Twenty-Eight
ESSIE
I think about Dalton a lot—constantly, really. And on Friday, the only thing between us and our second stream—another night of mask-filled mayhem—is the fate of the bank.
When I arrive at the conference room at Hannington-Hale, Dalton is already waiting.
“Romero,” he says, bobbing his chin politely. He watches me unload the cups of coffee Warner told me to pick up, and when I take the seat next to him, he says, “I need you to do a good job on this call with Claudia. I got her in the door promising we wouldn’t mirror her father’s portfolio, but Hannington is going to push for status quo.”
And he doesn’t say the tricky part: Hannington is like a father to him, which makes disagreeing with him uniquely complicated.
“I’ll make you proud,” I promise.
Dalton studies me in silence before the corner of his lips rises. “Of course you will.”
Right then, Warner barrels into the conference room, expression grim. Without a word, he grabs the coffee cup in the center of the table and flicks away the plastic lid. “Goddamn edamame,” he mutters. “Have you seen the numbers on soybean futures? Even more of a reason to get Claudia in line. I need the consistency.”
“Valid, but it’s worth mentioning Essie’s forex model is done,” Dalton adds, cocking his head in my direction. “I tested it on Wednesday. I put in twenty. Worked as expected—if not better.”
I glance at Dalton. I didn’t know he understood how to use the model—or that he beta tested it with twenty-thousand out of his own pocket.
Hannington scoffs. “If you’re suggesting we ask the bank’s biggest fish to invest into a model an intern made, you’re out of your damn mind.”
“Essie worked on it for three months, it’s been vetted by the Internal Audit team, and I checked it myself. It’s perfect,” Dalton states.
“Status quo,” Warner reiterates before taking a sip of his coffee. “You persuaded Claudia to stick around, which is what I needed you to do, but at this point, I’m making the call.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, Claudia Villatoro joins the conference line, and Warner greets her with a cheerful, “Claudia, it’s a pleasure to meet again. How are you today?”
“Fine,” she answers, and her sigh projects through the conference room; she’s far from fine.
Warner’s eyebrow rises. “You have Dalton Cavendish and Essie…”
“Romero,” Dalton fills in, but his millisecond-smirk tells me he prefers the sound of Essie Cavendish.
“And this is a fifteen-minute check-in call,” Warner goes on. “Brief, but we can get a lot done.”
Another sigh. “And I have to fly to Geneva to handle my father’s mistress, so...”
“Dalton,” Warner murmurs, “take it away, son.”
Dalton sits quietly, glancing between Warner and the phone in the middle of the table before he inhales audibly. “I’ve gone over your legacy portfolio, and I have to say the performance has been stellar,” he begins before clenching his jaw like it’s physically painful. “What do you think about it?”
“Legacy. You’re endorsing holdings once selected by a man who wrote a million-dollar IOU on his mistress’s butt and took a picture, and now she’s claiming it’s binding,” Claudia responds. “Tell me if I got that right.”
“Yes…” Dalton confirms, glancing at Warner, who nods. “While I know a fresher approach—”
“A fresher approach is what you promised me, Harvard.”
Warner clears his throat. “Rest assured, there are new avenues here. Bernardo was invested in some early-in startups, but the prospect of foreign capital is compelling at the moment.”
He’s wrong—or he’s lying.
“No.” Claudia’s voice rises with a crackle through the speaker. “I combed through the financials myself and with the estate lawyer. It’s abundantly clear my father was heavily invested in foreign capital, and for you to gaslight me when I could tank your bank is insulting, Warner Hannington.”
The room is silent. Dalton clears his throat and glances at Warner, who bites down so hard that his cheeks are practically throbbing.
“Claudia,” Dalton begins, but Warner lifts a hand to stop him. “Wait,” he warns.
Irritated, Dalton faces me. His eyes lock on mine, speckled brown and focused, and he ticks his chin.
My eyebrows rise, and Dalton nods again.
Part of me can’t believe what he’s tacitly suggesting. After all, he’s banking on the model I built really delivering. But another part knows nothing is off the table with Dalton. This would be straight out of the Dalton Cavendish playbook: Ask for forgiveness, not permission.
…And I do like to play, especially when Dalton’s unwavering stare urges me—the same stare that connects with mine when I come around his cock.
“Claudia, as a happy medium, I can maximize your forex investments using an algorithmic model, which should free up capital,” I spill out in a breathless effort to say my piece before Warner cuts me off.
“I’m listening,” Claudia responds, right as Warner clears his throat.
“I built an algorithm,” I state, focusing on the phone to avoid looking at Warner.
“Which is in its early stages,” he caveats.
“Is it done?” Claudia asks me in Spanish, ignoring him.
