31. Cory
Chapter thirty-one
Cory
A n error message sounds from Andrew's computer for the second time in the last twenty minutes. Everyone in the surrounding desks has been ignoring his long-suffering sighs and frustrated grunts, but finally, I crack.
"Andrew!," I bark. "What the hell is wrong with you today? You're mashing those keys like an Xbox controller."
A hand grabs my elbow and I look up to see Silva shaking his head discreetly, his mouth pressed into a grim line. I glance between Andrew, who's now frowning furiously at his computer and Silva's unusually subdued face, and raise an eyebrow.
"What's up?" I whisper, leaning close so Andrew won't see us behind the monitors that separate our desks.
"Not here," he mutters back without making eye contact. I shrug and get back to spreadsheets that are starting to make my eyes cross.
An hour later, with Andrew away from his desk for another bathroom break,—I guess he broke the seal—Silva looks at me and jerks his head in an obvious invitation to follow him. When I remain seated, because Silva's the last person I'd follow anywhere , he yanks me out of my seat and towards the coffee room.
"What the fuck, Silva!" I snarl, pulling my arm from his grip. "What is your problem?"
"Shh!" he hisses, and busies himself making coffee while sneaking peeks over his shoulder. OK …This day is now officially weird.
"What's going on?" I whisper. If he's not crazy, and something really is happening around here that's got him spooked, I want to know about it. I turn my back to the trading floor and proceed to make my own cup of coffee.
"Bergman is dead," he says, still looking around. I snort in reply.
"What? Bergman's not dead. Is this some sort of joke? Did Bryant put you up to this?"
Silva shakes his head.
"Nah, man. Bergman is seriously dead. Apparently, he went out partying with a client last night. Snorted something he shouldn't have."
I blanch.
"But he seemed fine yesterday. Not at all like he was so close to the edge." It's an open secret that most of the guys on the floor have drug problems, but no one's ever died .
"He was fine," Silva mutters while hiding his face with his mug. "He was managing, at least. But word is the client wanted to try some new designer drug, and it must've interacted with whatever else was in his system."
"Shit," I curse. Because what else can you say? Work hard; play hard is practically the trading floor motto, but no one's ever lost control like this before.
"So what does this have to do with Andrew?" I ask. "You acted like he needed protection from ball busting that he definitely earned."
Silva slides closer and lowers his voice even further.
"Andrew was there last night. He recommended the bar. It was his friend that brought the… party favors ."
" Fuck ," I gasp. "If that's true, he's in some serious shit."
"Yeah, no kidding," Silva agrees, turning back towards the floor and adding sugar to his coffee. Yuck . "My guess is detectives will be here to question him by lunch."
I let out a breath, still shocked.
I've known Bergman since b-school, when he never did his part of the Financial Accounting assignments and got so drunk during graduation he had to be escorted across the stage. Despite giving off a decidedly creepy vibe, he was married with, I think, at least one kid. Like most of the traders, he was a raging asshole, but that doesn't mean he deserved to die before he even hit forty.
"Park! My office!" Robert yells at me from across the floor. I snap out of my morbid thoughts and make my way over.
"Yes, sir?" I greet him, closing his office door behind me. Robert, impeccably dressed as always, is staring out a wall of windows that looks onto Hanover Square.
"I take it from your little gab session with Silva, who I know you hate ," he says with a smirk, "that you heard about Bergman?"
"Yes, sir," I confirm, taking a seat in one of the armchairs facing his desk.
"That means his spot on the team handling the Monarch portfolio is open."
I stay silent, even hold my breath. Robert turns to face me.
"How would you feel about stepping in as his replacement?" he asks, finally moving to sit at his desk.
My mind is racing. I practically begged Robert to put me on the Monarch team last year, and Bergman got it through sheer nepotism; his father is on their board. You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but…Can I really just take this role? Bergman dies on Wednesday and I email the client team on Thursday? That's vicious, even for Banks Ripley.
