Page 1 of Return on Love

Chapter 1

“In my experience, there’s no such thing as luck.” —Obi-Wan Kenobi

You know why Luke Skywalker could defeat Anakin, aka Darth Vader? Did he get more training? No. He started at a much later age than Anakin and barely got any training. Was he better skilled with his lightsaber? Duh, no. Anakin was skilled in multiple lightsaber combat forms. Did he have more midi-chlorians? No, beyond a doubt. Anakin had by far the highest midi-chlorians. Then why? The answer is love, or, shall I say, the lack of it.

Unlike Anakin, Luke was smart enough not to have a romantic relationship. Anakin, the cute little kid and the intelligent young padawan, the skilled fighter, the helpful and kind person, the Chosen One, went over to the dark side. Why? You guessed it. Love. This sappy emotion was the root cause of Anakin becoming the Sith Lord’s apprentice and ensuring the dark side’s rise to power. Love was the real culprit all along. The whole saga is like the ultimate buzzkill for romance and shows the havoc it’s capable of creating. We’re made to believe love is all rainbows and butterflies, while it’s more like chaos and destruction. I mean, can we talk about reality here?

Thankfully, I’ve got this figured out. Love is totally over-hyped. If you stick to the script and play your part, life will unfold just fine. You don’t need to go about searching for your soulmate. You know what I believe in? Karma. That’s the real deal, not this schmaltzy love stuff. And don’t even get me started on romance. Trust me, it’s a recipe for disaster. It either leads to some tragic end or takes you to the dark side. And oh, let’s not forget that lovely scenario where your ex’s new flame swoops into your professional life and makes your work life suck as bad as your personal life. Classic.

Oh, and by the way, that new girlfriend? She snagged the gig all because you spilled the beans about the team and bosses to your boyfriend. Smooth move, right? So now she’s not only surpassed you but will likely sit as your boss while you hang on to keep your job. Like, seriously? Life’s like some messed-up reality show sometimes.

I wipe the dust off the mini-Yoda figure on my desk. Yeah, I’m a nerd. So what! Anyway, it’s time to meet my boss, John Weber. Our company HR had this genius idea of bosses and their direct reports having weekly discussions. It’s supposed to be all about trust and bonding. Hasn’t anyone clued them in that too much togetherness can be a relationship killer? I mean, the best connections are those you don’t suffocate, right? Worst of all, all of this is amid rumors about potential layoffs. So, if I want to keep my job, which I do, it needs to be done. And done with a smile.

I stand up, smooth out my dress and head to his office, swinging by Lily’s desk first. Lily! My life in office has become so much better since she joined. She was my best friend in school. Then, I went to grad school to study finance and joined this up-and-coming PE firm. When Lily expressed frustration with her job and desire for change, I referred her for the assistant position. And she’s been here since, over two years, I guess. And no surprises, but she's more popular and connected to gossip than me.

“Wish me luck,” I say, only half-joking. I really think I need all the luck I can get.

Lily gives me a knowing smile. “Ah, so it’s time for your weekly tête-à-tête with Weber, huh? Don’t sweat it, girl. Word on the street is they are looking at a few new deals, and lucky for you, two are with Weber. You’re bound to snag one, at least. And then, you work your magic and get it approved. Simple. They cannot let go of the associate whose client gets the green light,” Lily assures me, holding my hand and squeezing it. “You’ve got this, Eva.”

“Thanks,” I mutter half-heartedly. I need this job. I might not love it but it’s the one thing that keeps me tethered and sane, not to say that it’s the only thing in my life that my Dad grudgingly approves of. I can’t even imagine the look on his face if I’m given the pink slip. He might just die of mortification, or, more likely, kill me with his mortified looks.

“I better get moving,” I say with a sigh.

Lily clears her throat and gestures to her hair.

“You’ve done something with your hair?” I inquire, scrutinizing her in search of the change. The streaks? Nope. Still red. The length? Looks the same. Oh, wait. Has she styled it differently today? God, I don’t see it.

“Not mine, genius. Yours,” she whispers and rolls her eyes playfully.

