Chapter 18
Daisy
“Beautiful and brilliant,” he says, arm stretched across the back of the curved booth, as he swirls his wine in his free hand.
Charisma. That’s the word that comes to mind as I sit across from Phillip Sterling.
Understated. Sublime. He’s a man who has aged well, and he reeks of money and success.
He sits across the table seemingly mesmerized by, well, me.
It’s easy to see how he could win over investors or convince employees to follow him even after a financial failure.
The question is…is this man a crook? Did he knowingly rip off unsuspecting novice investors like Alvin Reed?
Or does he genuinely believe he’s going to make his investors millions?
While I’ve been working on the architecture schema for the system he’s requesting, I’ve been researching, attempting to understand what to look for to determine whether he deliberately built a losing scheme.
But the more I study it, I’m not sure anyone purposefully builds a program destined for failure.
It seems like a situation that starts out with noble intent, and spirals into desperation.
If that’s what happened here, then is he really the scum I envisioned when I first set out on this endeavor?
I’m getting to know Toby, one of the sales guys, and he’s upbeat.
I don’t think he’s purposefully swindling anyone.
He’ll occasionally join in at lunch along the lines of “reeled in a big fish” and “hooked six figures,” but he’s a sales guy with a fishing fetish.
Given he spends hours without a single bite, his metaphor seems apt.
But then there’s Jocelyn’s death—someone covered it up. Did Phillip plan a cover up to prevent further scrutiny of a business on rocky ground, or did he cover it up because he killed her? Am I having lunch with a murderer?
Phillip practically insisted I share a glass with him, and that’s fine and all, but ritzy, boozy lunches aren’t my thing. In most of my jobs, I left the wining and dining to the other suits that managed me. At least not until ARGUS.
Rhodes is more my speed—a T-shirt wearing guy in a sports jacket who’d take me to a Thai hole-in-the-wall with mismatched chairs and the constant hum of an overworked air conditioner.
Where you can hear the conversation at the next table and the cook shouting orders, where everything smells like ginger and garlic.
Less than a month in, and I’ve been to a conference with Phillip, followed by dinner, and I’ve been to meetings followed by lunch, but he’s always pulled in others to join us and the conversation has been droll.
He’s always struck me as someone who surrounds himself with people who admire his status.
For whatever reason, he didn’t invite anyone to join us today, and I’m thankful his phone is keeping him preoccupied. But then he sets the device down on the table and I reach for my water, hoping he’s not expecting me to carry the conversation.
“Your work is impressive.”
And this is where a suit like Sterling gets himself in trouble. Yes, I’ve explained my idea for how to accomplish what he wants and the high-level architecture, but there’s no way he gets it to a degree he can grade it. He’s full of it.
“Thank you.” I toy with the corner of the napkin in my lap, a little concerned our food has yet to be delivered. This is going to be one long lunch.
The napkin feels like silk between my fingers. It’s the kind of luxury that makes me think of paper towels and how much more practical they are.
The restaurant reeks of old money—leather banquettes so buttery soft they probably cost more than my old car, and that cloying blend of cologne and truffle oil. Crystal stemware catches the light from chandeliers that belong in a museum, not a place where people eat lunch.
“Now, tell me about you.”
The corner of my lip itches, and I scratch, buying time to answer the kind of question they lob at interviews.
“You want the sixty-second elevator pitch?”
He smiles and his light blue eyes glimmer.
“I’ve already had the appetizer. I want more than sixty seconds.”
If this were a date, I’d be up and out of this booth with that slice of cheese. But it’s not a date. This is the way Phillip rolls. Only he’s not Velveeta, he’s more like French Brie. “There’s not much to say.”
“You’re beautiful, yet you hide it.” His fingers hover near my temple, ostensibly brushing away an imaginary eyelash, but lingering a beat too long. My skin crawls. I lean back, disguising the recoil by reaching for my water glass, pretty sure there was never anything there to brush away.
If he’d known me a few years ago when I went through an eyeliner stick every two weeks, maybe he’d have a point about hiding the natural beauty. But now…I feel like I’ve evolved into a what-you-see-is-what-you-get chick.
“You have such potential.” His eyes trace from my face down to my collarbone before returning to meet my gaze.
“With the right...guidance, you could command any room.” The way he says guidance makes my stomach twist, and I tug my blazer closed, suddenly feeling exposed despite being fully dressed.
“But you don’t need to impress others. Your mind is impressive. And that’s why I invited you to lunch.”
There’s something in his tone—the same cadence a car salesman uses when he’s found your weakness. I press my back against the booth, creating distance, but he interprets it as relaxation and leans forward, claiming the space I’ve abandoned.
“Spending too much time with people aiming to impress you?” That might have come out a little too snarky, but we don’t have our food yet, and I have no idea where he is going with this, and he needs to tone it down.
“Ms. Jonas, I’d like to offer you the position of Chief Technology Officer.”
That’s a sharp change in subject, but a welcome turn. I process the title—a suit role. “That sounds impressive,” I say, reaching for my wineglass. This gig’s temporary, but I can play along. “Is this a new position?”
“Created just for you.”
He can’t mean that. “Sterling Financial is evolving into a tech company, so it makes sense that you would have a CTO.”
His lips spread into a smile that reveals teeth, and a solid dose of ick climbs my spine.
