Chapter 15
Frances Hartwell clenches her jaw, irritation and disgust warring inside her.
She's spent the entire day shut inside the office they set up for her on the sixth floor of the Whitestone building, reviewing the last four contracts landed through the business development department.
If she's being honest—and she's not foolish enough to say it out loud in front of the board—she had no idea what this department actually did when the executive team called to offer her the job.
She did what she always does: studied the company's strengths, dug up the big news stories from the past few years, jotted down a few things she figured she'd need.
It's only once she arrives and starts working that she really digs in—meets the managers, learns the teams, builds her assessment.
What she never could have predicted in a million years was that Diane Carter would be running one of the divisions she was hired to advise.
The moment she spotted her—same arrogant look she'd worn twenty years ago, like the world owed her a favor—she couldn't decide whether to count herself lucky or the punchline of some cosmic joke.
By that afternoon she understood it was the former, because she could find any wound and press her finger into it without a shred of mercy, exactly the way that woman had shown none two decades back.
The problem, much to her own frustration, is that Diane appears to follow a highly organized, effective methodology.
She works hand in hand with Clara Fitzgerald's department, studies each proposal the same way every time, all while quietly winning clients over with firm promises and what looks like flawless execution.
That discovery throws a wrench in Frances's plans, because if she goes strictly by what she turned up in marketing, she'd only need three days in business development, a few tweaks to line up with what the higher-ups want, and then she'd walk out with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.
It's true Diane's methods run a little outdated, but—again, she won't say this aloud—they're the kind used by the so-called "old school," and as her mentor used to put it: if it works, there's no reason to change it.
She exhales hard, hunting for a crack to wedge herself into, and to her own surprise, comes up empty.
She's not about to give up, and she's sure there's a thread somewhere she can pull to at least rattle that witch.
She's heard part of the company can't stand her—that she's rude, shows no compassion for anyone, and that the board has handed her carte blanche to fire any employee unlucky enough to work with her.
She stands, disgusted, and heads down to the third floor. Time to meet her own plan head-on.
"Hi, you're Tanya, right?" She flashes a warm smile at the woman jabbing buttons on the printer at the end of the hallway. "I'm starting my analysis here today and I wanted to meet everyone in person."
The brunette smooths her orange diamond-print blouse with her left hand and offers her right for a handshake.
"Tanya Baker," she confirms, her grip firm. "Frances?"
"Hartwell, yes." She grins, and Tanya wonders if her face ever gets tired. "How's the department holding up?"
Tanya gathers the freshly printed pages and taps them into a neat stack with two sharp knocks against the machine.
"Busy," she says, rolling her shoulders. "This department's the heart of Whitestone—we're the ones who land the contracts, so there's always a lot going on."
"Mmm." Frances nods, approval feigned. "That's what I've heard. And how's the management side? Because I've gone over your workflow and, like I mentioned in the meeting a few days ago, I'm seeing some outdated methodologies."
Tanya blinks, with zero interest in answering that kind of question.
Everyone had walked out of that meeting uncomfortable—the one where the consultant had pointed straight at Diane.
Afterward, she and Cassidy had grabbed lunch to hash it out and decided this woman had been hired specifically to go after the Cobra, and that insufferable as their boss was, she struck them both as a serious pro who does her job nearly flawlessly.
"I don't see it that way," Tanya says, shifting her weight. "We're organized. Everyone here knows their role, and we close contracts with clients at a great clip."
Frances discreetly curls one hand into a fist. One of her ideas had been to work the team members for useful intel on how Diane operates. Clearly she's off to a rough start.
"Glad to hear it." The smile she produces now lands with a lot less conviction. "I won't take up any more of your time. See you around."
● ● ●
By Thursday—two days later—Frances has already talked to eight people, filled several pages with notes, and found something juicy to press her finger into.
Her conclusion: nearly everyone on the team resents Diane and wishes they didn't have to work for her.
Her methods are tyrannical, she almost never listens to input, and she tosses out anyone she deems useless like garbage.
That, plus what Frances plans to lay in front of the board about her outdated style, makes for a bomb she'll set off with real pleasure—and she hopes that when it blows, it brings exactly the fallout she's been counting on.
She's barely laid eyes on Diane during those two days. The woman's been holed up in her office, off at some off-site meetings, or busy with God knows what. Which has given Frances free rein to move through the department without feeling that woman's stare on her once.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she hears as a body clips her from the side. "You okay?"
Frances steadies herself and runs a hand lightly over the spot.
