Dear Jess,
Good on you for exposing that creep. I had a stalker a few years ago and the police wouldn’t do anything to help, so I know how it goes. I’ve started following Wyst and can’t wait to see what you do next.
Karina
Jess,
My name is Sharon, and I represent the interests of Torrington Investors. Wyst is an incredibly exciting concept, and we’d love to arrange a sit-down with you to discuss a potential investment.
Kind regards,
Sharon Edgar
Torrington Investors
I scroll through several more emails, getting sentiment whiplash from people calling me a lying bitch to a feminist hero. People wanting me dead to people wanting to invest in Wyst. The mixed feelings gnaw at my edges, leaving me tender as I get dressed in a suit (black, just in case I’m stepping into my own funeral) and begin my first and last journey to Odericco Investments. I keep my head down on the Tube, wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses like a shitty disguise in a superhero movie. There’s a numbing effect to knowing so many peoplehave seen it, that the news is out of my control. The low rumbling as we zoom across to the financial district sets me into a meditative lull; I’m so tired but couldn’t possibly sleep knowing what’s coming.
After signing in with a pretty blond receptionist, I’m instructed to sit and wait at a cluster of white armchairs and sofas set out like a makeshift living room. I perch uncomfortably in the modern design chair, trying at once to both avoid eye contact with every person walking through the lobby while also making sure they aren’t staring at me. After a few minutes, I realize I’m shaking. My mind starts to run at a hundred miles an hour. Am I having a panic attack? This doesn’t feel like a panic attack. This feels like adrenaline surging through my veins until they pop. I try to self-soothe, repeating to myself that I’ve survived worse. At least people are talking about something I have control over. I controlled the narrative. I decided when and where to post it.
My mind glosses over Malcolm. I’m still fucking terrified he is going to do something beyond posting the article to retaliate, but for now, it seems like he’s lying low. I’ve taken his story from him, his credibility, his reputation, his power over me.
I huff a laugh, a sick satisfaction in Malcolm being forced out of job because of me for the second time.
Eventually, a man in his late twenties comes to collect me, and we ride the elevator up to the thirty-seventh floor in silence. He’s well-dressed in a custom suit but has an air of nervousness, like he’s not fully settled in his environment. It quickly dawns on me that he’s Oliver’s replacement.
He leads me into a room tinged in a cool blue hue from the wall-to-wall glass. The colored film no doubt provides a levelof privacy without compromising the view of London’s skyline. Seeing all while never showing yourself, very on-brand for Dominic.
“Mr. Odericco will be in shortly,” New Oliver says before shooting me a tight, knowing smile and closing the door shut.
I pad over to the window and stare at the crowds flowing over streets and filing in and out of public transport. Working in a place like this could give even the most grounded person issues with self-aggrandizement. Feeling huge compared to the thousands of indistinguishable masses forty feet below your shoes.
The door clicks open, and I flick my head around to see Dominic Odericco step into the room. He doesn’t say anything, barely making eye contact with me. I remain silent too, my eyes flicking between him and the door. I’m waiting for the other people to file in behind him—legal representation, PR specialists, the crisis management team, the board of directors, anyone. After a pregnant pause, Dominic walks over to the coffee station and pours himself a cup.
“Don’t you have someone to do that for you?” My voice is smooth and measured compared to my hands, which are shaking uncontrollably in my pockets. I grip the chair to steady them.
“I did, but the new guy doesn’t get the milk ratio right.” He takes a sip, steam still reaching out of the cup.
“Must be hard to find good help these days.” Maybe it’s a power play to suggest I know his cousin just quit, to throw him slightly before we do this. But I’m confused by the lack of bodies occupying the room, so I want to level the field a bit.
His sullen mouth softens, and he lets out a breath throughhis nose. He looks through me with dark hazel eyes. “Take a seat, Miss Cole.”
I pull the chair out from under the table and sit on the opposite side of the long table. “Are we waiting for anyone else?”
He raises an eyebrow. “No, unless you are?”
“No,” I say, trying to keep my relief at bay from my tone.
We sit; the only sound is the running of chair legs against the soft gray carpet. He unbuttons his suit jacket as he lowers himself, so I do the same, leaning back in the seat to replicate every video I’ve ever watched about the art of negotiation. This isn’t a negotiation, this is a sentencing, but I’d rather go down not clamoring against the table like a woman dying of thirst asking for a drop of water.
He leans back on his elbow, one leg crossed over the other as he examines me. “I thought Wyst was a great idea,” he says, face completely void of emotion.
Trying not to read into him using the past tense, the only thing I can think to say is “Thank you.”
“When your application was passed to me, I thought it was a no-brainer to include Wyst in TechRumble. We don’t get many...” He thinks of the right word. “Alternatives to the banking, crypto, AI bunch in our application pools these days. Wyst really stood out.”
My instinct is to say thank you again, but I swallow it, remaining both calm and tense, preparing my stomach muscles for the gut punch I know must be coming.
“It’s a real shame you can’t be a finalist after everything that’s occurred.” He begins to type on his phone, on to the next problem now that I’ve been dealt with.