"I see those wheels turning, Park," Robert interrupts. "Bergman was a good man, but he's gone now. The show must go on, as they say."
Goddamn! There's cold-blooded, and then there's sociopath .
"Stop thinking so hard," Robert blusters with irritation. "Either you take it, or I call in the next name on the list." He points to a stapled set of papers on his desk. "I figured you'd be chomping at the bit after last year, though."
I try to ignore that it took Bergman's death before Robert was even willing to give me a shot, and that I'm still just another name on a list. At least you're on the list , the devil on my shoulder whispers. The circumstances suck, but maybe I should take this chance to finally show everyone what I can do.
"I would be honored, sir," I answer.
Robert's smile is like an alligator baring its teeth, and I immediately feel sick.
"It'll take longer hours," Robert warns. I stand to shake his hand. "And it will only be on a probationary basis, pending final approval from the client."
I drop my hand.
"Probationary basis?" I ask.
There's no way I heard that right. No way do I still have to audition after all the shit he put me through during the last selection process. I barely slept for a month , and Bergman still got the spot! I mean… May he rest in peace .
"Yes," Robert answers, looking bored. "Client-team relations can be tricky and we want to ensure it's a good fit."
I shake my head, deeply disappointed. Suddenly, the truth is too glaring to ignore: I'm never going to get anywhere here. It'll always be one more thing to prove I'm "the right fit", while the Bergmans of the world get the role without even having to interview.
"With all due respect, sir, no."
Robert looks up at me from his papers, an eyebrow raised.
"No?"
"That's right," I answer, firm in my resolve. "I ran more scenarios than anyone else who applied. Double- and triple-checked each simulation to ensure I'd covered every angle possible. Went to all the dinners , and all the drinks , and all the networking events . I even broke up with Bethany when you asked me to."
I'm shouting now, but I don't care. Several traders are very obviously watching me through the glass walls of Robert's office. He holds up his hands.
"Whoa there, pal. No one told you to break up with Bethany." I roll my eyes.
"Oh yeah," I say, letting sarcasm flood my voice. "You just strongly implied that if we kept dating, I wouldn't be in the running for the promotion. That it would make the clients uncomfortable. I won't bother repeating the rest of the filth you said."
Robert stands up so I'm not shouting down at him.
"I don't like what you're insinuating," he harrumphs. God, I can't believe I've already wasted so much time here!
"Not insinuating," I spit at him, savoring the outrage that blooms on his face. "I'm outright telling you that you are a heartless, racist , entitled piece of shit. I'm done jumping through hoops when you know full well you're never going to treat me with the respect I deserve. Still proving myself while everyone else just waits for their uncles or dads to get them a coveted spot on a billion-dollar deal.
"You'll have to find another token minority to be your whipping boy, because I quit. Banks Ripley is a toxic place full of terrible people, and it's not worth it. None of this was worth it."
Without waiting for his response, I storm out of his office and to my desk. Luckily, I don't keep many personal items here, so I'm already in the elevators with my belongings before security can escort me out. I bet they'd all love to see that.
I burst out of the elevator and almost run headfirst into Bethany, who was waiting on the landing. What are the odds?
"Cory!" she says breathlessly, steadying the cups she's carrying in a flimsy coffee caddy. "You almost ran me over."
"Sorry," I offer, glancing at the security desk a few feet away.
"Listen," I start, edging around her and further into the lobby, "Now isn't really a great time, but I just wanted to say, how I treated you before wasn't cool. It was a shitty thing to do, and you didn't deserve it."
"No, I didn't," she murmurs back after a moment of stunned silence. I glance nervously at the security desk again.
"And you're doing well? I haven't seen you around."
She lifts her chin.
"I assumed that's what you wanted when you stopped answering my calls and avoided me when I came to see you."
"That may have been what it looked like, but no, that wasn't what I wanted."
I notice the guards closing in from my peripheral and edge closer to the building exit. Bethany glances at the guards, confused.
"What's going on, Cory?"