“For the first year, the base salary would be twelve million, with stock options.”
I almost spit out my wine—almost.
“Yes, it’s a generous offer,” he says, looking incredibly pleased. “You can hire a team as needed.”
Once I stop choking, I evaluate his math. I’m sure he’s received estimates from firms to build the system he wants, and if I can do it for him by managing a few worker bees, promoting me may be a steal.
“The bids you got to build the system—came in high?” I’m more curious than anything. Why not show me the bids? Is he afraid I’d ask for more money? I’m already doing the work. And does he know enough to structure a project proposal?
He toys with the knife lying on the tablecloth.
“Like I said, beautiful and intelligent.” His smile leans into predatory.
“Your boyfriend is a lucky man. Though I have to wonder...” He pauses, swirling his wine, letting the implication hang in the air like smoke.
My throat constricts. I know that pause.
It’s the same one my mother’s ex-boyfriends used before suggesting I was “mature for my age.”
I force a smile.
If he weren’t so sleazy, this wouldn’t feel so revolting. Would it?
He raises his wine glass and sips, but I can see the smile behind the crystal.
Thank god Jake pretended to be my boyfriend. I’m fairly certain if he hadn’t, Phillip’s hand would be on my thigh right about now. So, so, so icky.
“I met with the board. Told them our plans. What you’re building. They believe to sufficiently sell our new tool, we need to expand our C-Suite. Are you familiar with the phrase?”
“The Chief Suite?” I answer, using one of the more diplomatic answers in my repertoire, at least compared to Stooge Suite, Masters of Coin, Top Brass, Head Honchos, or Ego Bitches.
“Of course. You come from ARGUS. Of course you’re familiar.
We’ve got a bright future, and you can be an important part of that future.
Cha-ching, cha-ching.” That noise right there should have me running, but I recognize it as his salesman schtick.
He thinks that’s a winning noise, and hell, maybe it is.
“We’re talking big time, Daisy. What do you say? ”
“I’ll need to see the offer and think it over.”
“Do you have another offer you’re considering?” He shifts, his arm no longer thrown on the back of the booth, those light blue eyes studious. Any hint of flirtation gone.
“No, nothing like that,” I answer somewhat truthfully. I mean, sure, if I wanted, I could go back and ask Rhodes to match, but I don’t know what ARGUS can afford. And twelve million strikes me as obscene. Greedy.
“How is your mother doing?” The question splashes like ice water.
I have never mentioned my mother to this man.
“Still living in that same apartment in Van Nuys?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
The conversation has shifted—it’s now a demonstration.
He knows where my mother lives. He’s done his homework. “Isn’t she approaching retirement age?”
I refrain from scoffing. If my mother gets a check for a hundred dollars, she spends one twenty. She’ll never be able to retire.
“You could give her the retirement of her dreams.”
He’s right. One month, I mean, I don’t know what that is after taxes, but it’s a lot.
ARGUS covers my expenses. I could set aside every check from Sterling Financial and put it into a retirement fund for my mother.
I’d need to manage it, but she could move into a condo with a pool that has water in it.
She’d want to stay in LA. She dreams of making it as an actress…
She’ll never give up her dream. That salary wouldn’t only change my life, it would change hers.
“Should I order us champagne?”
“Let me think about it.”
I force my voice to stay level, calling on every terrible corporate meeting I’ve ever endured. Smile. Nod. Be mature. Play it cool. But my fingers keep finding my rings, twisting them—a nervous habit I should outgrow.
It’s one thing to take a contract job to better understand the inner workings of a criminal scheme. It’s quite another to take on an executive role. There might even be legal ramifications.
His phone hums. I can’t tell if that’s the ringtone he’s chosen or if that’s his vibration setting, but I empty the wine glass as he answers, a little blown away by what he’s offering. None of this is going according to my plan.
“No. Do not.” His clipped, deep tones catch my attention. Whoever he’s talking to is receiving a markedly different version of Phillip Sterling. He places his napkin on the table and slides out of the booth. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
He slides the phone back into his coat pocket and pulls out a wallet—leather so supple it probably had a birth certificate.
The Platinum American Express business card he passes me catches the light like a small mirror, heavy and substantial in a way that feels more like a weapon than payment.
Even his credit card is designed to intimidate.
“I’m sorry. No rest for the weary. Stay. Enjoy lunch. The company car will be ready to pick you up in a…what do you think…thirty minutes? Hour?”
“I’ll get a cab. Don’t worry about it.”
“Perhaps I can make this up to you with dinner sometime.”
I don’t need to fake a smile or any kind of response at all because he’s striding to the door.
A woman sitting across from us in a similar booth diverts her gaze when I catch her staring—diamonds at her throat flashing in the light.
Her companions speak in that particular cadence of people who’ve never had to check their bank balance, words floating on air thick with entitlement and expensive perfume.
Not that there’s any reason for her or anyone else to stare. My boss got called out on an emergency. I suppose I can get his lunch boxed to go. If he doesn’t want it, I can bring it back to the condo and either Jake or I can eat it. We’re at an Italian place and he ordered an antipasto salad.
Of course, he just offered to pay me a twelve-million-dollar annual salary, and I’m thinking about the leftovers from lunch. Maybe I need to readjust my mindset.