Chapter 2
The walls are closing in on me.
Not literally, of course—I’m not crazy. But my career? Yeah, that’s on life support.
I pace the ocean-blue hallway outside Tim Colby’s office.
Overpriced abstract paintings lit by gold lamps line the wall.
The sounds of keyboards tapping and computer mice clicking vibrate through the air, accompanied by the scent of warm copier paper.
My tan leather flats tap against the granite floor as I walk.
One, two, three, four.
I count each stride, an old habit I’ve never been able to shake. Forty paces from one end of the hallway to the other.
This is where the partners of Winthrop & Co. play masters of the universe. Each office boasts floor-to-ceiling windows and jaw-dropping views of Lake Michigan. I’ve been busting my ass for the last five years, hoping to make partner, a goal that seems to slip further away by the second.
My gaze snags on the view of Navy Pier. To the families weaving their way down the promenade. To the vacation crowd sipping from mugs at the beer garden.
To the Ferris wheel.
For an instant, buried memories of Olivia skitter through my brain. Her fall. The two weeks she spent in a coma. Wondering if she’d ever be the same. I shove it back underground and return my attention to the here and now.
Normally, I love it here.
But not today.
Today, this hallway feels like the plank of a ship, and I’m about to be tossed overboard.
I pick a small piece of lint off my navy-checked pants and tug at the sleeves of my white silk blouse.
Kelly from the tech practice breezes past me, eyes down, as if I’m radioactive.
She’s heard the whispers, knows something happened, knows I’m in trouble. But she doesn’t know what. No one does.
I’m not sure I do.
The front-desk phone rings, each chime like a doomsday clock. I drift into memory, but not fully—just flashes. The conference room. Vivek’s expression. The scent of sweat, the moment everything changed. Watching, losing control, the blur.
I play out the scenarios that await me in Tim’s office, but there are too many variables. Too many unknown factors that could influence his approach.
People. Are. The. Worst.
When I’m on a consulting project, everything is controllable.
I can dig through the spreadsheets, swim in the numbers, identify a company’s problems, plan for how to fix them, and then cobble it all together into an eye-popping PowerPoint presentation.
You need this many new customers. This is your cost per new customer.
These are the sales channels. This is your strategy.
That’s what I do. I eliminate problems.
But people? People are irrational, unpredictable.
They make decisions based on feelings and fears, not cold, hard facts.
I watch Pete, our front-desk assistant, take a bite of a Twinkie, and I’m reminded that people often do the exact opposite of what’s good for them.
And that’s how you get yourself into trouble.
Tim’s office door snaps open, jarring me from my thoughts. Red runs through his chubby face. He looks over horn-rimmed glasses, clenches his jaw, and beckons me with his stubby hand. No hello, no smile.
Not a good sign.
“Have a seat, Charlotte,” he says as he flops into his plush leather desk chair. Tim speaks more in growls than in words. His suit is rumpled, his tie loosened. His gut protrudes, the product of too many steak dinners on clients’ expense accounts. He looks like he’s had a rough day.
Another bad sign.
I slide into my chair and sit ramrod straight, trying to project as much confidence as I can. I brush a stray chunk of hair from my face and paste on the warmest smile I can muster. My knee throttles up and down like an oil derrick. I clutch it to stop the drilling.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. He just slumps in his chair, reading a document—presumably, the report of what happened.
Or what people think happened. The honks and rumbles of Friday traffic seep through the double-paned glass, and I peek out the windows.
The sun sinks, a reminder that fall is right around the corner. And a metaphor for my career.
A giant flip board hangs over the couch, showing the number thirty-three.
That’s the number of Fortune 500 companies in Chicago that Winthrop & Co.
currently serves. Thirty-three out of thirty-five.
I snagged two of those companies with the work I did on artificial intelligence.
Tim says he’s not retiring until he’s bagged all thirty-five.
Maybe he thinks my incident set him back to thirty-two.
After what feels like an hour—but is actually thirty-two seconds (yes, I counted)—Tim rips off his glasses and tosses them on his desk.
He massages his bushy eyebrows and recessed temples and looks at me with bloodshot eyes.
I throw these signals into my mind’s social calculator, and it spits out a simple answer: You’re screwed.