I reach out to squeeze her hand, then think better of it when the guards move closer.
"I can't really get into it now. What I can say is that you were great. It was never you."
She says nothing. Just looks at me with a mixture of confusion and disappointment.
When I dash for the doors, security doesn't follow. Once I'm off the premises, I'm not their problem. I'd bet good money I'm already locked out of my work account, too.
The late winter sun shines through an almost cloudless sky, warming me a little too much in my wool coat. Although I'm jobless, and may very well be homeless if I don't come up with a plan, a weight has been lifted. My days of pushing and shoving my way into a box I was never going to fit into are done . I'm sure the panic of quitting a six-figure job will hit soon, but for now, the pure relief I feel to be free from that cesspool washes over me, and I imagine what great things could be ahead for the first time in years.
"Hey, Cor! Thanks so much for coming in on a weekend," Tiffany says as soon as I check in at the front desk.
I smile and nod in greeting. With the workshop done, Tiffany guaranteed there'd be no surprise run-ins with Denise. Seeing her when I'm freshly unemployed would be like salt in the wound.
"Of course. Anything for the kids. I'm surprised you have any trouble getting volunteers with all the awesome programs you're running."
She snorts at that.
"Plenty of people are willing to come on a weeknight after work, but most people like to keep their weekends for themselves."
I just shrug.
"I never had a problem with Saturdays. Weeknights are tough with the hours I work." …Worked. "Plus, the classes on the weekend are way cooler."
I drop my messenger bag in the small classroom that's been turned into a staff and volunteer lounge, and return to the front desk.
" Speaking of weekend classes ," she starts with a raised eyebrow, "you were missed at the student show last month."
Luckily, none of the kids pushing past us notice the twinkle in her eye. She's one of Denise's best friends, so I'm guessing, by now, she knows all the details of what went down. Denise might not have told her, but I'm guessing Maya would. I keep my tone light.
"I couldn't make it," I answer, certain she sees right through the lie. She just nods.
"Well, if scheduling was the only issue," she starts carefully, "you still have another chance to see one of Denise's shows."
I huff out a sigh.
"As busy as this place keeps you, I'm surprised you have time to play matchmaker," I reply with a smirk. Denise once mentioned Tiffany was the nosiest of her friends and I totally see it now.
"I can't help it," she says, unrepentant. "It's been months and Denise is still moping around." She takes a sip of her coffee and looks at me over the rim. " Just like you . You think maybe there's some unfinished business there?"
More like barely started business . Things ended before we really got going. She made sure of it.
"Is this coming from you, or are you telling me this on her behalf?" We may have only dated a few months, but I know for sure Denise would be mortified by her friend's interference.
"It's coming from us ," Maya says, walking up to rest her forearms on the desk. Where the hell did she come from? "You know as well as we do that she's too stubborn to admit she made a mistake. But when you two were together, you were both so much happier, even if you kept the reason a secret from everyone."
Tiffany grins and nudges Maya's elbow with her own.
"What she said."
The halls are nearly empty; the sessions are about to begin. I start towards my room for the day, helping Ms. Watkins with her "Everyday Chemistry" class. They really do have everything her e, I marvel. Although they might benefit from a workshop on personal finance or investing for beginners…
"I'll take all of that under advisement," I say, earning an eye-roll from Tiffany. I can't help but chuckle.
They're probably exaggerating; Denise is no doubt fine on her own. But something loosens in my chest to learn she could be just as miserable as I've been these past months. Fine isn't good. Fine isn't thriving or better off without me .
Maybe I will check out the Bailey Maxwell show. Even if it was the right decision for my heart, it felt terrible to miss the student show after all those weeks with the kids. It won't be the big happily ever after I'm sure Tiffany's hoping for, but that doesn't mean I can't go and just stand in the back. One last look before I finally move on with my life.
Decision made, I pull out my phone to text Noah.
Noah
I know it's short notice, but could you possibly scrounge up tickets to Baily Maxwell's NYFW show?
Noah: How many do you need?