“Ah,” I say, running my fingers through my hair, attempting to coax it into some semblance of order. My hair is as rebellious as a teenager, forever refusing to cooperate. They are wavy and very unruly. “How’s this?” I ask, flattening them around my face.

She nods. “Good enough. Now hustle. You’re late.”

I look at my watch. Shit. Two minutes. And Weber’s office is on the other end of the floor. He could’ve taken the office closer to his team, but no. The top-shot needed the corner one. He got the status he wanted, and his team, that is us, got the exercise we never wanted.

I click-clack my way to the other end of the tiled floor as fast as I can in heels, not caring for the staring eyes following me. I stumble once, straighten myself, and then stumble again. Someone is stifling a mini-laugh and not doing a good job at it, but I ignore it. I balance myself and begin walking again, this time a little slower. Even after three years, I cannot figure out how to look even remotely graceful in stilettos. I mean, Lily can even sprint in them. In my eyes, she’s a superstar just for that.

I’ve given a lot of thought to this, and I think if I could murder one person, I’d murder the one who made heels or thought that we should wear them as part of our ‘business attire’. Seriously? To torture us? Is this another tactic to thwart women's global control? How can we take over the world if we can’t even walk to our office without stumbling? You know what would be my first order of business if I ever became a senior partner? You guessed it! Allow sneakers in the office. Who knows? Perhaps it will start a trend and free women worldwide from high heels.

I eventually reach my destination, huffing a little. I take a few deep breaths, adjust my dress again and knock on the door.

“Come in.”

I step inside the largest office any new Principal around here could lay claim to. Rumor has it that Weber is on the fast track to becoming a Partner real soon. He is one of those who somehow wiggle themselves in at the right place at the right time. You know, the type who’s not exactly brimming with any exceptional talent but manages to climb up the corporate ladder. What’s a downer, though, is that he doesn’t like nay-sayers, and that’s anyone who disagrees with him. And what can I say? I have this tendency to let my real thoughts slip out. Doesn’t make me a favorite of his.

But there is another who has used this juicy piece of tidbit that I told my boyfriend, Bob, about, to her full advantage. Yup. His new girlfriend, Priscilla. It’s so annoying to see her cozying up to Weber at every opportunity, even at his dumbest ideas.

Weber doesn’t even look up as I enter. “Sit. What are the updates on your clients?” he drones, continuing to look at some document on his screen.

I rattle off the numbers from the clients I’m supposed to track, my well-prepared speech. If he had listened, he would’ve found that most of the ‘updates’ were points I’d already told him last week. There’s nothing out of the ordinary to report. Well, nothing much happens every week! My clients are small companies or startups in the tech and finTech sectors. And no one, and I mean No One in a start-up, has time to give me an update worth talking about every fricking week. Honestly, I don’t blame them. If I were them, I’d have blocked my number. I mean, why is it even required? As an investor, I don’t need information on what they do every hour of their waking time, do I? As long as they’re making money and not getting into trouble, it’s fine by me.

Weber doesn’t even bother to cross-question. I, of course, have spent my Sunday evening meticulously preparing for any questions he might throw at me. As it turns out, it wasn’t required. A few minutes of awkward silence pass before he realizes I’ve wrapped up the updates and his eyes shift from the screen to meet mine. I wonder if he’d have noticed if I had recited the lyrics of a Taylor Swift song instead of the updates. Maybe I should try that next time.

“I have some good news for you,” he says.

Oh shikkity shit. “Good news” from him is practically code for impending doom. I offer a cautious nod and sit up a little straighter, bracing myself for what’s coming. I have a bad feeling about this. If only I could dig up some courage to question and argue whatever news he’s about to give me, but even I know I’m incapable of that.

“I’ve got two potential clients on the table. We’ve got funds to back just one of them. Initial analysis paints them both as promising contenders. So, here’s the deal. You’ve got a solid three months to dig deep, analyze, and help guide the start-up on its future strategy. In the next quarter, when the partners meet, they will choose one of these clients for investment.”

---