Page 86 of Power
“There’s one more thing.” She used a tone that told me whatever she was about to say was a big one. And the way she let a long silence pass made me nervous.
What could it be? So help me, if she told me that while the culture was generally kind, there were reports of sexual harassment in the work?—
“The salary,” she said quietly.
My pen stilled mid-tap.
“Back when I decided to leave for work-life balance purposes, I interviewed with many different companies in the area,” she explained. “I was really fortunate at the time to receive several job offers.” She took a breath. “All of them were at least thirty percent less.”
My stomach bottomed out like I’d just hit the first drop on a roller coaster, only there was no exhilarating rush, just nausea and dread.
“Thirty?” I balked.
I knew our company paid very well; it was something that people talked about incessantly, but I had never done market research to know just how much they paid above other companies. I supposed it made sense since we also weren’t known for good work-life balance, but thirty percent? That wasn’t a pay cut; that was financial amputation.
“But the good news is, you’ll have better work-life balance,” Mary chirped, as if that would somehow make up for losing nearly a third of my income.
“I … um …”
The sad truth was, I was living paycheck to paycheck right now. Between my rent, my mom’s rent, and helping her get back on her feet, I was already staring down the barrel of the heartbreaking possibility of having to sell Buttercup and the financial responsibility she came with. But with a thirty percent pay decrease,even selling my beloved horse wouldn’t make the math work.
I dropped deeper into my chair, despair spreading through my body, contaminating every hopeful thought I’d had just minutes before.
Maybe I could just move in with my mother? But the whole purpose of our current arrangement was to hide her from my father, and until I knew exactly how long my father would serve in jail, I didn’t want to risk it. If we lived together, there was a higher probability he’d find her. Plus, doing so would only close some of that financial gap. And I’d be sued by my landlord for breaking my lease.
As if that weren’t bad enough, we weren’t talking about a short-term problem. At thirty percent of a pay decrease, it would take at least a decade to get back to my current income. If ever. All while rent prices and the cost of living would rise. The math was brutal, unforgiving.
“You still want to interview, right?” Mary asked hopefully, oblivious to my internal financial meltdown. “I mean, I’m sure you could probably negotiate two to five percent over whatever they offer. But again, think about how nice it’ll be to work less hours!”
Yeah. It would be great. Almost as great as having electricity and running water.
“Thank you,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice that I absolutely did not feel. “I really appreciate it, Mary. Yes, I’d love to interview for it.”
I hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling, the reality of my situation crashing down on me like a ton of very expensive bricks.
Plan B had just imploded. I needed to make plan A work, which meant confronting Marcus and making sure I got him to confess.
I straightened my spine, resolution hardening.Time to gather evidence.
43
SCARLETT
“Other jobs? Really?” Jace slapped a file down on his desk with enough force to make his Montblanc pen roll across the polished mahogany. He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his custom Tom Ford suit jacket pulling just enough across his broad shoulders to remind me why I should be looking at his face instead of the delicious curves to his muscles.
“How did you find out?” I kept my voice measured, professional, even as my pulse quickened under his scrutiny.
“Chicago is a very small city,” Jace said, his green eyes flickering with something dangerous while a muscle twitched in his jaw.
The way he looked at me—like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve—sent an unwelcome flash of heat down my spine. The air-conditioning hummed quietly in the background, but it did nothing to cool the tension between us. I didn’t appreciate being summoned like this just to get an attitude. I had enough on my mind. Namely, Marcus’s vague-ass threat that he could hurt Jace.
“What did you expect after the conference-room showdown?” I challenged, adjusting the cuff of my blouse, acutely aware ofhow his gaze tracked the movement of my fingers. “A thank-you note and a fruit basket?”
“Tell me his name,” Jace said, his voice dropping to that quiet, menacing tone that somehow managed to be both threatening and inappropriately arousing, “and he’ll be gone within the hour.”
No, he won’t.
Because as far as I could tell, I had two scenarios in front of me. Door number one: Jace would have to pick between me and a longtime friend. And he would most likely pick his longtime friend every day of the week, making him vulnerable to the wolf in sheep’s clothing that Marcus was to Jace. The guy was a trusted adviser and close friend, and I had to figure out how to do this in a way that wouldn’t put Jace in a precarious position. Door number two: Marcus wasn’t bluffing, and he would pull the trigger on that dirt he claimed to have on Jace.
