Page 127 of Masks and Mishaps

A collective gasp runs through the room, and where there were whispers moments ago are now full-blown conversations between the most important people at Hannington-Hale. But there’s nobody more important—or louder—than Warner Hannington, who throws his pen. “Jesus, Weston.”

“You’re a liar,” Weston asserts, facing Essie.

Essie exhales and rolls her eyes. “I’m seeing a pattern, which is,Weston doesn’t think Essie has proof. Weston, baby boy, please stop embarrassing yourself.” She clicks again, and the next slide shows a screenshot from her camming site. “Here’s Weston’s profile. Doesn’t he look cute?”

His username: Make_It_Rain. His user picture: a dick pic. It’s a teeny little dick, in my opinion, but my perspective is admittedly skewed.

“No need to be shy anymore, Weston. You were one of my best customers—until I started fucking ‘ogres.’ And in case anyonestilldoesn’t believe me, here are the last four digits of his card on file,” Essie continues. “He used the same card to buy me a coffee and left the receipt on the cup because he’s lazy.”

“That means nothing,” Weston snaps before facing the room—mostly his father.

Without a word, Essie goes to the next slide—a black screen. “A good manager would have reviewed my deck,” she states before she presses play.

Cora’s bedroom appears on the video onscreen, and Essie and Weston are on the bed. “You can film me,” Weston is saying in the clip.

“You had a second recording?” he realizes aloud before he moves like he’s going to touch Essie. I’m faster. I throw my arms around his waist and pull him away while he thrashes—and Essie pushes ahead to my favorite part in the video: me.

I’m shirtless, masked—and terrifying. We’re watching the moment when Essie and I are seated on Weston’s legs, and she takes off my mask.

Looking out at the rest of the conference room is a choice, I know, but I’ve never been known for making good decisions. Dozens of stunned faces stare back—faces belonging to people I’ve worked alongside for two years.

But it’s Cabrera, my intern, who completes the fastest redemption arc in history when he blurts out, “Oh shit, Hannington,they cucked you.”

The room is momentarily silent—not much longer than it takes for me to lift my lips into a smirk.

The subsequent laughter that decimates the silence is a concerto. It’s thunderous and unapologetic and ruthless. And I’ve made countless investments in my two years at Hannington-Hale, but no investment has paid off quite like the loyalty I’ve sowed.

The world of finance isn’t like other sectors. Morals have never been at the forefront of our values. This is an industry where manipulation pays in dollars, and hard work and intellect are secondary. It’s a reputation game. It’s a connections game. It’s a game I was made to play—and win. Against the face of humiliation, Weston’s own is horror. Getting cucked by the most beloved person at the bank and an unflappable, five-foot-tall woman is insurmountable—especially for a talentless nepo baby like him.

Weston’s high for banking has always made him think he was sharper than he was, more deserving, vindictive enough to successfully destroy someone. He’s not—and he never has been.

There’s no mistaking it: He may have ruined Essie’s burgeoning career at Hannington-Hale, but she pulverized the one he already had.

“You cunt,” he snaps, trying to lunge at Essie—as if I’d ever let that happen.

With little effort and time to spare, I haul Weston out of the conference room and drag him toward the bullpen. He stumbles out of my grasp, crawling, and I let him—mostly because I know he’s going to try to run. He doesn’t get far before he collides with the railing lining the bullpen, which he uses to hoist himself up.

“Call her a cunt again,” I warn, shrugging off my jacket as I close the gap between us. “Do it.”

Weston glares at me. “She’s a fucking cunt,” he spits. “And you’re the biggest fraud I’ve ever met. Everyone knows you get what you want because you’re a suck up. You’re a glorified whore like her, and—”

His diatribe cuts off when he cowers, shielding himself from my raised arm, but I stop short of punching his face. At first, I can’t process what’s holding me back, but when I turn, I realize I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Warner is holding my arm.

“Let go,” I grit.

“Dalton—” the older man begins, shaking his head and glancing between me and his son.

I flex my muscles and I know he feels them expand and relax in his grip. “Let. Go.”

“I’m not going to let you assault another employee on company property.”

“Why?” I demand, taking my arm back. I gesture at Weston, who looks pathetic clutching the railing. “For him or for me?”

Warner’s face is absent of its familiar warmth. His blue eyes tick over me, the only movements in an otherwise stony face.

“Answer the question,” I push. “If I back away right now, are you going to fire him or not?”

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