Chapter 1
ONE
SHAE
I bite back a snarl as I stare down at the sniveling man in the chair across from my Herman Miller desk.
“Please don’t cry, for the love of God,” I snap.
I’d feel bad for Derrick if he weren’t a dick to every woman in the office.
Or if he hadn’t stolen nearly five-hundred-thousand dollars of my money.
Sexism is intolerable enough, but to steal from me?
Fuck. No.
The man sniffs and wipes at his face with the back of his hand.
My assistant to my right makes a small sound of disgust, and my business partner, Zane, grunts from where he lounges in the corner of my office.
Zane rarely comes into the office, choosing to show up for board meetings and leaving me to manage the business.
Except in cases of major fraud and money laundering with our employees, I guess.
“Liv—”
“That’s Ms.Rivers, Derrick. You’d do well to remember that.” I lean back in my leather chair, steepling my hands so my fire-engine red nails click together with a delicate tap.
“Ms.Rivers, after all I’ve done for Orisun?—”
“I’ll admit, you’ve brought in a lot of good investments for us. But you’ve also done great financial and reputational harm.”
I bare my teeth.
“I’m being nice. Generous, even. So please, ” more smiling, “sign the severance package and leave. You can put this behind you.”
Derrick sniffs, and that’s when Zane unfurls all six feet of goodness from the wingback chair. I want to smile at the memory of him bending me over that exact chair just two weeks ago.
But all that comes to my face is a sneer.
“All right, Derrick,” Zane says. “We’ve agreed not to press charges as long as you agree not to work for any other venture capital firm in North America.”
Not that he has a choice. I’ve already made a few well-placed calls, and he’s blocked from every firm from New York City to San Diego, and every FinTech startup that’s remotely like ours.
“We’ll be watching, and we will know if you break these conditions,” Zane says.
I don’t know how I got stuck playing Good Cop while Zane plays Bad Cop, and I’m not sure it’s fully working.
Derrick, who looks like Cuba Gooding Jr.in Jerry Maguire —diamond stud earrings and all—flushes a shade of red I didn’t think possible.
Is this motherfucker about to have a heart attack? According to the office gossip I learned during our short investigation, he does enough cocaine to make it a risk.
I really need to clean house in HR, because this is a lot.
“This isn’t fair!” Derrick shouts.
I lift an eyebrow, staring him down.
“You siphoned nearly half a million dollars from Orisun, from me ,” I enunciate.
He stammers. “I mean, it wasn’t from you ?—”
“Derrick,” I say with a sigh. I’m so over this conversation.
I nod at the termination agreement in his hand. It’s short and to the point, so there’s no reason for him to delay.
“Sign the document, then leave my building,” I say. “Melissa, get him a pen, would you?”
Melissa whips a pen from her skirt pocket like a magic trick, holding it out to Derrick.
She’s been standing sentry at my shoulder, not saying a word.
I’m sure she’s trying her best to mean mug the little thief in front of me, but Melissa’s such a damn sweetheart, I’m sure she looks like a Yorkie trying to take on a Rottweiler.
“This is some bullshit,” he grumbles, his leg starting to bounce.
“Derrick, let’s wrap this up,” I press. Zane moves across the room to stand opposite Melissa.
I guess that triggers the little thief in front of me.
“ Fuck you !” he booms, standing and vibrating with what I assume is rage—which, the fucking audacity of this man—and shouts in my face.
“You stupid, cold-hearted bitch. If you’d open your eyes, you’d see why everyone in your employ is fucking miserable.
It’s because you’re a miserable cunt. So what?
I pulled a bit off the side here and there.
But why the fuck do you care when this firm is pushing nearly a hundred billion in assets a week?
It’s because you’re out to get me. You hate men—and it’s a good thing you do because I’d feel bad for any motherfucker who tries to slide in your frigid-ass pussy!
” He throws the papers onto my desk to punctuate his rant.
My face burns, but not from fear or shame.
No, it burns bright with anger.
Not only did this asshole spit in my face with every word, he has the audacity to call me out of my name.
Unacceptable.
And to call me out on my misandry.
With a grace born from having to diffuse many proverbial bombs in the middle of the night, I stand in one smooth movement and put my palms flat on my desk.
“Let’s get something straight,” I say, my voice as calm as Julie Andrews narrating a BBC special. “I’m being tolerant of your actions thus far, but there’s no universe in which I can’t squash you like a bug within thirty minutes of dedicated time.”
