Worth Fighting For (Meant To Be #5)

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

I t is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman working in finance must work twice as hard, worry twice as much, and get approximately 50% less sleep than her male coworkers. But if you met me, you’d never know it. I doubt even my male coworkers do.

I look at Josh, who’s been talking without catching a single breath for the last five minutes, oblivious to the fact that I might want to respond. As one of the latest hires, Josh is the firm’s most junior of analysts, and yet the way he talks to me is so patronizing that if anyone glanced at us, they’d assume he’s my boss. Josh is the epitome of the finance bro. He’s just so…there are no other words for it— finance bro-y .

I place my cup carefully on the table and take a deep breath, making sure my voice comes out evenly when I finally speak. When I first started working here five years ago, I made the mistake of raising my voice at one of the analysts, and it took me years to shed the reputation of being “hysterical.” Never mind the fact that every male employee here has, at one point or another, straight-out yelled at people without any repercussions. I clear my throat, hoping it will be enough of a signal to Josh to stop talking. It isn’t.

“Very good,” I say, finally. It isn’t good, actually. It’s the most opposite of good that ever opposited. But that’s the thing about this job, isn’t it? It requires me to wear so many masks, layer upon layer of them: Fun finance bro who can let loose. Supportive supervisor who challenges the newer recruits to do better. Diligent, brilliant analyst who doesn’t make a single mistake.

Josh leans back, a smug smile spreading across his face, and places his right ankle over his left knee. He looks ready to receive a lot of praise.

Over the years, the firm has only managed to hire two female analysts, and Lisa moved to the East Coast last year, leaving us with Hayley, who has just gone on maternity leave. I try not to dwell on the stress of losing both our female analysts in such a short period of time, but it’s so hard not to. With Lisa and Hayley, I could just shoot straight to the point. But with the likes of Josh, I have to appeal to his male ego and give my critique with the same amount of gentleness that a mother would reserve for her newborn baby.

“Great analysis, Josh,” I say.

Josh’s smile brightens, and I wonder for the hundredth time how it is possible that he has a degree in finance from UCLA. The cash-free debt-free leveraged buyout model that he has created is technically sound, but also wildly optimistic. If it had been Hayley or Lisa presenting these projections, the other analysts would have laughed them out of the office. Eyes would roll and comments would be made about how women live in fantasy worlds where dreams come true and numbers magically add up.

“I do wonder,” I continue in what I hope is a neutral tone, “if the management team’s projections are perhaps a tad optimistic.” Sometimes, my nightmares are narrated by this neutral voice of mine. I hate the voice, hate that I have to use it so often around here.

The corners of Josh’s mouth pull down and he straightens up. “Oh, not at all. Maybe you didn’t understand the financial forecast—hang on, let me pull up slide seven—here we are. This is what we call multiple linear regression.”

I grit my teeth and try my best to ignore the condescension in Josh’s voice. “Oh, I understood it perfectly. Except you seem to have missed the steep increase in production costs that would cut into the company’s profit margin.”

“Ah,” Josh says in what he probably thinks is a cunning voice, “I did catch that. I had a talk with the management team and they said they’re already in talks about opening up a factory somewhere in Southeast Asia to cut down on production costs, maybe in Indonesia.”

I sigh. “That just opens up a whole host of other issues, like making sure that their factory is run ethically, not to mention that every country has different efficacy. Have you looked into how efficient factories in Indonesia are compared to factories run here? They might be cheaper to run, but if they’re going to be sixty percent less efficient, then that also needs to be taken into account.”

Josh opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to keep arguing, but I hold up a hand. “Look, Josh, I’m not saying that your quantitative analysis isn’t good—in fact, it is very good—” God, how many times do I need to reassure him? “But it must always be guided by a sound understanding of the underlying business. I think you could make it even better by coming up with more scenarios. Ones that are less optimistic. Just to make your analysis more complete.”

“With all due respect—”

I bite back an inward sigh. Whenever finance bros say With all due respect, I know that what they really mean is: You stupid little girl, let me tell you every way in which you are wrong. Time for an intervention. I glance over Josh’s shoulder. My office has glass walls, which means I can look out, straight into Mushu’s wide eyes. Good old Mushu. I can always count on her to help end otherwise endless meetings with finance analysts who think it’s their god-given duty to explain all the basics of finance to me, as if I hadn’t graduated summa cum laude from Princeton with a degree in finance. Now I scratch the tip of my eyebrow: a signal for Mushu to come in with some made-up reason.

