Chapter 2- Dabbling in Chaos
Outside the Pemberley Offices, she stood at the doors for a moment. She’d parked at a nearby garage, but she felt hesitant to get back to it. Where would she go instead?
Although September, and already technically fall, it still felt like Summer in Miami. The humidity was thick, and Lizzie was becoming aware that her blouse was sticking to her, probably more due to the heat than the disastrous pitch.
Just then, a man around her age—tailored and manicured with sharp features and golden hair—came out of the building after her.
Lizzie stepped to the side to let him pass, but instead of passing, he stopped to talk to her. “Did you just come from in here?” he asked, gesturing to the doors of Pemberley Pharmaceuticals.
“Uh, yeah,” she said, unsure what he was after. She flung her bag over her shoulder and prepared to walk to her car.
“You don’t work here, do you?”
“No, I was just…” Embarrassing myself, she thought, but instead said, “having a meeting.”
“I didn’t think so. I’m sure I would’ve noticed you. George Wick,” he said by way of introduction, extending his hand.
“Lizzie Benítez,” she said, taking it in a quick and feeble handshake.
“Lizzie, can I buy you a drink? You look like you could use it.”
Lizzie knew she wasn’t unattractive, regardless of some CEOs’ description of her as chubby.
With large eyes over a pouty mouth, she’d even consider herself hot in some circles.
But in Miami, the land of silicone and BBLs, she hardly got a second look, let alone someone actually hitting on her.
Caught off guard by this stranger’s attention, and feeling flattered, she accepted the invitation.
George led her two blocks down Brickell to a corner café that looked like every influencer’s dream: neon “Café” sign, marble tables, a wall of fake ivy for photos. He ordered two Presidente Lights without asking, then slid into the booth across from her like he owned the place.
“Rough morning?” he asked, flashing a smile that belonged on a yacht brochure.
“Rough doesn’t cover it.” Lizzie rolled the cold bottle across her forehead. “The CEO just called me a chubby amateur to my face. Well, through the wall, but still.”
George laughed, low and smooth. “That sounds like Will. He’s allergic to anyone who might outshine him. Trust me, I would know.”
He leaned in, elbows on the table, voice dropping.
“You see, I used to work at Pemberley. His dad promised me an executive track straight out of UM. I was family, basically. My dad worked closely with him, and I grew up at Pemberley Pharmaceuticals. Then my old man dies, and his dad retires, letting Will take over, and suddenly I’m ‘not a culture fit.’” He air-quoted with perfectly manicured fingers.
“One day I’m running marketing for half the company, next day I’m out with a severance check and an NDA thicker than the Bible.
” George took a swig of his beer and then added, “Probably should’ve told you that before.
Better you don’t tell anyone I told you about this. I could be in violation of my NDA.”
Lizzie leaned in, happy to have an ally in her recent misery, and a common enemy to blame. “He fired you because his dad liked you more?”
“Pretty much.” George shrugged like it didn’t still burn. “Classic Will. Loyal to exactly two people: Charles and whoever flatters him hardest. Everyone else is disposable.”
Lizzie felt like she knew the type: rich white guy, who thought they were better than everyone else and didn’t like being challenged.
Lizzie finished the last of her beer and asked, “So what do you do now?”
George shrugged casually and said, “I dabble in chaos. High-end flips, angel rounds, whatever pays the bar tab.” He gave Lizzie a wink and gestured to the waitress for the check.
“But it’s much nicer working for myself.
These CEOs are all the same, just out to screw over the little guy.
” The waitress dropped off the check, and George slid a $100 bill under it—like it was nothing.
George walked her to her car like a gentleman, chatting the whole way like they’d been friends for years, not strangers.
Lizzie caught herself comparing George to the sour-faced CEO from her meeting and wishing their roles had been reversed.
Surely she would’ve closed the deal with someone as agreeable as George Wick, making the decision.
At her Corolla, he leaned against the door, blocking her from opening it, close enough that she caught the scent of cedar and something expensive.
“You’re too good for that place, Lizzie Benítez. And way too pretty to let Will Pemberley make you feel small.”
His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist — just once — and her pulse betrayed her completely.
“Text me when you’re free of him,” he said, voice velvet. “I know rooftops with better views. And the NDAs are optional.”
He walked off without looking back, like he already knew she would be watching him.
Lizzie stood in the garage heat long after his footsteps faded. She smiled, thinking that meeting George was probably the best thing to happen to her today
* * *
Lizzie lived with her Abuela and younger sister, Lidia, in their childhood home in West Kendall, a suburban area away from the hustle and bustle of downtown. Their father had raised them with their grandmother, Senora Rosa, until he passed away a few years ago.
Lizzie always felt at home as soon as she could smell her grandmother’s cooking; a mixture of the scent of sofrito and cafecito seemed to live inside their home. She instantly felt more comfortable.