Derrick takes one step back, then another, his face going pale.
“You have five seconds to decide your fate. Sign the document and leave or face the consequences. Your choice.” I hold the position as I lean over my desk. When Derrick doesn’t move, I start counting.
“Five,” I say. “Four. Three—Melissa, go ahead and call security to detain him. Tw?—”
“All right!” Derrick exclaims, snatching the stack of papers off the desk and flipping through them. “Let’s negotiate the terms.”
I lift an eyebrow, still maintaining the power pose.
Derrick growls, scribbles his name on the final page, then flicks it at my face.
With a roar, he bellows, “ Fuck !” and storms out of my office.
With his retreat, my office quiets, but still vibrates with energy. I’m still going to do some sageing or something because what the actual hell.
I straighten, taking the Kleenex from Melissa’s hand and dabbing at my face. It’ll do for this exact second, but as soon as everyone leaves, I’m beelining it to my in-office bathroom for a shower.
The negative vibes have me feeling crawly.
“Thank fuck that’s done,” I grumble and slump back into my chair. Then I catch myself and straighten.
I don’t relish being a bitch. In fact, it’s the part I hate most about being in business.
Playing with rich people’s money is easy. If it weren’t, white boys without two brain cells to rub together wouldn’t be out here making millions off their jobs.
I had to prove myself.
I had to prove that I’m un-fuck-with-able—and make sure people know that I’m always un-fuck-with-able.
The soft, nurturing Shae Rivers I used to be had to die.
I finally look at Zane but quickly direct my attention to my assistant when she moves to the front of my desk.
Melissa clutches her iPad in one arm and her iPhone in the other; her crisp white button-down and lilac A-line skirt are in complete juxtaposition to what most people wear in the office.
I make it a point not to give her too much shit for it.
My uniform is a black, navy, brown, or gray suit with a pencil skirt or slacks, coordinating Louboutin pumps, and a crisp middle part with my hair straightened to submission down to where it falls just north of my ass.
Melissa, on the other hand, wears soft fabrics and colors, and her neat sisterlocs frame her face in a youthful bob.
She kinda reminds me of myself when I was her age—twenty-two, earthy, and bright with my future ahead of me.
Oh, how quickly things change.
“Would you like to review today’s notes now?” Melissa asks, adjusting her ever-present iPad and running a hand down her skirt as if she could dust off the last fifteen minutes.
She looks a little flushed. Melissa’s a kind soul, soft. I think that’s why I’m so hard on her. I always want to see other Black women succeed, especially in the world of finance and tech, and Melissa is brilliant.
But she’s also like a bunny in a fox den when it comes to people-ing.
The finish line is in sight. Just a few more weeks, and I can pull back.
Way back.
All this hard work will have been worth it when I enter semi-retirement before hitting forty.
“Liv, we need to discuss Keystone,” Zane says, giving Melissa a brief look as if she isn’t completely current on the biggest project Orisun has attempted to date.
“Take thirty to get yourself together, Melissa,” I say, scooting up in my chair and putting on my chunky glasses with clear frames. “You’ll give me a report when you’re done.”
I turn to my business partner.
“I have thirty minutes, Zane,” I say, checking my Cartier watch.
“Right,” Zane says, smiling softly and giving me that look he’s let slip in the weeks since we’ve been doing…whatever we’ve been doing.
But he knows me better than most people, and he knows I can compartmentalize like a motherfucker. So, there will be no soft eyes because I do need to talk to him about the annoying email I got from Keystone Financial’s COO.
“Yes, ma’am,” Melissa says, nodding to both of us and leaving my office with her head down.
We’ll need to work on that, too.
When the door closes with a snick, I speak before Zane can start acting on his other thoughts.
“Zane,” I start, looking at my computer screen. “Why has Mason LaBreque sent me an email this morning stating there’s still a delay on the due diligence report?”
Zane’s silent, and after ten seconds of waiting, I drag my attention from my iMac toward his lanky form.
Zane’s not bad looking at all. He’s a respectable height, which works since I’m only five-three. He looks a bit like Jake Gyllenhaal, with dark hair, stunning blue eyes, and an ever-present goofy half-smile.
“What is it?” I ask, leaning onto the armrest and pressing two fingers into my temple.
“Headache?” Zane asks, and his voice drops an octave.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “But answer my question, Zane. These people keep delaying as if we don’t have a hard close date in two week s and $500 million on the line.”
Even saying the figure makes me feel a little sick.
But that’s what comes with buying a bank.