Chapter 4
Wayward knew it already: He was in trouble.
From outside, someone pounded away furiously. “Wayward!” he heard them shout. “Do I need to break down this door?”
Still gasping for air, Wayward pawed at the faucet and splashed cold water onto his face. He felt like he was burning alive
from within, like hellfire was coursing its way out of him. The pounding on the door continued, shaking the room with it.
Dammit, Wayward, pull yourself together, you worthless piece of shit!
Staring at himself in the mirror, he raised a fist, as though to smash his reflection. But then he paused, taking in a deep
breath.
“Five,” he intoned, remembering what he had learned at the clinic.
Clear your mind, Wayward. Deep breaths.
“Four.”
Everything is going to be okay. Unless I fuck it up, of course.
“Three.”
It’s just the biggest moment of your life. No big deal.
“Two . . .”
But was it all worth it?
“?Cono de la madre!” Cursing to herself, Bessie Machado panicked about what to do next.
She had been sitting at her desk right next to Wayward’s office when she had heard a blood-curdling scream. She rushed in
to find Wayward missing and his private restroom locked shut. And though she thought she heard sounds coming from inside,
her repeated knocking went unanswered.
Just as Bessie was about to call for help, the door calmly opened and out stepped Wayward Sun-Kwok in a pristinely crisp slate
gray suit, not a pomaded hair out of place.
“Wayward!” she exclaimed, relieved. “What was that scream? It sounded like someone was being murdered!”
Wayward wiped some stray droplets of water from his face as he paced toward his spectacular view. His corner office in Century
City’s tallest building had a two-hundred-seventy-degree panorama of Los Angeles, from the mansion-dotted Hills and stretching
all the way into the hazy San Gabriel Valley.
He turned back to look at her, a funny expression on his face. “Bessie, the only thing being murdered today is failure.” He
gave her a quick but warm grin and sat down behind his gleaming glass desk, completely bare except for his laptop and a tall
iced Americano, and resumed the last-minute touches on their presentation.
Bessie sighed. She knew better than to press further. At least he seemed all right. Bessie had learned early on that working
with the intensely private Wayward had its daily mysteries.
Three years prior, she had been just one of many nameless summer interns when Wayward had plucked her out of the basement mailroom to be his assistant.
She had been shocked; she was sure she had fumbled the interview badly because of nerves.
Plus, she wasn’t from some fancy Ivy League like everyone else, or even from this country for that matter.
Wayward had just been grandly promoted and had his pick of the pack, so why did he choose her?
On her first day on his desk, she’d mustered up the courage to ask him. He had looked surprised by her. “Because you have
a soul. Simple as that.” He then handed her a stack of her business cards, her first ever. “Besides,” he added with a rare
smile, “we underdogs should stick together.”
And stick together the two of them had. Wayward had been right about Bessie. She might not have been confident at first, but
she was a fast learner and an innovative thinker. With her support, which quickly evolved into a genuine partnership, Wayward
thrived in his new role as the youngest director in their company. When he was promoted to vice president last year, he brought
her up with him to inherit his former post as the new youngest director.
Bookishly attractive with generous curves, long brunette hair that complemented her fair skin, and round glasses, the Venezuelan-born
Bessie Machado had come into the United States as a political refugee right after graduating from Universidade de S?o Paulo
in Brazil. As an immigrant, what she had thought would be a personal disadvantage was actually professional fate: Both she
and Wayward shared a ground-breaking ambition, and Wayward’s eyes were set on South America as their starting point. Bessie’s
background and cultural understanding proved invaluable to their bold endeavor.
If they were successful, the ramifications would be literally world changing. This company of theirs was an infamous global
conglomerate specializing in construction and commercial logging, responsible for multiple unforgivable crimes against nature,
including mass deforestation of the rainforest. Yet from within the belly of this beast, Wayward and Bessie were going
to change it for the better.
But as close as they were as workplace confidants, Bessie would never say she was close to Wayward personally.
Some of their colleagues jokingly referred to Wayward as “Chinese American Psycho,” but Bessie’s gentler take on her boss was that he just had a lot of boundaries.
Being who he was, it made sense to her that he would be private.
She did catch tidbits here and there about his life outside of his corner office.
