Chapter Two
A n uncomfortable tension twists in my lungs. My brows squeeze together, and I’m convinced that I’ve misheard my name. I’ve blacked out, and I’m going to wake up staring at the glass ceiling.
I’m imagining Rafe standing over me, an eyebrow arched in disdain. Molly trying to revive me as she gently slaps my cheeks. Brian yelling about how he’s a seven and asking if he should text his date from last night.
“Tris,” Molly hisses. “Tris!” Her fingers dig into my arm as she shakes me loose. “Go! Charles just called your name.”
My mouth parts with a surprised breath. “That can’t be. That makes no sense.”
“Miss Malik,” Charles says. “Will you please come to the front?”
Heads are turning, people peering through the crowd, wondering why the second lucky contestant hasn’t floated up to accept her tiara.
“Tris,” Molly hisses again. “Go!”
“He said my name,” I hiss out the side of my mouth, my eyes never leaving the towering forms of David, Charles, and Rafe Gallagher, who study me like a snarling three-headed beast, ready to tear me limb from limb.
“Yes! That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Molly shakes me again, placing her hand in the middle of my back, attempting to dislodge my ass from my chair.
“But why?”
Molly is panicking as hundreds of curious stares find me in the crowd. “Go!”
It feels like I’ve just done something very, very wrong.
“Miss Malik,” comes a different voice. This time it’s David. He’s taken the mic from his brother, and his gaze bores into me like he wants to tear out my spleen and feed it to his pet hyena. I see where his son gets it. “Please. Will you join us at the front?”
Finally. Finally , my brain catches up with my body, and I push myself up, wincing at the sting as my thighs tear away from the rough plastic. I place one foot carefully in front of the other. It’s a good thing I’m wearing flats today. My legs feel as hollow as plastic straws as I reach the front.
The room is awkwardly silent. They must wonder why I’m acting so strange.
Why am I acting so strange?
Because this shouldn’t be me.
Because I graduated with a 4.0 GPA, and I was supposed to do things. I was supposed to make something of myself. And I tried. I really did.
After finishing college at the top of my class, I snagged a great job at an environmental start-up—one of those cool, hip places with an espresso lounge, unlimited PTO, and a pool table in the middle of the floor. I thought I’d make a difference working directly with large corporations to minimize their adverse environmental impacts.
But that turned out to be a complete disaster, some of it my fault and some of it not.
When an opening at WMC presented itself, I was desperate. The job involved project management and engineering design for clients in the energy and mining sectors. It wasn’t what I ever saw myself doing, but it felt like I had no choice.
I was shocked when they offered me the position, and I accepted it on the spot.
So, I tried to put the past behind me and decided this would be my dream instead. I settled in to assemble the next thirty-odd years of my career with my sights set on the corner office and the hairline cracks in the thick glass ceiling over my head.
But I hadn’t counted on just how deeply the stagnant stick of sexism remains rooted in the mud—even if they built the engineering building where I finished my degree without a single women’s bathroom.
First, I was passed over for a supervisor promotion in favor of a man with less experience and fewer projects under his belt. That was three years ago. Then there was the operations manager job that went to a man less than a year from retirement and a string of reprimands on his employment record. Then there was the department head job that went to a man—nay, a boy—who had arrived fresh from college and whose dad worked alongside David.
Little by little, each of these insults chipped pieces of me away. Battered by the elements, the edges of my ambition slowly eroded into a shapeless, worn surface.
Then, a year ago, an opening came up for team lead of the environmental division.
I’d worked in each of the five departments that formed the division. My record was impeccable. I’d exceeded all of my KPIs. I’d demonstrated my ability to lead over and over, stepping up to help solve every problem we ran into. I poured my heart and soul into the application. Done all they’d asked of me. And they gave the job to Rafe.
To make matters worse, Rafe then found my presence so objectionable that he asked to have me moved to a different team so I wouldn’t be reporting to him. And though I can’t really explain it, that hurt more than I’ve ever been able to admit out loud.
It was the final dart straight to the center of my chest. I went into myself for weeks until Molly finally dragged me out. But the fight died in me then. None of it seemed worth it anymore.
Now, I come to work and do what I’m asked, but I’ve stopped trying to excel. I am no longer one of this company’s bright young stars. My shine wore off long ago.
So, what am I doing up here?
Somewhat tentatively, I approach the center of the platform, where Rafe waits with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his designer jeans. Casual Friday suits him—of course it does. Everything looks good on him.
“Excellent,” Charles says, gesturing me closer with a hand hovering an inch above my shoulder. He positions me next to Rafe, a foot of space separating us. Charles is saying something else about the retreat, but I’ve stopped listening, white noise roaring in my ears.
“Let’s get a picture,” Charles says, gesturing to his executive assistant, Belinda. She’s on the floor, perched in a squat, her phone aimed at us like a medieval crossbow.