"No harm done." A strange smile crosses her face.
"I'm sorry, I didn't see you coming out of the office."
Frances shakes her head and holds up both hands.
"Don't worry about it." She tilts her head. "Cassidy Collins, right?"
"That's me." The girl's forest green eyes go dark as they land on the consultant.
For a moment their eyes meet, and Frances can't quite tell whether there's a standoff underway or something else entirely.
"I've heard great things about you." She shows her teeth. "Clara told me about your role, and it can't be easy being the bridge between marketing and"—she waves a hand like she's shooing someone off—"business."
"I wouldn't say that. For me it's been an adventure." Cassidy brings a hand to her chin. "Learning from both directors has been interesting in a lot of ways."
She's not about to tell Frances that from Clara she learned the best of marketing, and from Diane, how to come in record time inside a dark office.
The consultant clasps her hands behind her back and takes a step forward, reaching for a little common ground, not realizing she's picked exactly the wrong person for it.
"I only say it because I understand working for Diane Carter can be complicated. A challenge, even."
In that moment, Cassidy feels like a Viking ready to charge into battle for the woman she loves. She nearly laughs at how ridiculous the thought is, but she can't deny the animosity she feels toward this woman and her mysterious agenda to take Diane down.
"It is," she says, lifting one shoulder in a small shrug, "but the real challenge isn't that, Frances.
The real challenge is walking in front of her after you've blown a major contract and trying to lie to her face—telling her it wasn't your fault.
Diane is good at what she does and she doesn't settle for anything short of excellence, so anyone who works with her has to give everything they've got. "
Frances stretches her lips and runs her tongue over her teeth, unable to stop that reflex from surfacing at the most inconvenient moments.
One thing's crystal clear: Whitestone seems split into two camps—the ones who hate Diane and the ones loyal to her.
Lucky for her, so far she's pulled more people from the first group, and while she doesn't want this looking like a witch hunt from the outside, knowing exactly who those people are comes in handy.
Cassidy studies the consultant, trying to work out what she's hiding, what the real motive behind her temporary gig at the firm might be—but nothing surfaces beyond the possibility that the board itself is hunting for a way to be rid of Diane without shelling out an astronomical severance.
The door to Diane Carter's office swings open, and even with a good stretch of hallway between the two women and where it stands, Frances Hartwell jumps a little, as if she's in a haunted house and the monster has just stalked out of its lair to come after her.
Tatiana walks beside her, saying something as she scans her iPad.
Diane glides down the hall like she's on skates instead of four-inch heels, expression grim, one hand in her pants pocket, that white blouse fitting her exactly the way it always does.
The consultant doesn't have time to move before Diane looks up, clocks her for a beat, then cuts her eyes to the green-eyed girl standing next to Frances.
Cassidy catches the shift in her expression—the way it shutters even further, a faint tightness settling along her jaw from clenching it too hard.
"Collins," Diane says, her voice barely above a hiss as she reaches the two of them, letting her stare linger on the blonde a beat longer than necessary. "A lot of free time on your hands?"
Cassidy licks her lips—the reflex comes on its own, no controlling it—but what she used to hate most when she first met Diane had long since become her most devastating quality.
"I'm on my way to a meeting with the strategy team." She pauses before slipping a knife between the consultant's ribs. "Frances had a few questions and I was trying to help her sort them out."
Diane's left eye twitches twice in quick succession, and she curses Frances Hartwell under her breath. She turns her head and locks eyes with her.
"I'm fairly certain your job doesn't involve disrupting my staff." The blue of her eyes sharpens into something cutting, fed by years of resentment. "Interrupting them for no reason—isn't that a technique that's already worn out its welcome, Frances?"
Diane looks away, and without even realizing it, her eyes soften the instant they land on Cassidy's face.
"Go to your meeting. I'm sure Frances doesn't have any further questions. Tatiana"—her voice drops back into that cobra hiss—"see to it that her concerns are addressed."
For a moment all three of them stand frozen in the chill of Diane's tone, until the world decides to start moving again. Cassidy tosses off a quick "see you later" and walks away. Frances blinks. Tatiana steps forward.
"We should probably—"
"As I said," Diane cuts in, "my personal assistant will take care of whatever you need. Don't worry—she's very thorough."
Diane leaves Frances with a sour look on her face and a neck flushed red with irritation. She turns her back and strolls at a leisurely pace toward the elevator at the end of the hall. If Frances wants a war, she'll get one.