Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
A s a private equity VP, I have attended more introductory calls and meetings than I can remember. Most of these meetings take place at our office and are attended by an analyst, a principal if it’s a highly desirable company, and me—as well as, in the case of a company that is being hotly pursued by other firms, Baba himself.
The meeting with Wutai Gold clearly falls into the latter category, and it would be the first time that I am conducting such an important meeting without Baba present. Not only that, but I’ve had to tell Brian, the analyst who prepped the Wutai Gold file, not to attend, because I have no idea how Brian would react to me telling him to call me Zhou. If I had to guess, Brian would not take it well. Brian is the kind of guy who thinks that taking more than one sugar packet from Starbucks is stealing, so it’s probably best to leave him out of this chaos. The only person I’ll have in the meeting room on my end will have to be Mushu.…
A decision I am second- and third-guessing as the hour draws near and Mushu fusses about me, dabbing more and more makeup onto my face. I flinch as Mushu prowls toward me, carrying what looks like an industrial-grade torture device.
“Stop moving, you’re going to end up with second-degree burns,” Mushu snaps.
I flail at her, batting her away. “Or maybe a device that can cause second-degree burns should not be used on my face?”
“This is the latest thing,” Mushu says. “It’s a heated eyelash curler that’ll curl your eyelashes for twenty-four hours.” She glances down at the curler, which has started smoking. “Or burn them off.”
“Along with my corneas,” I say. “You are not getting anywhere near me with that. Unplug it and step away from the weapon before you burn down the entire building.”
“I saw it on TikTok,” Mushu grumbles, but she listens, and puts the machine away. “All right, ready to see the new, fabulous boss-lady version of yourself?”
With no small amount of trepidation, I nod. Mushu grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around to face the bathroom mirror. My mouth falls open. Dimly, I hear Mushu going “Ta-da!”
It isn’t that the makeover is bad, exactly. But it’s just so…
“What do you think?”
I search with increasing desperation for the right words. “It’s very…The makeup is very Cruella de Vil,” I say finally, staring with despair at my hyper-arched, hyper-darkened eyebrows and bloodred lips.
“Yes, but the Emma Stone version of Cruella, not the misunderstood version,” Mushu says happily.
“ Okaaay . And these shoulder pads are very…uh, padded.” I poke at my left shoulder pad, which is so high it practically grazes my earlobe.
“Exactly. I was going for a Margaret Thatcher look.”
“Is that who you were channeling with the hairstyle as well?” I say, my voice coming out weak.
“No, the hairstyle was inspired by Adele, but you do exude a matronly vibe, which I guess is why it ended up more Margaret Thatcher. Goes with the suit, though, right?”
I stare in horror at my cousin. Why in the world did I trust Mushu when she said she knew just the right look for me to pass as a managing partner? The urge to wail Why, universe, why? is almost overwhelming.
“I can’t go in there looking like this.”
“Why not? You look like someone people should fear.”
“Exactly,” I say with feeling, blinking at my shocking reflection.
The expression on Mushu’s face softens. “I get it, it’s very different from your boring day-to-day look, but trust me, this is what a badass boss bitch looks like.”
For the millionth time, I thank my lucky stars that my father has decided against putting up any of our pictures on our website. There was a nasty incident a couple of years ago involving a jealous ex who tracked down one of the associates at the firm, and after that, Baba took down all our photos on the company website and instead only listed our names and work emails on the ABOUT US page. Proper bios are only given out to trusted individuals who have shown serious interest in becoming clients. As such, the people at Wutai Gold wouldn’t know whether to expect a middle-aged man or a young woman. They would see me and assume that this is how “Hua Zhou” looks all the time.
I poke my hair gingerly. After all the hairspray that Mushu has unloaded into it, it’s more titanium helmet than hair. When I turn my neck, the hair follows a split second later like a wad of cotton candy resting on my head. A wad of metallic cotton candy.
