by Davis, Kyra
As I gather up my things it occurs to me that I mean it. If necessary, I’ll tell him about the people who try to undermine me, let the chips fall where they may.
* * *
WHEN I ARRIVE at my firm, I don’t go straight to my office. Instead I go to Mr. Costin. His assistant tries to stop me, tells me to wait but she has no power over me. No one does, except Robert Dade.
That thought sits with me funny; in raises my fur, intensifies my need to flex my muscles, flaunt my strength. I throw open the door to Mr. Costin’s office, catching him with his teeth half submerged in a jelly donut. His eyes widen with rage as he registers my impertinence.
I slam the door behind me as he drops the donut onto a paper plate.
“You have no right—” he begins but I have no patience for his admonishments.
“You don’t want me here,” I say coolly. “Not in your office, not in this building, and certainly not in my new job.”
“Tom’s job,” Mr. Costin growls. “Mr. Love to you.”
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “It was his job, now it’s mine. And you know what? In the end this firm will be stronger for my rise. You don’t have to like it but the innuendo and disrespect will stop.”
Mr. Costin leans back in his chair. “Or what?”
“Or you will regret it every day of your life.” I walk around the desk, reach forward, and brush some powdered sugar from his lapel. “Please don’t misjudge this situation. What happened to Tom wasn’t a fluke; it was a warning.”
“What are you saying? Are you asking me to fear you?” Mr. Costin asks. He means the words to be challenging but there’s a slight crack in his voice that reveals everything I need to know.
“I don’t have to ask for what I already have,” I say simply. “You’re still the boss. I will follow your directives. But remember, the way Tom treated me was unacceptable. I could have sued him for sexual harassment and I’m sure I’m not the only one. There was no lawsuit, only the threat of one. You should be grateful for that. You should be grateful that I haven’t brought you down, too. At least not yet.”
“You would bring down this whole company just to serve your own interests!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I calmly walk back around the desk and sit opposite him. “As long as I have this job, my best interests and the company’s best interests are synonymous. It’s you who compromises the company when you deliberately try to undermine my effectiveness. You say your choices were taken away but that’s not really true, is it? You could have offered this job to someone else. It would have been a huge risk but you could have done it. You didn’t. And now I’m here. You can’t erase me. You no longer have that power.”
I hesitate for just a split second after the words leave my mouth. My light is brighter now; it’s even a bit glaring and harsh, but it’s not a supernova. I can maintain this. All these years I’ve tried to play by others’ rules in order to keep myself from being erased like my sister was, but Robert’s shown me another way.
His is a scarier path, and I’m not entirely comfortable with it . . . but I can see now that it’s much more effective than anything I’ve tried before. This aggression, this power play? It will keep me visible and in turn it will be my protection against falling to my sister’s fate. A possibility that haunts me every day of my life.
“You fucked a client,” Mr. Costin says. “There are consequences for that.”
“Of course there are.” I smile and slowly spread my arms out in an all-encompassing gesture. “You’re looking at them, Mr. Costin. Guess the consequences I live with are only the ones I want. Maybe that’s what I get for attracting the attention of an earthly god. Your words, not mine.”
Mr. Costin stares at me; his mouth is in a thin line, hinting at the hate he knows he must hold back. I smile again. He’ll see my smile as patronizing, or perhaps smug. It doesn’t matter though. I can smile anyway I like. These are my rules.
I get up to leave. I’ve made my point but as I start to turn Mr. Costin stops me.
“You aren’t the one pulling the strings here. That would be your lover, Mr. Dade.”
I turn, lock him in my gaze. “Mr. Dade is my lover,” I admit. “To my mind he’s the moon and I’m the ocean. You can blame the moon for the high tide but it’s the ocean that can flood your village. You’d be wise to respect us both. Oh, and Mr. Costin?” I say as I turn back toward the door. “That’s the last reference you will make to my sex life. Ever.”
And with that I walk out and go down to my office.
My new office. Where I belong.
* * *
THE DAY IS MINE. I call impromptu meetings with each department individually. It’s not how it’s normally done but things are changing based on my whims. Last night I submitted; today I master. Yin and yang. I can thrive in the extremes if I keep the balance.
It’s while I’m having a meeting with my old team that I get the call from the VP of Maned Wolf. As Robert had indicated earlier, they have another project for me, if I want it. They want me involved of course but they understand that I won’t be in the thick of it like I was the last time. After all, I have many teams to oversee. My job now is not just to lead but to pick leaders.
Asha looks at me expectantly, understanding everything from my half of the conversation. I look into her dark brown eyes and recall all the other ways she’s looked at me. With amusement, cruelty, even superiority. . . . I remember when she stood by my side, touching me without invitation, saying things she knew would demean me and make me feel small and vulnerable to her.
I hang up the phone and tell Daemon that he will be team leader. I see the looks of surprise on the consultants’ faces. Before my promotion Asha and I were the two people in this group who had the most seniority and accomplishments. Asha had trained Daemon once upon a time. He continues to pay dues that Asha has long since dispensed with. Asha’s brown skin picks up a rosy hue and her mouth turns down into a little grimace as I hand Daemon the scepter. She’s always so composed, even this small giveaway is a victory.
