Page 5 of Pride and Privilege

Adjoa grinned. “I think so. Rumour has it…” She paused for dramatic effect, unashamedly enjoying Poppy’s nervous discomfort. “He’s moving to this floor.”

Poppy shot a look at the door, alarm mixing with dread as she recalled the sight of him staring into that room. “What?”

“He’s going to be working here on the exec floor.”

“But… No. He’s on sixth.”

Hehadto be on sixth—far, far away from anywhere she might conceivably bump into him. That had been her one consoling thought on the train into work this morning. She’d worked here for two years and barely caught more than a glimpse of him. In a company of hundreds, there was surely no reason for their paths to cross. Right?

“Nope,” chirped Adjoa gleefully. “Daddy got him a fast-track ticket to the exec floor. It’s good news for you, though.”

“Why?” asked Poppy, trying to keep her eyes from straying to the door. He might be right outside. He might walk past any moment…

“Gives you another bite at the apple.”

“What?”

“I’m just saying it’s a pity you didn’t go home with him.”

“Why?”

“Well, apart from the obvious…”

Poppy grimaced at the salacious smirk on Adjoa’s face.

“Oh, come on,” the other woman protested, laughing. “Is the young, gorgeous, aristocratic, millionaire genius with the nice manners not your type?”

“No, he’s terrible,” Poppy said with a vague attempt at conviction. “Horrendous. Come on, what’s your other point? Tell me.”

“It could have been exactly the leg up you need. Leg over? I feel there’s a joke in that somewhere.”

Poppy squinted. “Leg up?”

“Don’t you still want to go to the dark side? Apply for a junior analyst role?”

Heat crawled up Poppy’s neck. She looked back at her screen, moved the mouse around, opened an email at random. She didn’t normally reveal any of her real, true self at work. Not the deep, desperate, vulnerable stuff. She even hid her real voice, her accent.

“It was an idea… I was thinking about it…”

“But you don’t have a degree, right?”

Barely had any qualifications at all… The heat breaking over her body turned clammy. She dragged a fingertip through the faint dust on her keyboard between the keys.

“Yeah. So it’s a stupid idea. The competition is crazy.”

“But if you got friendly with Roscoe…” Adjoa glanced over her shoulder, where Liz had just arrived. She leant forward, voice low. “You’ve heard the rumours, right? Emily Malcolm? That promotion to senior analyst? Lizzy Wilson, now deputy head of Asia research? You know what they’ve got in common?”

Poppy pulled a face. She did know. It was one of BlacktonGold’s many rumours. Or open secrets.

“They both,” Adjoa whispered, “went home with Roscoe Blackton.”

Roscoe’s first week in his new role was brutal. And it wasn’t as though things had been easy before. He was used to long daysand hard work, even enjoyed it, in a way: proving himself over and over, the results of his efforts speaking for themselves and wiping the smirks off the faces of those who believed he was only where he was because of his name. In fact, it was only the knowledge that he had earned his new position that kept him from panicking. Heknewhe could do the job. The board had voted unanimously to put him in this role. He was capable. He was competent. And if he’d been allowed to actually do the bloody job he’d been appointed to, things would have been fine.

But he kept getting pulled into meetings about tax. And he was swiftly beginning to discover that he abhorred tax legislation. His father, too, kept pulling him aside—calling him into his office for chats about the future of the company, or to meet-and-greet some old friend of his from his school days.

It was all part of the job, he supposed. Being the face of the company. He kept on smiling and slept less. Skipped the gym. Ate every meal at his desk or on the go. Occasionally, when his brain finally relaxed its grip on the day and let him drift towards sleep, he found himself wryly remembering his brother’s anger when Roscoe’s appointment was announced. Hugo had been jealous, disappointed, and Roscoe couldn’t help but laugh now at the thought of his spoilt elder brother doing even an hour of one of his days.

“You’re the heir to the title,”Roscoe had told him, sympathy mingling with irritation, because Hugo had never once shown any interest in BlacktonGold until told he wouldn’t be working there.“There’s no line of descent when it comes to the company.”Then he’d handed his brother a stiff drink, for much the same reason they used to pour rum down the throats of bloodied sailors awaiting amputation. It was the only thing they could think of to numb the pain.

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