“Stand together,” she orders, waving her hands. I don’t move, I can’t move, but Rafe shifts an infinitesimal inch.
“Closer!” Her high-pitched screech is so unnerving that I finally do as she asks and move a fraction closer to Rafe.
Belinda sighs and stands up with her hands on her hips.
“What is wrong with you?” She walks towards the platform, lays her hand on my calf, and shoves . Surely, this is some kind of HR violation. I stumble, and Rafe’s hand catches my waist, steadying me. That simple touch burns through the fabric of my dress as a sharp inhale scrapes the back of my throat. What the hell was that?
Tossing a dark look over my shoulder, I find Rafe looking down at me with a devious smirk. I don’t think I’ve ever stood this close to him—has he always been so tall?
“Careful, Malik,” he says.
It’s so low it’s a whisper, but his voice stamps itself between my shoulder blades, sending the worst kind of shiver down my spine. I narrow my eyes before turning back to Belinda.
“Slide in just behind her,” Belinda orders, and Rafe must also feel the pinch of her screech because he concedes.
Now he’s standing so close I can feel the warmth of his body. He smells like soap and fresh laundry. No cologne. It’s casual day, and this is Rafe’s natural smell. Why am I even noticing this? I can’t stand Rafe Gallagher. He’s a jerk, and I’ve never met anyone more full of himself. He’s eye candy. Nothing more.
To prove my point (solely to myself), I flip a thick lock of my black hair over my shoulder, lashing it against his chest with the ferocity of a lion tamer’s whip. I hear him emit a small grunt, but he says nothing in response.
My own smirk is triumphant. Score 1 Trishara.
Belinda returns to her crouch, pointing her camera at us. I feel the curiosity of every eye in the room and applaud my rigid stance on casual Fridays. I look amazing in this dress. It makes my waist look tiny and my butt look high and round. It was worth the hours spent hunting through the racks of my favorite discounted designer shop.
Belinda takes approximately three thousand photos as I breathe through my mouth, trying not to ingest a single stray particle of Rafe’s aroma. She stands, nods at her phone, and taps on the screen. “This will be perfect for the company newsletter.”
Finally released from her web, Rafe and I break apart. I shake off the lingering effects of my body’s traitorous physical reactions. Even if he wasn’t the world’s biggest asshole, Rafe has a girlfriend, Hannah. I think. Molly and I actually have a theory they’ve broken up because I overheard him on the phone in his office ages ago discussing rings with what I assumed was a jeweler, but an announcement never came.
I fully expected her to show it off at the office summer barbecue last month, but Rafe attended alone. Maybe she was just busy.
Regardless, she’s thin and tanned, with long blond hair and blue eyes. The kind of woman practically every straight man lusts over. Gorgeous and sexy and supermodelish. I’ve only met her a few times at various company functions, and she sort of treated me like I was beneath her notice. But I also only briefly interacted with her, so who knows? She might have simply been expressing herself because she finds work parties boring. I know I do.
“How about a round of applause for our lucky pair?” Charles says into the microphone, and the room erupts into clapping amid demands to get to the cake. “Please enjoy some refreshments and have a great rest of your day.”
At that, the room erupts into chatter as the herd lumbers towards a long table where an army of tidy frosted white cake squares have been set out on tiny paper plates. Giant coolers sit at the end, where lemonade is poured into clear plastic cups.
Molly runs over and hops up on the stage. “This is going to be amazing!” Her eyes shine with zero sums of jealousy. I’m so lucky to have her.
“It doesn’t make any sense. Why me?”
“That’s a good question.” Rory stands on the other side of me now, his shoulders stooped, glowering at me with a pair of dull green eyes. He steps forward, lips twisted into an ugly sneer. “How did you—”
“Don’t,” Rafe practically snarls, a large hand clamping onto his cousin’s shoulder and jerking him back. “Shut up before you say something stupid. As usual.”
Rory pins Rafe with a glare. “How did she swing this?” He points an accusing finger as though I’m the one responsible. Molly bristles, her chest puffing up like an angry peacock.
“Just shut up, Rory,” Rafe says again, his jaw hard and his eyes flashing. “Go have some cake.” His command oozes with authority, and my stomach tightens just a little bit. But why is he defending me?
“Fine. Have fun in Hawaii,” Rory spits with a stream of venom before turning and heading for the front of the cake line, shoving his way in like the asshole he is.
“Sorry about that,” Rafe says, assessing me up and down as though he’s also searching for an explanation written on my skin.
“I don’t need you speaking for me,” I bite out.
Rafe’s mouth flattens into a line as Molly tugs on my hand. “C’mon. Let’s get some cake too.”
I scan the room, looking for David or Charles Gallagher, but they’ve already escaped.