“What’s wrong, Asha?” I ask, unable to restrain myself.
“Not a thing,” she replies. She doesn’t want to show her aggrievement in front of her coworkers. That would be a sign of weakness.
But she will show that weakness, she’ll hang it out for the entire team to see. She’ll do so because I want her to.
I lean back in my chair. “I believe the lady doth protest too much. Do you have a problem with Daemon being your superior?”
I’ve chosen my words carefully.
Asha registers this and shifts slightly in her seat. “I don’t have a problem with Daemon being team leader.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I say, swiveling back and forth in my chair. This chair offers more support than my last. Its design keeps my posture straighter. It suits my mood. “Do you have a problem with Daemon being your superior?”
“No,” Asha says. The word is clipped, her anger evident.
“No what?” I ask.
Yes, she’s blushing now. I can see it. Who would have thought the malicious could blush.
You blush all the time. A little voice says. It’s my angel, speaking through the gag I’ve placed in her mouth. I squirm slightly at her implication but Asha is too caught up in her own humiliation to notice as she answers, “No, I don’t have a problem with Daemon being my superior.”
Now it’s Daemon who sits a little straighter. He smiles at Asha, his eyes impertinent, his gaze a little insulting. Asha turns redder still. I wrinkle my nose. I went too far and now the scent of this revenge is more sour than sweet.
“We’re done here,” I say quickly. “Daemon, I’ll have someone from Maned Wolf call you with more details about the project.”
“Of course, Miss. Fitzgerald.” His voice is deep with respect. I can tell he still wants me but he�
��s also a little afraid of me. He would never make a move unless I told him to.
He doesn’t feel that way about Asha. She’ll have problems with him. I could help her with that . . . if I felt like it.
I watch as they all file out of my office and wonder how it’s possible.
How is it possible that I never fully appreciated the symbiotic relationship between fear and power? Not just the fear of those who have to follow me but my own fear that inspires me to lead?
Fear motivates and encourages me like an admiring lover.
Like Robert Dade.
CHAPTER 9
I DON’T GO HOME. There’s no point, not when I can stay with him, in his home that is bigger than mine, in his bed that offers me pleasures and satisfaction. When I arrive, he’s wearing a dark suit and a thick white dress shirt with no tie. Formality and accessibility in one look. A beguiling contrast.
But the rest of his preparations give me pause. His dining room table is covered in white linen. There’s a place setting for two and candles in the center of the table. It’s clichéd romance more appropriate for love marked with rose petals and midnight walks than one defined by power plays and sexual deviance.
He reads the skepticism in my eyes and laughs it away. “We can have quiet moments of traditionalism on occasion. We can have anything we want.”
This makes me laugh, too, as I pull nervously at the sleeve of my blazer. My confidence falters when it’s just the two of us.
“Not that it’s necessary,” he says, “but would you like to change for dinner?”
I look down at my white suit. Images of red wine and olive oil dance through my head. “Yes,” I say definitively, “I believe I would.”
“I assumed as much,” he says, his laughter subsiding to a teasing smile. “I bought you something else today. A dress. It’s on my bed waiting for you.”
I’m about to say something when I hear someone in the kitchen.
“We’re not alone?” Even my question makes me tremble a bit. Memories of being ravished in that bar . . . it had been so intense, frightening, exhilarating. . . . I don’t know if I can do that two nights in a row. I don’t think I want to.
But if he asked me to, would I? Is that what’s needed to maintain the balance? Must I submit every night?
Yet when Robert reaches for my hand his touch is reassuring, not demanding. “It’s the chef and his assistant. I hired them for the night. They’ll cook for us; that’s all.”
The relief is stronger than I thought it could be. I grab his shoulders and kiss his lips gently with only a touch of passion. “Thank you.”
“Thank me for the dress,” he says quietly. “The night’s events are set by your moods as much as my ambitions. I’m just better at recognizing them than you are.”
I’m not sure I understand his meaning but that’s okay. At the moment everything is okay.
Downstairs the dress is red. Red like the words painted on the door of the speakeasy, red as Genevieve’s hair, red as a ruby.
The last thought disturbs me. I haven’t thought of Dave for a while now. He’s fading further and further into my past. How much of what I remember of my relationship with him is real and how much only reflects the reality that works best for me? Memories evolve quickly, more like a virus than an animal. This year’s flu bears little resemblance to the flu that killed so many only a few years back. The virus evolves, we’ve taken our shots, and now it can’t hurt us the way it once could . . . back when it looked different, back before we were prepared.
I slide into the dress. It’s made of velvet, a fabric I usually think of as tacky and outdated, like something you would see in a 1970s rendition of the Nutcracker, although even that wouldn’t work since the dancers would sweat too much.
But this dress is different. It’s higher quality, the fabric mixed with layers of silk that hang in a cowl neckline and adorn the very low back. The designer is Antonio Berardi. He’s redefined the fabric, given it a fierce modern edge, made it sensual and daring.
