Betsey has landed her shot.
“Blue, or would you prefer black ink?” Hardwin cocks his round head at me. He has likely watched the anger on my face settle into conviction. In these last moments, my mask has slipped.
Even without a mirror, I can see myself in Hardwin’s relieved reflection. Above high cheekbones, my light-brown eyes, fringed by thick dark lashes, are shining with constrained fury. In grade school, clever playground chants immortalized the size of my mouth. It’s now my strongest feature. I release all the tension in my face and plant a look of serenity. I’ve come to learn—even a hint of a smile on my full lips can be contagious.
“This is all so unnecessary.” But as I say the words, I break contact with his heavily lined gray eyes and pick up the pen.
I scrawlMeredith Hanselon the crisp, uncompromising line.
Assured I’ll get a copy of the restraining order when it’s filed, I head to my office—recently turned last straw—and try to ignore the guilt flowing like acid through my veins.
Behind me, the click of heels on the marble hall slows to a skid. “Good morning, Meredith. You got another request.”
I glance over my shoulder and a zap of nerve pain radiates up my neck. I dig my fingers into my trapezius muscle. Over the past year, my local members-only Pilates studio has seen nothing of me, but they’ve been faithful to exercise my on-file credit card every month. I whisper a silent plea to my neglected joints. If they can get me through the next two days, time for self-care lies ahead.
Alyssa hands me a printed email. Her large eyes, the color of well-lit jade, blink behind her black-rimmed glasses. She’s beautiful in a way guaranteed by perfect bone structure, but she takes painsto conceal it. She’s a discerning young woman who’s likely borne the weight of being too pretty.
“You know our response.” My inbox bulges with messages identical to this one. All ask for the same favor—to squeeze one more body onto the narrow balcony of the NYSE.
“But it’s the CEO of our index provider.”
Another worthy invite. In fact, the entire lineup over at our index is outstanding. They supply the low-cost backbone of popular stocks for our funds. Leaving us time to manage a list of disruptive companies that win. They are kind of like the designer of the perfect black dress, but it’s our accessories that make the statement. And their CEO is clever and engaging.
I swallow against the tightness. “Alyssa, I can’t manufacture space.”
She lowers her gaze to the floor. “But I thought—”
I internally groan. “You’re right.” The distraction of this morning has me in a brain fog. She’s already determined that we have one more spot on the balcony for the bell ringing. By market close, my freshly fired sales manager will not be allowed within a hundred yards of the New York Stock Exchange. Most folks on my team would’ve taken at least a moment of satisfaction in signaling my mistake, but Alyssa almost appears embarrassed for me. Somehow this feels much worse. “Please extend the invite—Wait. No, don’t.”
She glances up. No sign of puzzlement. Perhaps she assumes I will redeem myself, or at least wants me to believe in her confidence. Alyssa is good at managing up. So was Betsey. The loss of her leadership and ingenuity on my sales team is almost inconceivable. How can I even begin to replace her?
A burning sensation rips across the back of my eyes. I did this. I knew Betsey was trying to tell me something at the NYSE before her interview. She practically begged me to listen. Instead, I baited her to go off on her own and find evidence. But of what?
I shake my head. I missed the pivot.
I can continue to scold myself but, right now, I’ve got a bell ringing to pull off. There is one more ceremonial spot, one more string. I feel like the piñata we bought for all the kids at Reid’s tenth birthday. Ruthless little faces gathered beneath the colorful dangling ribbons, every yank made with an aspiration. I mentally sift through the pile of favors I’ve already gathered.
Maybe it’s not one of my strings that ought to be pulled. I could ask Hardwin. He had a few ideas when we first brainstormed the list but robustly declined his spot. Tight, elevated spaces are not his places of comfort.
I slowly nod as a better idea occurs to me. “Ask Terrence who he’d like to extend the invitation to.”
Alyssa’s eyebrows rise to right above her rims at the mention of our chief compliance officer’s name.
I hand the email back to her. Terrence loves the legacy of the firm. He’s our unofficial historian and will appreciate the opportunity to rack up another favor. Maybe with someone who we’d all enjoy meeting. Terrence transacts in the currency of remarkable stories.
Alyssa nods. “Maintenance finished up in your office. Also, Candace stopped by. She wants to check in with you about protection.”
That word again. A growl grows in my chest. I swallow. “I’ll connect with her later. Thanks.” I don’t need a chaperone. I need to get back to work.
Alyssa turns toward Terrence’s office. I watch as heads crane from around screens to greet her. She’s not my chief of staff but she plays one most days. In the beginning, people underestimated her, then ignored her, and now, as lead analyst, she’s the one they observe to gauge the tone of the room.
I tug on my suit jacket and continue toward my wing.
With all that’s in me I hope thattrashedwas an overstatement.I open my door, and my attention immediately goes to my Oma’s Queen Anne sofa. Newly reupholstered in sand-colored crushed velvet, it lounges spryly undisturbed under my Matisse lithograph. I close my eyes and sigh.
The sofa could’ve been repaired, but its butchering would signify more than I want to contemplate. I glance in the large rolling trash bin by the door. Shards of glass blink up from the refuse. My eyes narrow as I scan the room.
The family picture from my desk is missing, but overall, the space looks the same. Do I want to know what the Maintenance team tackled?