“First off, let me apologize on behalf of myself and The Firm for any distress this situation has caused you.” I note he says, “The Firm.” That’s what everyone at Winthrop calls it, as though we’re the only one—only Winthrop.
As he speaks, his hands move in mechanical gestures, like something he learned at a corporate leadership seminar.
“We have zero tolerance for misconduct, and we want everyone here to feel welcome and safe. You’re one of our top consultants.
I’ve had multiple clients reach out to gush about you, and no one’s matched your charitable work.
I see a bright future for you here at Winthrop.
Before this incident, you were on the fast track to partner. ”
“Yes, I know, and thank you. I appreciate that.”
I actually don’t appreciate it. Tim’s handing me what we call in the business a “shit sandwich”: Start with something positive, slip in something negative, and close with something nice.
It’s standard practice when delivering bad news.
I’ve used it myself—with a few exes. “You’re an amazing guy, and anyone would be lucky to be with you.
That said, we need to break up. You’ll be much happier without me. Good luck.”
Tim shifts in his seat, and I brace myself.
“Now, I don’t have to tell you that our entire business model rests on the intelligence and professionalism of our consultants.”
“Yes, I’m fully aware of that, but—”
“Let me finish, please. I’ve read the report. You claim Vivek is responsible for what occurred. That’s your position?”
I let out a snort. “It’s not my position. It’s what happened.”
“And you believe you handled the matter appropriately?” Every question he asks is leading, like a prosecutor tying up a case.
“I think it was proportional, given the situation.”
“I see.” More temple and eyebrow rubbing.
I lean forward, my voice steady. “Look, I know Vivek is the top rainmaker in the Minneapolis office—or maybe the entire U.S.—but integrity still counts for something.”
Tim’s forehead creases, and he puffs out his chest. “No one is saying that. No one receives special privileges at Winthrop.” He points to a poster with The Firm’s values that hangs on the wall behind me and reads the third bullet: Ethics in the conduct of our work cannot and will not be compromised.
“We are taking this extremely seriously. But Vivek denies everything, and the fact remains that the way you handled the situation wasn’t ideal. ”
My voice threatens to rise into a shrill octave that won’t help my case. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Tim exhales sharply. “Come on, Charlotte. There’s always a choice, isn’t there?”
I open my mouth, but his expression tells me nothing I say will matter. He’s made his decision.
“So, what are you saying?”
He rises and stares out the window at a tour boat puttering down the river, stuffed with gawking tourists. For a moment he looks like he’s considering whether, if he jumped right now, he’d make it to the deck.
Without turning back, he says, “I’m going to have to suspend you.”
I rise from my chair, levitated by anger. I saw this coming, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating—if anything, it makes it worse. “Me? You’re suspending me?”
He turns and crosses his arms. “The Firm is suspending both of you. I don’t know what happened in that conference room, but until we’ve done a proper investigation, I’m not comfortable with either of you serving our clients.”
I take a deep breath and start the pitch I rehearsed last night when I realized this was inevitable. “Tim, how long have I worked here?”
“Five years.”
“In those five years, has anyone complained about me?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Any client issues?”
“No.”
“And who do you put on your toughest projects?”
He sighs. “You.”
“So, don’t you think it’s unfair to suspend me when I’ve done nothing wrong?”
“Yes, that would be unfair. But this…this is different. We need time to investigate. We can’t return to business as usual.”
“I’m not saying go back to—”
He places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a terrific consultant, Charlotte. Think of this as a good thing. I looked at your file—you haven’t taken PTO since you started here. This will be a great opportunity for you to get some well-deserved R & R. See some friends. Spend time with your family.”
“And what about Big Brothers Big Sisters? Can I still work with them?”
He shakes his head.
I search his eyes for an opening, but I’m met with steely resolve. I’m tempted to unleash, to explain the fifteen reasons he’s wrong, to elucidate everything they’ll miss when I’m gone—but as my mom says, “Sometimes you have to live to fight another day.”
“Okay, I understand,” I say.
He returns to his desk and places his glasses back on his face, pleased with himself. “Great, we’ll be in touch in a month.”
As I exit, I mumble under my breath, “And that is how the shit sandwich is served.”