“It is,” I confirm in Spanish. “You’re underperforming in forex—always have been. The bank gets the upside of you investing in something as volatile as currency, but my algorithm automatically sells at a risk threshold, which lowers the commission.”
“What you’re saying is, I can invest in forex at a risk reduction, which is likely to increase gains, and I could then use the gains to invest in a different asset. Good,” Claudia says. “That’s much better.”
Warner’s expression is tight. “I’m not sure what she said, but—”
“Warner, thank you for your time,” Claudia replies, speaking English now. “Essie has given me something to consider. I’ll come back with a decision.”
Before anyone can respond, the line sputters dead.
Immediately, Warner faces me. “What were you two thinking? You speak Spanish?” he demands, and his scrutiny is frostbitten tundra. “The fuck did you even promise her?”
“Warner,” Dalton cautions.
I clear my throat. “I said we were still going to invest in currency, but using the model I built—”
“You tried to sell her on an algorithmic model?” He forces out a laugh. “Jesus Christ—”
“Hey,” Dalton cuts in. “You’re not going to yell at her—not at the woman who may have just salvaged this bank.”
“The bank is salvaged when we get a transaction,” Warner retorts, slamming his palm violently enough to make his coffee splash.
Dalton’s hands are in fists underneath the table, but he lets out a slow breath. “Your office. Let’s go,” he instructs, and Warner shoves his chair and exits the conference room, making the glass door rattle.
With my hands gripping the edge of the table, I stare ahead. “Did I screw up?” My voice is intolerably soft.
“You did exactly what I needed you to,” Dalton replies, and his voice is soft again too—the tone he saves for me. “I’m going to take care of everything.”
“But—”
“You were perfect,” he assures me as he stands. “Be good until I can come back. I’ll handle this.”
***
Weston tracks me as I fall into my chair. “You pissed off my dad.”
“Thanks, that’s really helpful of you to say.” My stomach is churning and spinning, and I’m completely fine. Completely fine. Completely, completely fine fine fine.
“Hey, didn’t mean to make things worse,” he mentions. “I piss him off all the time.”
I glance at Weston and quickly put my attention back on my monitor. I’m truly not in the mood.
“Let’s take a walk,” he says, pushing his smiling face into my line of sight. “We can talk about it.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather stay here.”
“No? How about dinner then?” He smiles wider.
The churning and spinning in my stomach stops, and now a deep pull replaces them. “You’re my boss.”
“So? It’s dinner. You should be thinking about your career.”
“I am, and I don’t want to mix work and my personal life.”
“You don’t work here yet,” he reminds me in a slow, patronizing tone I’ve never heard him use before. “If that’s the issue…there are other banks. And frankly, if you don’t understand how important it is for you to have a good rapport with your manager, maybe you’re better off elsewhere.”
“Is this—” Extortion . I stop myself before I say it. Weston’s eyebrow is high with challenge, and I’m still trying to reconcile the vile insinuations and the man who made them. Weston was kind to me…
I’m not sure what’s happening.
“Excuse me,” I mutter.
Nausea is rising in my stomach as I hurry to the bathroom, but nothing comes up when I lean over the toilet. Still, when I look into the mirror, my flushed reflection looks back at me.
I press a paper towel against my forehead, dabbing my hairline and trying my best to pull myself together without smudging my makeup. I’m completely fine. I’m completely fine. I smile. Bigger. Teeth. Yes, perfect. I arrange my hair just so.
But my forehead still looks shiny.
So I blot again and again, and I realize I’m sweating, and I may also be crying, and my fist closes around the brown paper towel, and I squeeze—I squeeze squeeze squeeze until there are crescent indents in the palms of my hands. “FUCK,” I blurt out.
I’m tired.
I’m so tired.
I’m tired of men not listening to me.
I’m tired of working myself to the bone and still being treated like a girl cosplaying as a banker.
I’m tired of being small and sweet and quiet.
I’m tired of pretending I’m completely fine because I’m not fine.
I’m not fucking fine.
But I’m also a woman who fucks, who didn’t take no for an answer and got Dalton Cavendish. I’m a woman who makes money off her body—and enjoys it. I’m a woman who takes men’s money directly from their pockets for a living.
I toss the paper towel into the garbage and slam open the bathroom door. Then I’m charging. I’m flying. I fall into my chair, put on my headset, and dial a number I was personally given—a number nobody else has.
“Are you in Geneva yet?” I say as soon as the call connects.
“Not yet,” Claudia’s voice fills my ears. “Are you calling about that meeting? I don’t know how you put up with Hannington.”
“Our lines are monitored,” I remind her.
“I hope he hears it,” she replies, sounding almost bored. “So, how good is your algorithm?”
I shoot a look at Dalton across the bullpen. He’s still in Hannington’s office, fiddling with a stack of Post-it notes, but he stops when he notices me.