For instance, for years a handsome sweetheart named Jamaal would call for Wayward or come meet him for lunch or even pick him up after work.
But Jamaal had not reappeared for many months now.
Like with all things Wayward, Bessie knew better than to ask about Jamaal, whoever he was. But she cared about Wayward and
just hoped that he had not been hurt, even if he would never show it. Sometimes, she wondered if he was taking on a bit too
much.
And now, apparently, he was screaming in his restroom. Bessie was no alarmist. She was born in Caracas during a coup d’etát
and had seen plenty in her life. But Wayward had her officially worried.
That bloodcurdling scream still ringing in her ears, Bessie watched as her boss click-clacked away at his keyboard, cool as
a cat and completely absorbed in his work. Outside, the sun had made its way to the other side of their building and shone
behind him, backlighting him.
Wayward Sun-Kwok was not conventionally handsome, certainly not like his celebrity heartthrob cousin Sunbern, but he possessed
striking features which harmonized together in a way that he too turned heads. His hooded eyes were narrow and long lashed,
his nose was boldly structured and flared, and his lips were pale red and naturally upturned. He was not overly tall, but
he had impeccable posture and lean musculature. He was always clean-shaven, but at only twenty-nine years of age, there was
already silver encroaching upon his temples, betraying the old soul within.
“Hey, jefe,” Bessie finally said, using her old nickname for him.
He glanced up, frowning a bit at the interruption. “What’s up?”
“If you ever need to talk, Wayward, you know that I’m here, right?” Already she felt like she was intruding.
For a second Wayward seemed to be considering whether to answer. But then he looked down at his watch and snapped his laptop
shut.
“We’re late,” he said as he stood up. He breezed past her out of the office.
Bessie looked at her own watch. The board meeting was not supposed to start for another fifteen minutes; they were not late
at all. Oh well, she sighed to herself. Psychoanalyzing Wayward was above her pay grade.
She caught up with him at the elevator as he held its door open.
“We’ve been working toward today for a long time,” Wayward said to her as they entered. “I don’t say it enough, but I really
appreciate you, Bessie.”
She smiled back at him, hoping she didn’t look worried. “You’re going to murder failure, jefe! And save the world while you’re
at it.”
He laughed.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. They were now on the top floor of the building. The duo strode out, past the
receptionist, into the grand boardroom furnished with rich bloodwood accents.
The other vice presidents were already seated at the massive conference table, with their respective directors behind them.
Taking a deep breath, Bessie sat behind Wayward as an A/V assistant connected his laptop to the appropriate cables.
A fellow director leaned over to her. “I hear the Pitbull is on a tear today,” he whispered.
“Shocker,” Bessie mouthed back, adjusting her glasses a bit apprehensively.
Their repartee was interrupted as the company board members filed in. Everyone stood up respectfully. Bessie watched from behind Wayward as a line of old Asian men took the seats across from them.
Bessie waited knowingly. The Pitbull was always a few seconds behind.
Finally she appeared. The legendary CEO of Sunfang Global walked to her seat at the center of the table and then nodded at
the row of men flanking her on either side.
She sat down across from her nephew Wayward Sun-Kwok.
“Gentlemen,” Roses Sun said with a curt nod. “Shall we begin?”
A few miles away in Brentwood, Iris Sun-Kwok was reading the news on her Sunfang phone while caffeinating away her jet lag
with a third cup of strong oolong tea. Looking up, she caught sight of her favorite niece rushing into the dim sum restaurant,
looking a bit disheveled. Iris waved April over as she removed her Chanel sunglasses.
As she made her way past the waitresses hawking shumai and pork buns, April Sun could not help but be a bit irked. Things
were already tense at home—she and her mother, Roses, had not spoken or even looked each other in the eye since their blowout
two days ago—and when her Aunt Iris had texted her insisting to meet as soon as possible, April’s anxiety had been at full
peak. And Meadow was home sick with stomach flu.
“Auntie Iris, you fabulous jet-setter! I didn’t know you were already back from your vacation,” April said after kissing Iris
on the cheek. She sat down as a waiter poured tea for her. “How was Southeast Asia?”
“A whirlwind,” Iris replied, recalling the Mongolian blizzard she had escaped less than a day ago. “You must come with me
next time!”