden under his massive hand.
As I lean forward, my sharp kneecaps press up against the front panel of his ornate mahogany desk. Our seating arrangement is not lost on me. Instead of taking my place across from him at the conference table, I sit like a schoolgirl receiving a remedial math lesson from my elder.
This is all a mistake. I refuse to be strong-armed into signing anything. This is not an annoying interview he’s proposing—it’s a restraining order.
Hardwin knows our record-breaking sales have a lot to do with Betsey’s efforts. We’re not only fracturing her career; we’re wrenching our ability to keep pace with the demand we’ve created with our new funds. A sharp jabbing pain between my ribs forces me to take a shallower breath. “Maybe we all just need a cooling off?” My voice is astonishingly strong.
Hardwin reclines in his tufted leather chair. The back of his shiny, freckled head grazes the dusty law volumes behind him. Even during sticky legal inquiries, I’ve never seen any of these ancient books referenced or even moved. His office is all for show.
“This is for your own protection, Meredith.”
I bristle. Since when do I need my colleagues to protect me? Not having made my mark, I lay my pen down. “I want to take a beat. I think she might have gotten—”
“Meredith, this is the course of action we’ve all agreed is in everyone’s best interest.” Hardwin is a man who listens more than he speaks. So, when I try to make my case another way, I’m shocked when he speaks over me. “She came to your home and paced your lawn. We had to send security. It got ugly. She threatened our staff. Completely unacceptable.” Hardwin shifts his considerable weight, and his chair snaps back to upright. His white-herringbone-cladbelly spills around the lip of his desktop. “You need to think of your family.”
I bite back a laugh. He’s telling me to think of my family. That’s rich coming from the man who expects his team to be in the office hours before the opening bell and to stay well past when commuter traffic has waned.
“When she was at the house yesterday, my family wasn’t even home. I’d promised my husband an uninterrupted hiking day. I’d even left my phone behind. I missed her calls. Maybe, if I could speak with her now...” My voice squeaks out from between my painted lips, my whole mouth sticky.
I’m hating this version of myself. The decision to sign is both complicated and draining. Garman Straub espouses a no-tolerance approach to harassment, and yet this is a professional, talented woman we’re talking about. And the legal action I’m being asked to sanction—I flip through the pages again—is aggressively career-ending.