It’s a challenge not to grin when Mushu leaps out of her seat with her usual exaggerated movement and bursts into my office, out of breath. “Mulan!” she cries. “You have to come quick. There’s an emergency.”

Josh whirls around, his mouth falling open. “Excuse me, but we’re in an important meeting?”

“Yeah, okay, calm down, you’re presenting a small LBO model for review. I’d hardly call that important,” Mushu snaps.

I choke on my latte. Coughing, I say, “Sorr—” I manage to stop myself from completing the apology, and switch instead to “Josh, thank you for your understanding. Please come up with more scenarios like we agreed on and I’ll review it at my earliest convenience.” I stand before Josh has time to formulate a response.

Visibly confused and annoyed, Josh picks up his laptop and strides out of the office, giving Mushu a dirty look as he brushes past. As soon as the door swings shut behind him, Mushu walks to me, holding out her fist. “Good job, cuz, you managed to not apologize to that jackass.”

“Mushu, for the last time, we are a professional private equity firm, we do not bump fists in the office.”

Mushu holds her arms up. “My bad. Butt bump?” She sticks her butt out.

I can’t help laughing. “Stop that, everyone can see you.”

“Uh, yeah, they’d better! You know how hard I’ve been working on these glutes? Plus, what’s the point of working for my uncle’s company if I can’t behave badly?”

I sigh. “Easy for you to say,” I mutter. If anything, I’ve found that working for my father’s company has thrown even more roadblocks my way. For the first two years I was here, no one took me seriously, not even Hayley or Lisa. They all just assumed I was hired out of pure nepotism, and even I started to doubt myself. It has taken years of me dedicating everything I have to the business to prove myself to my colleagues, years of seventy-hour workweeks, of making sure I’m always the first one in and last one out. Years of self-sacrifice, of making sure I’m prepped for every possibility, of pounding the pavement to look for potential investments. There is a reason I haven’t been in a serious relationship since—well, since Princeton, actually.

Mushu, on the other hand, would be the first to tell everyone that she is, in fact, a nepotism hire. She doesn’t ever try to hide it; in fact, she owns the label completely and unapologetically, and somehow, it works for her. Everybody has accepted her presence and she gets away with…not quite breaking the rules, but doing things her way. Like barging into meetings with made-up emergencies and dressing like she works in the fashion industry instead of the finance industry. While my wardrobe is made up of pantsuits in various shades of navy and gray, there is truly no telling what Mushu is going to show up at the office wearing. One time, she wore an honest-to-god feather boa, and no one batted an eyelid, not until she accidentally flicked the feather boa into Kenny the analyst’s eye.

But the key difference is, Mushu is here as the office assistant, whereas I’m here on a partnership track. Mushu has nothing to prove, whereas I have everything to prove—and to lose.

“For the millionth time,” Mushu says, “I would like to point out that Work Mulan is no fun at all.”

“Pretty sure that’s true for most people,” I say.

“Not true! I am as fun at work as I am outside it.”

I smile and shake my head. I’m loath to admit that a part of me is maybe just a little bit jealous of Mushu. For as long as I can remember, Mushu has always been herself. I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like, to be true to yourself and not put on different masks depending on the environment.

“Okay, I’m bored,” Mushu says now. “Let’s go grab lunch. There’s a new place two blocks down—”

“Mushu, it’s ten in the morning.”

“And how long have you been in the office?”

“Since six o’clock.”

“So you’ve been here four hours. Our hours are supposed to be from nine to six, so technically, you’re due your lunch hour.”

I narrow my eyes. “Didn’t I see you sauntering in here twenty minutes ago?”

“I was doing the morning coffee run for the office. That counts as work,” Mushu says with a wink. “Come on, I can totally tell you’re hangry.”

“What? How?”

“You’ve been twirling that pen incessantly and you’re tapping your foot so much you might as well join my tap-dancing class.”

I put down the pen that I have, indeed, been twirling furiously. “You got me. I’m not hungry at all, though. It’s this Wutai Gold acquisition. It’s stressing the hell out of me.”