Lizzie kicked off her heels and hoped she could get into her office and get to work unnoticed for at least an hour or so.
No luck. As soon as she sat at her desk, she could hear the clack of her grandmother’s chancleta-clad feet coming down the hall.
“Lizette, you’re home! Hoy me llamó tu Tía María, que tu prima Yanelis se casa con un dentista de Hialeah. ?Y tú vendes… qué? Nubes?” (Tía María called—your cousin Yanelis is marrying a Hialeah dentist. And you sell… what? Clouds?)
“I don’t sell clouds, Abuela,” Lizzie said, exasperated—clearly not the first time she’d had to explain this. “I sell cloud-based solutions for supply chain…”
“?Qué supply chain ni supply chain! Lo que sea, no trae hombre pa’ la casa.” (Supply chain, my ass. It’s not bringing a man home!)
“Well, definitely not the man I was selling to today,” Lizzie grumbled.
“?El ‘Big Deal’ no te fue bien?” Senora Rosa tried to imitate her granddaughter’s American accent when she said “big deal.”
“No, the guy wouldn’t even let me finish,” Lizzie said glumly.
“?Claro que no! ?Quién se interesa en una mujer que no tiene seno y solo habla negocio?” (Of course not! Who wants a woman with no boobs who only talks business?)
“I have boobs…” Lizzie said, looking at her modest chest and then adding, “and this was a sales pitch, not an audition for The Bachelor.”
“Sí, y Yanelis fue a sacarse una muela y ya ves, se están casando.” (Yes, and Yanelis went to get a tooth pulled and now she’s engaged.)
Lizzie rolled her eyes.
Abuela tapped her temple.
“El cerebro es sexy. Pero el anillo paga la luz.” (Brains are sexy, but the ring pays the light bill.)
“Rich,” Lizzie thought, “spoken to the person who is literally paying the light bill. Although getting the AC fixed might be another story now.” Out loud, however, Lizzie didn’t say anything.
She knew it was useless to argue with her.
Lizzie’s mother had left when Lizzie was barely four years old, and Lizzie’s father had moved his parents into their home on three acres in the then-remote West Kendall area.
He was diagnosed with cancer when Lizzie went to college and died a few years later.
Abuelo had passed away about 8 years before.
Abuela felt responsible, as their only remaining guardian, to ensure they were taken care of before it was her time to leave them on this Earth.
Maybe because of this, or maybe it was just the product of her time, but she always insisted to Lizzie and Lidia that the number one goal for any young woman was to get married.
The area around the home had developed and grown; home prices had skyrocketed; Lizzie had gotten into business development, and Lidia was working on becoming a social media influencer—but Abuela had remained constant and steadfast in this.
Lizzie knew she wouldn’t change her mind; there would be no sale big enough or achievement grand enough that would compare to seeing her advantageously married.
But as comfortable as Lizzie was with facts and figures, she was uncomfortable with men.
She bore them no ill will, nor did she feel against the notion of marriage—she just knew she would only ever marry if she were deeply in love, and she doubted very much that she would ever feel that way.
To date, she didn’t think she was ever even close to falling in love.
Her sister Lidia, by contrast, fell in love every full moon, it seemed. So Lizzie hoped that one of those relationships would lead to a marriage, and then maybe Abuela would feel some peace in the matter.
The evening passed slowly. The AC wheezed like Abuela’s old Buick.
Not even Orgullo y Dolores—the favorite novela of Abuela and Lizzie—could save her.
She agonized over the pitch and how it could’ve been better. She wondered about the charismatic Mr. Wick and what the ordeal must’ve been for him. Finally, around 10, she called it a night. She fell into a light, restless sleep that had her tossing and turning all night.
Lizzie wasn’t sure whether she was awake when her phone dinged, or if the ding woke her, but around 2:30 a.m., she received a message that made her think maybe she was dreaming.
Subject: FWD: Pemberley — 2:03 a.m. voice memo
From: Will Pemberley
[?? 0:14]
“Delete after listening.
Your warehouse fix… isn’t garbage.
Miami DC. 6 a.m.
No slides. No Charles. No synergy.
Bring colada.
I take mine black—like my soul after your deck.
—W”
P.S. Don’t wear the pink blazer.
The warehouse floor’s dirty.
And I hate pink.
Lizzie stared at the screen.
2:03 a.m.?
Will Pemberley hadn’t slept either.
She smiled.
* * *
From the Desk of William Pemberley
9:47 PM- Pemberley Office, 12th Floor
I haven’t been able to get the pitch out of my head. Charles told me afterwards that he couldn’t understand why I walk around hating on everyone.
I’ll never understand how he can go around accepting and trusting everyone.
Was it the message that’s stuck with me or the person delivering it?
Millions in savings. I’m not sure I can ignore that.
Her eyes; those were hard to ignore, too. I think I’m going to have to hire her
The pink blazer felt like a red flag.