: Chapter 11

The clock keeps ticking. Somehow, it’s both too fast and not fast enough. There are only a few days remaining until my Saturday night date with Dylan Sharpe. I swallow down the nerves like I’ve been doing since he messaged me. Just the idea of seeing him again has me twisted up in knots all week, and I can’t get away from him in my thoughts. I’ve dreamed of seeing him again every single night.

All the other nerves, though, are for something else entirely. I can’t shake them off. I’ve made follow-up calls, sent emails, and even had a meeting with one of the people I met Friday night, but each time, the connections have been complete dead ends, and I’m starting to feel like the common denominator is me.

But I’m not giving up. Not yet. Not ever.

I check my phone again as I sit in the conference room waiting for my next meeting to begin. Dylan told me that this was one of the ‘small fish’ interviews, but I think that had more to do with the fact that Michael Styles doesn’t strike me as friends with Dylan. They’re too similar in personalities, two rival companies.

With a steadying inhale, I look up at the sound of smacking oxfords echoing from the hall to my right. The door opens, and Mr. Styles comes in, his tall, commanding presence filling the space. “Miss Hill. Have you been waiting long?”

“No, thank you,” I reply, offering a hand as I stand from the chair I was designated by his assistant. We shake, and he sits at the head of the table. He’s in his early forties, with a haircut that’s clearly touched up by a stylist every other week, a tailored suit that’s less than six months old, and a well-done shave. He’s the sort of man who takes care of himself. His skin’s got the well-hydrated glow of an expensive skin cream, and his hand was baby soft in mine, probably from a recent manicure. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”

“Well, when you make an impression like you did the other night, I knew that you wouldn’t be on the market for long,” he says. He smiles, but something about it feels off. “By the way, I talked with our HR department. You put in an application with our firm a year ago?”

“Yes,” I reply, reaching into my bag and taking out my updated resume. “I was in business school at the time and was looking for an internship.”

“But you weren’t interviewed,” Michael notes, taking my updated resume from me. “Would you like to make a guess as to why?”

“I know that a firm like this gets dozens, if not hundreds, of applications for every internship spot available. And while I was a top-notch student, with a 4.0 GPA and an impressive senior project portfolio…” I pause, letting those highlights sink in. “When you don’t have a prestigious name or a prestigious university name on your application, you’re banging on the door from the sidewalk. I assumed you received more applications with Yale or the Wharton School on them than you had opportunities.”

Michael hums, neither confirming nor denying my assumption as he gives my resume a cursory glance. “And you didn’t reach out here again why?”

The truth is that I’ve heard the rumors about this firm—their freshman interns and new hires are predominantly three things—white, male, and wealthy, so I focused my efforts on other firms who might be a better fit for me. That’s not what I tell Michael, of course. “I wasn’t aware you had a position available,” I reply. “But I think if you look at my portfolio numbers, you’ll see that I more than fit in on your team.”

Michael flips to my portfolio, lifting an eyebrow. “The dollar amounts are on the smaller side, but your margins are impressive. Better than some of my current managers, if I’m being honest.”

He absolutely just intentionally called me poor, but I’m taking the compliment on my margins because I worked hard for them and have the instincts to make them even better.

“The dollar amounts are low because I didn’t have a lot to work with as an intern,” I explain. “You know the old lyric, trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents?”

“I recall that back from my college days,” Michael says, and I feel a bit surprised that he gets the reference.

“I can make a dollar out of my fifteen cents. After our talk the other night, you know I can take ten grand and turn it into a hundred k, and take a hundred k and turn it into a million. That’s what I bring to your firm.”

“And of course, you’d take your percentage,” Michael says with a nod as he meets my gaze, but there’s respect in his comment. He knows how this works. The money-makers should make some money of their own.

“If I’m going to make this firm tens of millions of dollars a year, I think it’s fair that I can at least afford my own apartment in the city.” It’s not exactly a compensation package negotiation, but we’re both testing our expectations without spelling out ‘I want X percentage’ or ‘I’m offering Y salary.’ I add a small smile with the comment, and thankfully, it lands how I hoped it would.

Michael laughs. “I don’t know, with the way residential real estate’s been going around town, I heard a rumor that the Yankees are having their rookies double up on apartment rent in order to save some cash.”

Reading between the lines, he means don’t get your hopes too high.

“True, but the commercial market’s seen better days,” I point out. “A sharp person with the right connections could possibly look at rezoning and turning commercial space into residential space.” My return volley lets him know that I’m all too aware that he has the funds to pay so don’t lowball me.

“With the right connections,” Michael agrees, glancing down at my resume again and then looking back at me as if searching my expression for something. “Such as Dylan Sharpe?”

I tilt my head, acting as if this is an innocent question even though I hear the change in his tone loud and clear. “From what I know of Mr. Sharpe’s firm, he’s not deeply involved in that particular industry. Actually, many of his investments are located outside the city. What about this firm, though? The opportunity could be lucrative.”

“Opportunities are like fresh fruit, though,” Michael says. “Jump in too early, and you’ve got something sour that you’ve got to wait on. But you buy too late, and you’ve got a sticky, spoiled mess on your hands.”

“It’s a good thing this opportunity is being presented at the perfect time, then. Neither sour, nor a mess,” I say firmly. “Simply good, money-making investments.”

I’m doing my best to keep this meeting on track, without ruining my chances, but I’m getting the feeling Michael is meeting with me, not to hire me, but rather so he can garner favor with Dylan. Like this is a ‘favor’ he’s doing for him.

“You did make quite the impression at the Faulkner event,” he surmises.

