Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“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.