Page 83 of Masks and Mishaps

So I blot again and again, and I realize I’m sweating, and I may also be crying, and my fist closes around the brown paper towel, and I squeeze—Isqueeze squeeze squeezeuntil there are crescent indents in the palms of my hands. “FUCK,” I blurt out.

I’m tired.

I’m so tired.

I’m tired of men not listening to me.

I’m tired of working myself to the bone and still being treated like a girl cosplaying as a banker.

I’m tired of being small and sweet and quiet.

I’m tired of pretending I’m completely fine becauseI’m not fine.

I’m not fucking fine.

But I’m also a woman who fucks, who didn’t take no for an answer and got Dalton Cavendish. I’m a woman who makes money off her body—and enjoys it. I’m a woman who takes men’s money directly from their pockets for a living.

I toss the paper towel into the garbage and slam open the bathroom door. Then I’m charging. I’m flying. I fall into my chair, put on my headset, and dial a number I was personally given—a number nobody else has.

“Are you in Geneva yet?” I say as soon as the call connects.

“Not yet,” Claudia’s voice fills my ears. “Are you calling about that meeting? I don’t know how you put up with Hannington.”

“Our lines are monitored,” I remind her.

“I hope he hears it,” she replies, sounding almost bored. “So, how good is your algorithm?”

I shoot a look at Dalton across the bullpen. He’s still in Hannington’s office, fiddling with a stack of Post-it notes, but he stops when he notices me.

“It’s kind of spectacular,” I admit. I’m looking at the money Dalton put in without telling me; it’s grown—a lot. When I glance up, he’s descending the stairs into the bullpen, rolling the cuffs of his shirt. His stare pins me.

“Who are you talking to?” Weston asks, tapping his fingertips on my desk.

I ignore him. When Dalton is next to me, I mute my headset and say, “I’ve got Claudia on the line.”

“Move,” Dalton snaps at Weston, who slides out of his chair immediately. He puts on his headset and connects to the call, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s listening.

“I’m glad you called. I know two things to be true about our conversation today,” Claudia says. “The first, Hannington needs my money.”

I glance at Dalton, who shakes his head.

“Hannington definitely wants to keep you as a client,” I respond, not confirming her suspicion.

“The second,” Claudia continues, “is he doesn’t believe I know what I’m doing, and that’s not going to fly.” She’s quiet before she says, “If I gave you three million to play with, what would you do with it?”

I think my heart stops.Three million.

“All in,” Dalton encourages. “Tell her you’d go all in.”

“What’s going on?” Weston demands, knocking on the desk to get my attention. “Who—”

“Not now,” Dalton warns, raising his hand in Weston’s direction.

“Cavendish, this is my desk and my intern—”

Dalton spins in his chair and faces Weston. “Let’s be clear: There’s not even an alternate dimension where Essie Romero is yours in any way, shape, or fucking form, Weston.”

Weston’s eyes widen. Dalton has probably never spoken to him like that before. He may be surprised, but I’m not. I know this person who lives beneath Dalton’s ever-charismatic exterior—this person who is passionate and feels everything so profoundly. This person—this man—protects me.

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