His eyes skate down my upper body to my hands resting on the table before returning to my face. It happens so fast that if I’d have blinked, I would’ve missed it. But I didn’t. And I know exactly what he’s referring to. Bronson Faulkner seeing Dylan and me at the elevator. It has to be.

“Excuse me?”

This is worse than I feared. I’m not here as a ‘favor’. I think I’m here so Michael can get a firsthand look at the car crash that’s drawn Dylan’s attention.

Michael clears his throat. “One’s reputation could reflect back on the firm, you understand?”

It’s only the sheer force of my determination that keeps me sitting here because I do need this job.

“Reputations are subjective. I prefer to deal in facts. And the facts are, I produce results.” I straighten my shoulders and harden my voice. “Look at my resume, and if you want, I’ll pull up my accounts so you can see my margins are accurate. I’m not looking to have my name on the door, Michael. Not yet. I’m looking for a desk, a computer, and maybe a cubicle. That doesn’t reflect on anyone.”

Michael frowns, the deep parentheses lines around his mouth highlighting the downturn of his thin lips. “I see. Well, I’ll need to have a few conversations. We’ll be in touch.”

I keep my smile steady and nod even though turmoil rolls in the pit of my stomach.

We’ll be in touch. I’ve heard those same words too many times this week, delivered in the same way, to not know the meaning. Don’t call us, because we’re not calling you.

I‘ve blown it. Again.

With the last shred of my self-control, I stand up as he does, shaking his hand politely. But he doesn’t look me in the eyes, and his handshake is nowhere near as firm as it was in the beginning. And instead of handing me off to an assistant, he walks me out himself. As we do, I can see the assistants and secretaries glancing at me. A few of them have little smirks, and twice, I see someone bend down to whisper into someone else’s ear.

Are they all talking about me?

Have they heard about the fundraising event?

Am I now branded a harlot in the Financial District?

Did I make a mistake the other night?

And maybe most importantly, am I still making a mistake with Dylan?

Michael walks me to the elevator, waiting for the doors to open before saying anything. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Hill. Word of advice? When you’re investing everything you have against those merely playing quarter slots, you will always lose. Be careful, Miss Hill.” He offers me a tight-lipped smile, seeming significantly less predatory and maybe more… fatherly for a moment.

The doors close, and I can feel the eyes of the other two people on the elevator looking at me. I face directly forward, seeing the warped reflection of my face in the slightly shiny steel doors.

All the while, my heart hammers and my palms turn clammy. I hate everything about all of this. I’ve never felt so inferior and helpless.

I thought that event was going to be the beginning of something amazing. Connections, contacts, and opportunities, all right in the palm of my hand.

But now, walking out of the building and onto the street, I feel like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. The skyscrapers around me, once staid, solid monuments to the industry that I want to get into, now tower over me like domineering, judgmental figures.

You’re not good enough.

You were never good enough.

The only way someone like you gets into an office here is on their knees.

I swallow, realizing I’m almost on the verge of tears. Blinking, I wipe at my eyes and for an instant consider taking a taxi back to my apartment. But I don’t have a job yet, and the difference between a taxi ride and the subway is a day’s worth of food.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I turn and walk toward the station I’ll need to take me back home. As I walk, I force my chin to stay up and to look like I’m not fleeing from the Financial District.

Getting off the subway, I pause before going home, stopping at the little corner market that I’ve gotten to know very well over the past few years. Mrs. Hyunh, the owner, is behind the register when I enter, old-fashioned music playing on the radio she keeps under the counter.

“Oh, Raven!” she greets me, waving a wrinkled hand. “You’re here early.”

“Just a job interview today, Mrs. Hyunh,” I tell her, heading toward the back of the store where I know she keeps the Cup Noodles that are one of my go-to comfort foods. Just before grabbing my favorite, Chili Lime Shrimp, my phone buzzes.

For a stupid moment, hope that it’s a job offer rises in my chest, and then disappointment hits me freshly when I realize it’s not.

It’s Dylan.

Which is a good thing. A great thing. Probably the only thing that could bring the slightest hint of a smile to my face right now.

Do you have a preference for dinner?

My throat tightens as Michael’s words flash in my mind. I have truly invested everything and am losing at every turn. No more interviews, no scheduled meetings, no calls to return. So, should I tell Dylan that I can’t go out with him?

Dylan, I don’t think we should… I start to text before quickly hitting Delete.

If I do that, it will have all been for nothing.

And I did truly have fun with Dylan at the event. At least until I freaked out, but he was understanding about that.

Instead I text back, I am open to whatever you’d prefer. I hope your day is going well. I want to thank you for helping me. Even if it’s not in the cards, I appreciate your help.

Dylan lives up to his last name, and a moment later texts back, Did something happen?

I assume he means more than basically being accused of having a reputation for using men by sleeping with them. But I went into things thinking my eyes were open and won’t blame him for my actions, however ill-advised they might’ve been.

No. I just wanted to make sure you knew I was grateful. Regardless of what happens.

Almost as soon as I send the message, his reply comes back as if he was texting even while I was typing. Let’s do dinner tonight instead.

I can’t. Plans.

I can, of course. But I need to get my head straight and do some self-analysis on what happened at the event, and how I feel about it and Dylan. Plus, I have big plans tonight. I’m going to eat Cup Noodles in my pajamas and complain to Maggie about my week. I’ve earned it after the day I’ve had.

Okay, Saturday still?

I think for a moment, but ultimately send back, Yes, Saturday.

I grab my Cup Noodles. Taking them back up to Mrs. Hyunh, at least I know I’ve made one good decision today.