Page 82 of Masks and Mishaps

Before anyone can respond, the line sputters dead.

Immediately, Warner faces me. “What were you two thinking? You speak Spanish?” he demands, and his scrutiny is frostbitten tundra. “The fuck did you even promise her?”

“Warner,” Dalton cautions.

I clear my throat. “I said we were still going to invest in currency, but using the model I built—”

“You tried to sell her on an algorithmic model?” He forces out a laugh. “Jesus Christ—”

“Hey,” Dalton cuts in. “You’re not going to yell at her—not at the woman who may have just salvaged this bank.”

“The bank is salvaged when we get a transaction,” Warner retorts, slamming his palm violently enough to make his coffee splash.

Dalton’s hands are in fists underneath the table, but he lets out a slow breath. “Your office. Let’s go,” he instructs, and Warner shoves his chair and exits the conference room, making the glass door rattle.

With my hands gripping the edge of the table, I stare ahead. “Did I screw up?” My voice is intolerably soft.

“You did exactly what I needed you to,” Dalton replies, and his voice is soft again too—the tone he saves for me. “I’m going to take care of everything.”

“But—”

“You were perfect,” he assures me as he stands. “Be good until I can come back. I’ll handle this.”

***

Weston tracks me as I fall into my chair. “You pissed off my dad.”

“Thanks, that’s really helpful of you to say.” My stomach is churning and spinning, andI’m completely fine. Completely fine. Completely, completely fine fine fine.

“Hey, didn’t mean to make things worse,” he mentions. “I piss him off all the time.”

I glance at Weston and quickly put my attention back on my monitor. I’m truly not in the mood.

“Let’s take a walk,” he says, pushing his smiling face into my line of sight. “We can talk about it.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather stay here.”

“No? How about dinner then?” He smiles wider.

The churning and spinning in my stomach stops, and now a deep pull replaces them. “You’re my boss.”

“So? It’s dinner. You should be thinking about your career.”

“I am, and I don’t want to mix work and my personal life.”

“You don’t work here yet,” he reminds me in a slow, patronizing tone I’ve never heard him use before. “If that’s the issue…there are other banks. And frankly, if you don’t understand how important it is for you to have a good rapport with your manager, maybe you’re better off elsewhere.”

“Is this—”Extortion. I stop myself before I say it. Weston’s eyebrow is high with challenge, and I’m still trying to reconcile the vile insinuations and the man who made them. Weston was kind to me…

I’m not sure what’s happening.

“Excuse me,” I mutter.

Nausea is rising in my stomach as I hurry to the bathroom, but nothing comes up when I lean over the toilet. Still, when I look into the mirror, my flushed reflection looks back at me.

I press a paper towel against my forehead, dabbing my hairline and trying my best to pull myself together without smudging my makeup.I’m completely fine. I’m completely fine.I smile. Bigger. Teeth. Yes, perfect. I arrange my hair just so.

But my forehead still looks shiny.

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