I turn to Molly. “Get me a piece, will you? I need to do something first.”
Without waiting for a response, I toss a glare to Rafe and then hop off the stage, heading towards Charles’s office.
“Tris! Where are you going?” Molly calls.
“I just need to talk to them,” I shout back as I exit the atrium and beeline for Charles’s office.
Belinda’s desk sits empty outside the wide double doors. She’s probably in the cake line. One door sits slightly ajar, and I hear David and Charles talking. I don’t bother to knock as I burst into the room.
Both men turn at my entrance, their eyebrows raised. David Gallagher, in his flawless suit, is so damn intimidating that I clutch my stomach and regret my decision to come storming in. But I gather the shreds of my courage and straighten my shoulders.
“What is it, Miss Malik?” David asks with a chilly gaze.
Miss Malik. Women in this office are always referred to as miss like we’re all in a regency period drama. Only the men are granted the dignity of their first names. I plant my fists on my hips and adopt my most put-upon look.
“Why was I selected for the leadership retreat?”
A brief pause hangs in the room before David answers. “As one of the company’s bright young minds, we felt you earned the opportunity to represent the Chicago branch.”
His face is so straight you could hang a fireplace mantel by it.
“Bullshit.” The word erupts from my mouth—nearly five years of disappointment launched at him in two acidic syllables. “I’ve been passed over for every opportunity I’ve ever applied for at this company. I’ve barely advanced in the almost five years I’ve worked here.”
At first, I’m unsure if I imagine the guilt crossing David’s face.
The two men exchange an uncomfortable look I can’t parse.
“We’d like to give this opportunity to someone who represents the future of this company,” David says, leaning against Charles’s desk as he folds his arms and crosses one ankle over the other. “You are correct that we’ve been remiss in recognizing your talents and those of many others. WMC is taking the necessary steps to correct that.”
The skin on the back of my scalp burns hot. “Excuse me?”
“We understand that WMC is lacking in certain areas, Miss Malik. And we’d like to do something about that, starting by offering you a spot at the retreat.”
I blink, unsure about how to feel about this. He isn’t wrong. WMC should be doing more to encourage a more diversified workforce, and something like the leadership retreat is a perfect way to do that. Attending will open doors left and right.
But something about this conversation feels off.
“Is this for me or to make you look good?” I ask.
David levels me with a confident look, his eyes the same fathomless brown as Rafe’s. The color of deep dark holes drilled into the center of the earth.
“We’re sending you because we see a lot of potential in you, Miss Malik.”
“So, you admit I should have been awarded at least one of those promotions?”
His expression gives away nothing, and I make a mental note never to agree to a game of poker.
I already know he’s the kind of man who votes left every four years because he likes the idea of a world built on equality, but he’s also never had to consider what that really means beyond his limited worldview.
There’s doing the right thing, and there’s doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.
“Do you want to go or not?” he asks, clearly deflecting my question.
“Of course I want to go.”
I do want to go. I do want this chance, but I can’t help but feel like this is also some sort of trap.
“Then what is the problem here?”
I’m not sure where to begin. I weigh salient arguments and articulate scathing points in my head, prepared to spear him with my logic and fire his detestable privilege at him like a cannon. I want it to hurt. I want it to burn .
Instead, what comes out of my mouth is “I want to fly first class.”
This isn’t my proudest moment.
David blinks. It’s the only chink in his suit of Armani armor.
“Very well.”
He glances over his shoulder at Charles, who wears a worried expression, his hands clasped on his desk as if wishing he could hide under it.
“Have Mrs. Hunt book a first-class flight for Miss Malik.”
Charles nods slowly.
“And I want a suite,” I continue. “On the top floor. A big one with a balcony and a view of the ocean.”
“Fine,” David says, the cool edge of his tone faltering just the tiniest bit.
I fold my arms and cock my hip. “And new luggage.”
I’m on a roll now, and I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Put it on your corporate card. Charles will approve the expense.”
I try not to let my surprise show at how well this is working. He definitely has something to gain here, too.
“And I want a raise.”
“Miss Malik,” David says, a warning nestled in his voice. I raise my hands in surrender. Fine, that was one ask too many.
I’ll return to this later because I’m sure we’re wading into murky legislative waters.
But I also know HR departments exist to protect the companies they work for, not their employees, so today, I’m deciding on the path of least resistance. I don’t like it, but maybe this retreat—despite everything—is a chance to start fresh and regain what I lost. One last gasp before I finally concede that this place isn’t a part of the future I want for myself.
“Okay, fine. No raise.”
“Are we good here?” David tilts his head and pins me with a dark look that rivals his son’s. I wonder if they practice together in front of a mirror, out-glaring one another.
I nod. For now, we are.
He dips his chin in response.
“Then have a nice time, Miss Malik.”