Chapter 2
MONDAY
They want me to ruin Betsey’s life. They’ve compiled their case, down to this last career-crushing document, but they need me to land the final blow.
I can’t do it. This is Betsey we’re talking about. She’s a colleague, a friend. Years ago, I plucked her from Columbia’s applicant pool. I’ve been her champion ever since.
Alternative ideas leapfrog through my mind. I could simply march from the office, only to be tracked down. I could insist on hiring my own lawyer, only to delay the inevitable. I could fake a heart attack.
My head throbs.
Though I’m often lauded for my strategic savvy, the only thing looping through my head right now is how to convincingly slump to the broadloom carpet without wedging my hips between chair legs. And is the pain supposed to radiate down the left or right arm?
Hardwin clears his throat. “The last line.”
He slides the forms across his mirror-polished desk, the pages almost hidden under his massive hand.
As I lean forward, my sharp kneecaps press up against the front panel of his ornate mahogany desk. Our seating arrangement is not lost on me. Instead of taking my place across from him at the conference table, I sit like a schoolgirl receiving a remedial math lesson from my elder.
This is all a mistake. I refuse to be strong-armed into signing anything. This is not an annoying interview he’s proposing—it’s a restraining order.
Hardwin knows our record-breaking sales have a lot to do with Betsey’s efforts.
We’re not only fracturing her career; we’re wrenching our ability to keep pace with the demand we’ve created with our new funds.
A sharp jabbing pain between my ribs forces me to take a shallower breath.
“Maybe we all just need a cooling off?” My voice is astonishingly strong.
Hardwin reclines in his tufted leather chair. The back of his shiny, freckled head grazes the dusty law volumes behind him. Even during sticky legal inquiries, I’ve never seen any of these ancient books referenced or even moved. His office is all for show.
“This is for your own protection, Meredith.”
I bristle. Since when do I need my colleagues to protect me? Not having made my mark, I lay my pen down. “I want to take a beat. I think she might have gotten—”
“Meredith, this is the course of action we’ve all agreed is in everyone’s best interest.” Hardwin is a man who listens more than he speaks.
So, when I try to make my case another way, I’m shocked when he speaks over me.
“She came to your home and paced your lawn. We had to send security. It got ugly. She threatened our staff. Completely unacceptable.” Hardwin shifts his considerable weight, and his chair snaps back to upright.
His white-herringbone-clad belly spills around the lip of his desktop. “You need to think of your family.”
I bite back a laugh. He’s telling me to think of my family. That’s rich coming from the man who expects his team to be in the office hours before the opening bell and to stay well past when commuter traffic has waned.
“When she was at the house yesterday, my family wasn’t even home. I’d promised my husband an uninterrupted hiking day. I’d even left my phone behind. I missed her calls. Maybe, if I could speak with her now . . .” My voice squeaks out from between my painted lips, my whole mouth sticky.
I’m hating this version of myself. The decision to sign is both complicated and draining.
Garman Straub espouses a no-tolerance approach to harassment, and yet this is a professional, talented woman we’re talking about.
And the legal action I’m being asked to sanction—I flip through the pages again—is aggressively career-ending.
This situation has gotten out of hand, but I know why they assume I’ll fall in line.
I’ve been groomed. They’ve taught me, and most of my colleagues, to swallow their machinations and taste leadership.
I must admit, sometimes I applaud their tactics.
But sometimes, they flaunt their obsessive need to control, like when business casual Friday came with a dozen pages of charts on sleeve lengths and fabric weaves.
That was absurd. This is appalling.
As Hardwin sits taller in his chair, he grabs the mother-of-pearl buttons on the front of his shirt and yanks against his girth. “It’s simply a first step. Just the application. At any point we can drop the filing, but we have to send this message.”
I open my mouth.
He continues. “Letting her go is no longer sufficient. You know they wanted her gone almost a week ago.”
I swallow a snort. Why would he feel the need to soft-pedal his authority in this situation?
Hardwin is they.
At the sharp knock on the door, my shoulder blades tighten.
A dough-faced young man, wearing what looks like his father’s old suit, pushes into the opening. Although I can’t place him, the eager look in his eyes must mean he’s one of Hardwin’s guys. “She, uh . . . Betsey trashed Meredith’s office.”
A heat blooms in my chest.
“Alyssa had to call Maintenance. It’s a mess.” His words continue to slam into me.
I try to rise from my chair. My knees scrape against the mahogany apron of the desk. I’m wedged in way too close. Betsey trashed my office? Violated my space?
I twist and free my legs. My muscles tense. I’m ready to shove this chair, this desk, this ridiculous young man, out of my way. I stagger to my feet.
Two sets of eyes watch me, waiting for me to lose it.