Stay calm , I think. Take a long, deep breath in. Hold it for two seconds. Now scream—nope. Now exhale. Yes. Good. Unrelated, but this is what snipers do right before pulling the trigger on their targets.
Great, now I’m thinking about snipers and death, which is not at all a bad omen. I check my watch. Only fifteen minutes before the Wutai Gold people are due to arrive. I force myself to take another breath. I can do this. And Mushu is probably right; this is probably what badass boss bitches look like. I wouldn’t know it, because I’ve never dealt with a badass boss bitch, only spoiled, whiny finance bros. I lift my chin and assume what I hope is a strong stance.
“There you go,” Mushu cheers. “Embrace your inner finance bro. Rule number one, your one true love is your muscle tone. When in doubt, flex your biceps. Rule number two, never say sorry, even when you’re wildly wrong about something. Number three—”
I laugh. “All right, I get it! God, it’s scary how good you are at this. Okay, remember, you are not an office assistant, you are—”
“An associate, got it.”
As I nod again, Mushu adds, “What is it that an associate does again?”
I won’t scream, I won’t scream, I won’t—
Somehow, through gritted teeth, I manage to bite out, “Just look business-y.”
“Got it, Boss.” Mushu gives a smart salute and marches to the door. She opens it with flourish. “After you, ma’am.”
“Don’t overdo it,” I hiss under my breath. Keeping my gaze firmly on the floor, I brisk-walk to the conference room. The conference room isn’t at all far away from the bathroom, but the walk there feels eternal. I can practically feel the stares from my colleagues, eyes growing saucerlike and mouths scraping the floor. Nope, I’m not going to be able to live this one down. Thankfully, no one dares say anything to me, though I do catch the sound of Josh choking back a laugh. I should get him demoted from analyst to…uh, to something else even less cool than analyst.
As soon as I get inside the conference room, the first thing I do is lower the shades to give us some semblance of privacy.
“Let me do that,” Mushu says. “That’s not the job of a managing partner.”
Heat flushes across my face. Mushu is right. No managing partner would stoop to lowering the shades themselves. God, I’m so bad at this. How am I ever going to fool anyone into thinking I’m Baba?
Mushu pulls out the biggest chair, at the head of the table, and gestures at it. “Have a seat, Boss. I’ll take care of everything. In fact, I’m going to run out for a second and tell one of the interns to make us some lattes.”
I do so, lowering myself gingerly into Baba’s chair. It feels way too big for me somehow, and I imagine myself as a little kid clambering up my dad’s seat, feet dangling in midair. Stop that , I scold myself. I am not Mulan. I am Zhou. I am the founder and managing partner of Facai Capital, a midsize private equity firm. As the managing partner, I am very comfortable, uh…doing management stuff, like managing people and five-hundred-million-dollar deals. I close my eyes and take a deep inhale imagining my chest ballooning with oxygen as I do so and puffing up to fill the space. Despite myself, the method is working. I envision myself filling Baba’s shoes, running the company with natural aplomb, telling Josh where to shove it.
The door swings open, and without moving, still envisioning myself as Baba, I say in my most I-am-the-boss-around-here voice, “You have my coffee?”
Without missing a beat, a rich, velvety voice replies, “How do you take it?”
My eyes fly open. Everything stops. My heart stops, my breath stops, and I’m pretty sure that deep in my veins, my blood platelets have crashed to a standstill. Because the man standing in the doorway is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. His figure is tall and imposing, and his face is surely chiseled out of pure marble. His jet-black hair is pulled up into a bun, drawing attention to his incredibly defined cheekbones and jawline. Thick dark brows draw attention to his eyes, which are the darkest shade of chocolate. Eyes I can really lose myself in. Something I belatedly realize I’m doing.