For a brief moment I wonder if Robert Dade has redesigned me.
I quickly discard the idea and go upstairs.
Robert is already sitting at the table, waiting for me. A bottle of champagne has been opened yet again but this time it’s poured by a man in a white chef’s jacket. He gives me a deferential nod as Robert rises to pull out my chair.
“You look magnificent.”
“There’s that word again,” I say lightly.
“It suits you.” He kisses me on top of my head like a father. It makes me feel safe.
He sits down, raises his glass in toast. “To us.”
It’s the most common toast in the world. Right up there with “Cheers,” and “À ta santé!” But the words seem more loaded coming from Robert’s lips. For what does it mean, “Us?” We are not Romeo and Juliet. We are Caesar and Cleopatra. We’re Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Pierre and Marie Curie. Our coupling has consequences, people’s lives will be changed. . . .
Like Tom and Dave and Asha and Mr. Costin, for them our romance is as radioactive as anything the Curies cooked up in their lab.
And Cleopatra, Anne, Marie—each one of them was destroyed by the fate they pursued. Each undone by their passions and power. Pierre and Caesar didn’t fare much better . . . and then there was Henry.
I study Robert over my champagne glass. Could Robert ever turn on me? I’ve watched him casually destroy Tom; he’s offered to destroy others. What would it take for him to decide to destroy me?
The man in the chef’s coat is back. He places a small serving of venison carpaccio in front of each of us. The venison has been seared with a light vinaigrette that smells of rosemary and it’s topped with porcini panna cotta, a dark red coulis, beetroot, and a sprinkling of shaved parmesan, culinary adornments that do nothing to detract from the fact that what we’re about to eat is raw. A living thing that we kill and consume simply because it suits our tastes. My fork hesitates before piercing the meat. I meet Robert’s eyes as he takes his first mouthful.
“Not hungry?” he asks.
I pause for only a moment before admitting the truth. “I’m famished.” And I eat what’s been served. And I savor it, enjoy it; with each bite I find myself less and less concerned about the symbolism, the moral implications. I like it. That’s enough.
“How is the transition going?”
“Mr. Costin was uncomfortable with my promotion at first,” I say, my mouth partially full, “but he understands the score now. I’m getting a better sense of all the departments and those who once saw me as a coworker have already come to see me as a boss.” I take a sip of the champagne. “I have them all in line.”
The last line was delivered as a joke . . . sort of.
“Good. Tell me if Costin gives you any problems. Or Freeland for that matter.”
Our plates are cleared; a second small course is served. “It’s funny,” I say as I pierce the fricassee mushrooms, “I haven’t seen Freeland for some time. I mean he hasn’t really been a hands-on partner for a while but still, he used to do the occasional walk-through. Stop in to say hello to all the managers, make sure they’re still appreciative of his position. But I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
“Yes,” Robert says, “that’s strange.”
But the way he says it tells me that he doesn’t think it’s strange at all.
I sit back in my chair. “Do you know something?”
Robert raises his eyebrows. “Yes,” he says softly, “I know something.”
I imitate his expression, raising my eyebrows and cocking my head mockingly. “Do tell, Mr. Dade.”
“I know that your company was in trouble. Tom wasn’t a bad businessman from what I’ve heard but he wasn’t innovative or hands on. None of the managers there are . . . or at least they weren’t. You’ll do a better job. Tell me, did you call me
etings with each of your departments yet?”
“How did you know about that?”
“I know your style,” he says simply. “I know that you won’t take anything for granted. You’ll learn the ins and outs of each department, you’ll find ways for your people to differentiate themselves from the other consultants in the industry.”
“You’re quite confident in me,” I say, wondering if it’s entirely merited.
“Your recommendations for Maned Wolf were brilliant,” he continues. “You said things that others wouldn’t dare suggest. People often worry about recommending layoffs or the dismantling or reorganization of entire departments. The corporate world isn’t nearly as ruthless as some assume. We carry around dead weight out of sentimentality and attachment to old ideas. We take pride in innovations that were introduced so long ago, they’re no longer innovative at all. Polaroid, MySpace, Hostess, BlackBerry, all the same story. But you”—he smiles, takes another bite—“you’re like me. You’re not sentimental.”
I shift slightly in my seat. I’ve been told that before, never as a compliment. “I can be a little—”
“No. If you were sentimental, you would have asked Dave for a diamond. You would have pictures on your desk. You’d be a different person with different potential and I’d want little to do with you.”
The touch of velvet against my skin does little to soften the impact of his words. The things this man likes about me . . . they’re not the right things . . . are they?
“You walked into the Maned Wolf boardroom and told us what you believed we should do,” he says as the chef clears away his plate once again. “You didn’t hold back because you’re not sentimental and because you knew that your job wasn’t in jeopardy. Like a president in his final term, you forged ahead without feeling the need to weigh the political consequences. Now you’ll have that same freedom in every aspect of your job. You’ll move up quickly there, do what needs to be done. There will be casualties. Jobs will be lost, but in the end that firm will owe us both a debt of thanks.”