Page 6 of When Hearts Ignite

I set the binder down and place my hands on the table, surveying each one of my team, supposedly the cream of the crop. My fingers dig against the glass surface, my muscles clenched tightly to fight the need to throw those documents across the room.

“I guess a different way of looking at the data may result in doubling our purchase of their shares,” I murmur, my vision slowly turning red as I narrow my eyes.

Hayley Richardson, a redhead sitting in the corner seat, interjects, “I think that’s a good assessment as well.”

The lemmings now change their tune and chime in agreement.

Idiots. The whole lot. Fucking kiss-ass, brown-nosing idiots.

At this rate, I’ll never be able to trust anyone with the growing problem at TransAmerica or the new investments management with Scott Enterprises.

The churning in my gut is corrosive, making its way up my throat. My jaw clenches before releasing, my lips contorting into a snarl, no longer able to keep up the fake façade. My hands slam down hard on the table in a loud smack.

The team practically jumps in their chairs.

“Did anyone fucking review this piece of shit before sending it over to me?” I push the offending black binder toward the middle of the table, the sheets fluttering chaotically from the sudden motion.

“If I tell you guys to jump out the window right now, are you guys going to do it? Is there anyone capable of thinking beyond the IQ of a six-year-old in this room today?” I stand up, my fists curling to my sides as the weight on my chest increases, nearly smothering my lungs.

“Can someone tell me what’s wrong with the documents you sent over today?”

The silence is thick and loud in the room as my skin feels heated.

“Did anyone bring their brains to work today? Or are you all more concerned about kissing ass than doing your fucking jobs?” Slamming my hands on the table once more, I wait for a few seconds before straightening up and crossing my arms over my chest, not caring if I’m creasing the delicate, bespoke three-piece suit I’m wearing.

The room is eerily silent. Muted conversations from the outside filter in from the conference room doors. Someone clears their throat.

The idiots look at each other, equal in their flushed complexions and rapid breathing. I see sweat dripping down Chuck Dumbass’s forehead. If it weren’t for his father being one of our largest clients, I would’ve given him the boot ages ago.

Another person clears her throat. A few chairs squeak as several folks shift in their seats.

I swallow the ball in my throat, the heat in my chest mounting into a fire. I guess I have some emotions after all, like the rage coursing through me right now. Just as I’m about to tear into the silent group once again, someone in the back raises her hand.

“They have a huge cash flow problem,” an unfamiliar voice, soft and melodious with a thread of nervousness, slices through the thick silence with the ease of a steak knife to butter.

I scan the room to locate this one brave soul, my eyes finally snagging on an unassuming brunette with a shaggy haircut, dressed in a black business suit several sizes too big. Everyone turns their attention to her, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue.

At my silence, the brunette slowly meets my stare, her startling eyes, a color I can’t discern from this distance, brighten.

She straightens up, squares her shoulders, and continues, “The face of the financials…the balance sheet and income statements spin a beautiful story of exponential growth and income, but it’s in the cash flow and the footnotes where the ugliness lies.”

The burn in my throat briefly recedes, and I arch my eyebrow, daring her to continue. She bites her lip, her voice stronger than before.

“For a company with such large profits and not much reinvestment in their business, you’d expect their cash or external investment positions to increase rapidly as well. But that isn’t the case. Their cash flow, while positive, is abysmal.”

She swallows, a hint of nervousness still shining through her expression, and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. The brunette pauses and looks at me, as if waiting for my permission to continue.

“Come on, intern, you think we didn’t consider that in our assessment?” Hayley interjects, her voice shrill and grating, her eyes glancing at me before shooting daggers into the intern’s face.

The intern—she’s a fucking intern, so this is her first day—shrinks at the admonition before her forehead crinkles. I bite my cheek to not reveal my thoughts, and cock my head, wanting to see what this little mouse will do in the presence of the hellcat that is Hayley Richardson.

After taking a breath, the intern sits up straighter and leans forward. She brushes the errant strands of hair which have fallen over her face and replies, “I’m just sharing my thoughts. I reviewed the documents this morning and am here to learn. If I’m incorrect, please explain it to me. I want to be an asset to the team.”

Glancing down, I find my fingers no longer trying to dig a hole into the glass surface of the table, the knuckles no longer stark white. A slither of amusement snakes inside me at this rendition of David versus Goliath.

“I’ll educate you later, Greta. This is not the time or place for it,” Hayley seethes, her voice coming out in a hiss as she darts furtive glances at me. “You can come to my office—”

“It’s Grace, not Greta.”

---