The man clears his throat, and I snap back to reality with burning shame. Damn it, just two seconds in my new role as the boss and already I’m flubbing it. Get a freaking grip! And, though I know I’m being unreasonable, I’m annoyed at this man for catching me out. How dare he be so gorgeous? He must be the new intern Mushu was just talking about. God, we should’ve put Mushu in charge of hiring new interns a lot sooner.
Lifting my chin imperiously, I say, “I’d like a latte, no sugar. And make some for the others as well.”
His mouth quirks a little, then he says, “How many would you like, ma’am?”
Did he really just call me ma’am? Wow, I guess Mushu was right about the outfit and makeup, after all.
“Let’s have eight lattes—you know how to work the espresso machine, yes?” I catch myself. Baba has always told me that micromanaging is the sign of an incompetent leader. “You know what? Figure it out. I believe in you.” There. That’s something Baba always says to his employees. I believe in you.
“I’m glad you believe in me. I’ll see to those lattes.” As the door swings shut behind him, I lean back in my chair, satisfied. There. That wasn’t so bad. I’ve barely caught my breath when the door opens once more and Mushu walks in, accompanied by a bespectacled kid who looks like he’s barely out of high school. They’re both carrying trays full of steaming lattes and plates of pastries.
“Here we are,” Mushu trills. As she sets the trays down, she catches sight of my expression. “What?”
“Uh. Is this the new intern?”
“Yep. Introduce yourself to the boss, Gerald.”
“Hi, I’m Gerald.”
My gaze ping-pongs back and forth between Mushu and Gerald. Then I leap out of my chair and grab Mushu’s arm, pulling her aside. Ignoring Mushu’s protests, I hiss urgently, “Mushu, is Gerald the only new intern here?”
“No, we hired three of them. Do you not like Gerald? We can get rid of him.”
Gerald’s face falls.
“No,” I say hurriedly. “You’re doing a great job, Gerald. Carry on.”
He smiles and resumes distributing the lattes.
I turn back to Mushu. “The other two interns—is one of them really tall and, uh, sort of…devastatingly handsome?”
Mushu’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Um. Well, the other two interns are women because of, you know, how we’re trying to hire more women and all that? But I guess you could describe Wanda as ‘devastatingly handsome.’ She does Pilates.”
“Oh no,” I say. Just then, the door opens again.
“Oh yes,” Mushu says.
There, standing in the doorway looking as dangerously gorgeous as before, is the stranger. And, to my horror, he’s carrying a tray of foamy lattes. Beneath his sharply cut suit, the muscles on his biceps ripple as he lowers the tray onto the table. “Freshly made, as you asked for,” he says. He gives a grim smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and deep-set dimples appear on his cheeks.
How dare you have dimples on top of everything?! I want to scream at him.
“But I already got lattes,” Gerald says in a small voice.
Mushu, her gaze still glued to the newcomer and her mouth half open, raises her hand and places it on Gerald’s face and pushes him to the side gently while saying, “Shh, Gerald.” Then she swallows and strides toward the man with her arms wide open. “Hello, you must be Shang, I’ve stalked your IG. So nice to finally meet you in person!” She envelops the man in a tight hug.
Oh god, this can’t really be happening.
“Um,” he says, patting Mushu’s back gingerly. “Thanks?”
With obvious reluctance, Mushu lets go of him and steps aside, still openly admiring him. Turning to me, she says, “Mu—I mean, Zhou, this is Shang.”
Oh god, of course he is. Of course this distractingly good-looking man that I’ve mistaken for the intern is Shang. I fight back the urge to bury my face in my hands and wail. But on the other hand, Shang looks as taken aback as I feel.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “you’re Zhou? Hua Zhou?”
I nod, mustering up a winning smile that feels more like a grimace as it sits, wobbling, on my face. “Yep, that’s me. Hua Zhou in the flesh.”
Shang does a double take, but before he can say another word, there is a knock on the door, and the receptionist pops his head in and says, “The rest of the Wutai Gold shareholders and their spouses are here.”