The expression on Mushu’s face softens. “Oof, yeah, that’s a toughie.”

Wutai Gold is a family-run whiskey company that my father, Zhou, is keen on buying out. The thing is, I’ve studied the numbers and I’m not convinced that this would be a good investment.

“Have you seen their latest ad?” Mushu says, already taking out her phone.

“Do I want to see it, is the question,” I grumble. With a sigh of resignation, I look at Mushu’s phone.

The ad shows a freeway jammed with bumper-to-bumper traffic. As all the drivers curse impotently inside their cars, a grimed-up, ridiculously muscled Caucasian man riding a horse slips easily between the cars. A gravelly male voice intones: “Wutai Gold. The drink for real men.”

“Oh god,” I groan.

“It’s not that bad,” Mushu says. “The guy’s really hot.”

I give her a look. “It’s just so…ugh. And why is there even a horse on the freeway? This ad makes no sense and just goes to prove how out of touch they are.”

“Yeah, I lied. It’s really bad. Do you know why he’s so eager to buy them out?” Mushu says.

“As far as I know, he got along really well with the owners. But it’s really not like him to get swayed by things like that. I have a meeting with him in an hour to discuss it, and I need to prep. Could you order me lunch?” I give her an apologetic smile.

“Consider it done. What would you do without me?”

“Probably get stuck in a never-ending meeting with Josh.”

“True,” Mushu laughs as she walks out of the office.

I spend the next hour brushing up on all of my preliminary research on Wutai Gold, at the end of which I’m even more convinced that this acquisition is the worst idea that my father has come up with in years. Not only has the company been overvalued at seventy million dollars, but there are other factors working against it as well, like its lack of a social media presence and thus lack of a customer base with younger generations. I can’t believe Ba still wants to go ahead with buying them out.

“You’ve got this, Mulan,” I whisper to myself as I walk down the hallway to Baba’s office. But I know that I’m far from having gotten anything. Before going in, I take a moment to adjust my mindset. I can’t just talk to Baba as Work Mulan, though that is of course one of the personas I have to put on. But no, with Baba, it’s even more complicated than just being a finance bro.

At sixty years of age, my father is the picture of health. His posture is straight and confident and he carries himself with the vitality of a much younger man. The only signs he displays of his age are his salt-and-pepper hair and the deep laugh lines creasing the corners of his eyes. Eyes that crinkle up in the exact same way as mine when he smiles, which he does now.

“Ah, Nu er.” Nu er is daughter in Mandarin, and Ba always says it with so much love that my heart squeezes every time he says it, though part of me can’t help wondering if he often calls me that as a reminder that I’m not a son. God, I hate these intrusive thoughts that I get sometimes. Maybe more than sometimes.

“Hi, Baba.” I settle on the sofa in his expansive office.

Baba walks over to a drinks tray next to the window and pours us each a drink.

“Bit early to start on the drinks, isn’t it?” I say.

“Ah, but we have so many good reasons to imbibe.” He brings over the two glasses of amber liquid and sets one in front of me. “Number one, this is the best whiskey I’ve ever had, and I know you’re a whiskey fan as well.”

I’m about to protest when Baba holds up two fingers. “Number two,” he continues, “I can see from your face that you’ve come in here ready for a battle, and I like to soften my opponents up.”

I laugh. “Baba, I’m not your opponent.”

“Ah, you are correct. You’re an even more formidable figure than an opponent. You are my daughter.”

I roll my eyes but pick up my glass anyway and clink it with my dad’s. “Okay, Baba, you win.”

He grins. “Don’t tell your mother about the morning whiskey.”

“Sorry, but you know I am firmly on Team Mom.”

Baba gives a dramatic sigh. “Ah, the bane of a father with no sons to rely on.” There it is again, that small jab to the heart. Does he mean it when he says things like this?

“Poor you,” I say dryly. I take a small sip of my drink, and I have to admit that Baba was right; it really is the best whiskey I’ve ever had, and I’ve had plenty of whiskeys in years past. “Wow. What is this?”

Baba gives me a sly smile. “Wutai Gold Reserve.”

I groan. “Ba, you’re not going to sway me with how it tastes. Their numbers are a mess.”

He merely takes another sip. “Drink up, then we will talk.”