Five billion dollars and one tombstone later, Grandpa is dead, my firm is flush with cash, and I can finally kick Alma to the curb.
I’ll never get tired of being the villain.
No, I don’t have a heart of gold under my gruff exterior.
I’m not misunderstood due to my childhood trauma.
I don’t want to change. I want to win. At all costs, no matter the collateral damage.
Just ask my family.
Silencing the phone with its barrage of begging, I head to the atrium, where my employees are trickling in for the all-hands meetings.
I take my place on the low stage near a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the harbor.
Mandy and her friend have brought the box of crushed donuts to the large atrium space. They’re parked on one of the wood planters, using their fingers to pick at the broken pastry. The dog Mandy keeps practically glued to her side pants noisily, breathing all over the box.
My assistant fiddles with the laptop while she sucks icing off her fingers. It’s aggravating and not at all how the assistant of the CEO of the biggest financial firm in the US should behave.
The last of my employees file into the atrium. They lean against walls, crossing their arms as they type intently on their phones.
I am not one of those CEOs who needs to have his employees hold court for him. My people all know that work is more important than any of my announcements. However, the whole office turns out for the start of hell week.
I gaze out at the faces before me.
“You beautiful stone-cold killers—metaphorically speaking. The best of the best of corporate finance.” I address them with no preamble. They know my methods by now. “Also, the interns. The poor unwashed masses yearning for a six-figure entry-level salary.”
My employees chuckle. This is the show that enticed them away from their spreadsheets.
“The more intelligent among you have already figured out that Rainier Equity is not a charity. I don’t give handouts. I don’t coddle. You don’t get a pat on the head and a ‘well done’ for doing your fucking job. As a great man once said, ‘That’s what the money is for.’”
The senior-level investors trade knowing smirks.
“In case you haven’t understood, let me spell it out for you. This is your come-to-Jesus corporate war speech. A finite amount of money floats around in the world looking for investment opportunities, and I want all of it.” My gaze sweeps over the mass of employees.
“Rainier Equity is the gateway firm to investment in Asia and Australia. We are the top investment firm in the US now that Svensson Investment is a smoking crater.” A silent video of the recent bedlam on the trading floor at Svensson Investment plays behind me. The money I paid for the footage was well spent.
“The only thing that matters is money. I don’t care if you have to go to cousin Rosalia’s baby shower or your cat’s batmitzvah—hours are eighty a week, minimum. I’m here. You should be too. At least pretend like you’re going to try to take my job.” I smile. “Impress me.”
Several interns are visibly shaking.
“You don’t have a life—you have money. You have this firm. Loyalty is rewarded. Failure is punished. If you can’t manage that, go work at a local bank.”
The presentation flips to the next slide—a smiling corporate portrait, freshly taken on Monday morning.
“Deena Robinson, you’re fired.”
The young woman cries out in shock. Her friends lay hands on her to offer comfort. They will soon be broken of that habit.
Holding up a hand, I continue, “My brother paid you to try and sabotage me. Greg’s a moron if he thinks I wasn’t going to find out about his little revenge scheme. Now get off my property.” The presentation flips to the next image. “Lana Thompson. You’re fired.”
“Why?” the girl wails.
“Why?” I bark. One of her Instagram posts pops up onthe screen.
Pointing at it, I read aloud, “‘New internship, who dis? ’Bout to go find me a rich hubby.’ Not on my dime, you’re not.”
Titters from the audience.
