Page 15 of Hate Notes

"Red is a good color on you," Kora said. "Maybe people are just admiring. I'm sure Orion is. I bet he loves seeing you every morning."

I snorted. "Doubtful. I read him some of the most vile notes every morning. If anything, he probably has an aversion to me by now."

"Aversion is just French for erection, you know."

"Uh," I said. "I'm pretty sure aversion isn't even French..."

"Agree to disagree," Kora said, which was what she said when she knew she was wrong but didn't want to admit it. "All I'm saying is if he gets you so hot and bothered, maybe you could try to... squeeze a little more out of this deal." As if her meaning wasn't clear enough, she raised a hand and pretended to fondle an imaginary pair of balls. A very large pair, by the looks of it. Like, medically concerning large.

"He doesn't, and I won't. I have something called integrity. And what are those you’re fondling? Softballs?"

“Most balls are soft in my experience,” Kora said. “Andwow,”she waved her palms around in a show of mock amazement. “I forgot I was talking to Ember, the queen of integrity. Weren't you the one who borrowed Cole's stapler, rubbed it on Catman, and returned it to his desk the following day because you know he's slightly allergic to cats?"

"If that vile story was true, which I won't admit it was, I would just point out it was a very small allergy. He gets a runny nose and his eyes itch. So, frankly, I don't see your point."

"I love you, Ember. But you are hilariously ruthless. You'll do whatever it takes, and you don't let shit stand in your way. I'm pretty sure you would happily rock his world if you wanted it badly enough, ethics be damned."

I sat up straighter. "This assault on my character has gone on long enough. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to go deliver hateful messages to terrible people. You know, like an upstanding citizen."

Kora rolled her eyes, stood, and gave me a hug. "I can't watch Mr. Wrong until tomorrow morning. So, if you text me spoilers again, I'm going to end you. Just a warning."

Mr. Wrong was a show we obsessively watched and talked about when I still worked in the office. Producers purposefully set a group of women up with a man they thought was as wrong as possible for them, stranded them on a deserted island, and waited to see who ended up falling for him. It was peak trash TV, and I loved every second of it.

"Text you when Jenna slips in his tent after dark and takes him for a ride on the bang train? Got it. You'll be the first to know."

Kora punched me, then raised a finger. "It'll be the end of you. So make sure your affairs are in order. Oh, and you've got a little coffee on your lip." She licked her thumb and gripped me as I tried to squirm away, rubbing it off of my face like an overbearing grandmother.

"There," Kora said. "Now you look pretty as ever for your little CEO crush. Good luck."

I made it one step toward the door before Kora slapped my ass hard enough to let out an audible pop.

Or maybe she was more like a creepy uncle.

I paused, straightened myself, and left with the remaining scraps of my dignity, already planning which Hate Note I would read to Orion first today. Maybe the one about his tie collection. He seemed especially sensitive about his ties.

8

ORION

Isat in the executive conference room on the 31st floor of Foster Real Estate. The table was an impressive single slab of walnut I had commissioned a few years ago, and it was far too large for our small group of four, but I hardly cared.

People often made the mistake of thinking good business was about decisions and deals. Those were part of it, but only just. Often, good business was about selling yourself. The way I dressed, the state of my building, the size of my conference tables, and even the look on my face—those could close deals through the sheer force of suggestion.

Good business was about having a wide and varied toolkit, along with the ability to choose the appropriate tool for the appropriate job.

The three employees I invited to this meeting were like tools in my toolkit, and each was here for a specific purpose today.

There was Roman, my cutthroat chief of acquisitions, who had been openly angling to fill the currently nonexistent roll of Vice President of Operations. Roman was lean and sharp-featuredwith dark wavy hair always pushed carefully back from his face. He dressed like old money in tailored Italian suits despite his middle-class background, and regularly proved to be one of my most valuable employees. His ability to consistently provide useful insights baffled me, because I knew the man was regularly out late after work distracting himself with women and parties.

There was Julian, the somewhat air-headed but surprisingly ambitious senior chief of marketing, who really only wanted a "fancier title, because he loves cool titles."

Last but not least, there was Moira, my senior client relations consultant. She wanted to graduate from delegating tasks among my employees to a more direct, hands-on role. Moira wanted to land deals, deal with clients herself, and, of course, collect the subsequent bonuses.

Knowing the aspirations of my employees was yet another tool. It was the carrot on the stick to drive them toward higher levels of productivity. Part of my job was pushing them until they found potential within themselves they didn't even know they had.

And what would I say to myself if I was my own boss? What would I think of Orion Foster, the employee, and his behavior the past few weeks?

The thought curled my lip in annoyance. I would say he's distracted by a needless cat and mouse game with a Hate Notes employee—that he's letting the irritating little woman infiltrate his thoughts and distract him from work. Worse, I would say he's in a critical period of potential growth for the company while his competitors are angling to get an edge, and his lack of focus shows a complete disregard for the good of the company.

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