“It’s kind of spectacular,” I admit. I’m looking at the money Dalton put in without telling me; it’s grown—a lot. When I glance up, he’s descending the stairs into the bullpen, rolling the cuffs of his shirt. His stare pins me.
“Who are you talking to?” Weston asks, tapping his fingertips on my desk.
I ignore him. When Dalton is next to me, I mute my headset and say, “I’ve got Claudia on the line.”
“Move,” Dalton snaps at Weston, who slides out of his chair immediately. He puts on his headset and connects to the call, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s listening.
“I’m glad you called. I know two things to be true about our conversation today,” Claudia says. “The first, Hannington needs my money.”
I glance at Dalton, who shakes his head.
“Hannington definitely wants to keep you as a client,” I respond, not confirming her suspicion.
“The second,” Claudia continues, “is he doesn’t believe I know what I’m doing, and that’s not going to fly.” She’s quiet before she says, “If I gave you three million to play with, what would you do with it?”
I think my heart stops. Three million.
“ All in ,” Dalton encourages. “Tell her you’d go all in.”
“What’s going on?” Weston demands, knocking on the desk to get my attention. “Who—”
“ Not now ,” Dalton warns, raising his hand in Weston’s direction.
“Cavendish, this is my desk and my intern—”
Dalton spins in his chair and faces Weston. “Let’s be clear: There’s not even an alternate dimension where Essie Romero is yours in any way, shape, or fucking form, Weston.”
Weston’s eyes widen. Dalton has probably never spoken to him like that before. He may be surprised, but I’m not. I know this person who lives beneath Dalton’s ever-charismatic exterior—this person who is passionate and feels everything so profoundly. This person— this man —protects me.
Weston’s response is to snatch the headset off Cabrera’s head and connect to my line.
“Are you there?” Claudia questions.
“ The fuck ,” Weston mouths, glaring at me, “ are you doing ?”
“I would purchase yen first, and then I would apply the algorithm,” I explain, trying to lay it out as simply as possible. “Your upside has the potential to be astronomical.”
“And the downside?”
“Essie, this isn’t in your remit. Give the line to me,” Weston orders outright.
“Ignore him,” Dalton encourages, jutting his head into my line of sight. “Look at me. Keep going.”
“It’s risky to lean heavily on forex, but three million would be a small subset that could react to the minutia of market inefficiencies,” I reply, “but moreover, it’s not an actively managed fund.”
“Meaning…”
“Meaning the commission fees would be lower. Drastically.”
“You’re saying I can keep my money,” Claudia states. “The cut Hannington-Hale gets is smaller.”
“Right, on a per-client basis, but we can take more clients on. We just have to get them on board.”
Claudia clicks her tongue, and the line stays silent. Dalton hates silence, so he rises and shoves back Weston’s chair. He starts pacing.
“Say something,” Weston blurts out.
“ Do I? ” I mouth, looking at Dalton.
“ Never ,” Dalton mouths back, shaking his head in warning. “ Let her come to you. If you force it, she’s going to run .”
Claudia lets out an audible sigh. “And does everything hold if I scale to…let’s say…thirty million?”
Weston and Dalton both freeze—until Dalton starts nodding.
“Yes,” I confirm, and it’s becoming impossible to keep my tone even. “I built it. If there’s anything wrong with it, I’ll take full responsibility.”
“Tell me why I should take the word of a twenty-two-year-old computer science major.”
I pause. I don’t know how Claudia knows these things about me, but she does. Hedging my bets—taking a risk—I hope she knows far more about me than I realized. “Because I’ve never let anyone down, and I’m not about to start.”
Claudia is quiet again. “Good. Let’s do fifteen million.”
“Thirty,” I counter.
Dalton bites his fist at the same moment Weston gestures to me. “She can’t execute a transaction. She’s an intern,” he points out.
“Then I’ll execute the fucking transaction,” Dalton snaps before moving to the other side of the desk where there’s an open terminal. “Move.”
“Fine, thirty million,” Claudia agrees. Oh my fucking god .
Hands steady, Dalton puts the numbers into the terminal and looks at me. “Done.”
“Alright. Thirty million,” I confirm. “It’s done.”
“Fab. I’m off to Geneva now. Bye, love,” Claudia says before ending the call without any fanfare whatsoever.
Dalton and I stare at each other in stunned, unmoving silence. His face shifts from adrenaline to admiration, and he blinks, letting out a slow breath like he’s trying to make sense of me—and he smiles.
On the other side of the table, Weston slides the headset to his neck. “Holy shit,” he mutters.
Dalton circles the table, and I half expect him to pick me up and spin me, but he shakes my hand instead. And he claps his palm against my back and whispers in my ear so nobody else can hear, “I’m so proud of you.”
I’m so proud of you.
“Show me how proud you are tonight,” I whisper back.