Chapter 5 Cass

I was so pissed off when I left the Libra offices that I almost threw my iPhone onto the pavement. But I was still drowning in so much debt to my parents, the federal government, and two private loan providers, that I managed to remind myself I couldn't afford to drop a grand on a new phone whenever my anger got the best of me. Instead, I did what any disgruntled twenty-eight-year-old would do when a guy pissed her off: I went to the closest fast-food restaurant; bought the grossest, biggest, and baconiest breakfast sandwich they sold; and scarfed it down in the back of an Uber on my way to Davenport-Ridgeway.

When I got to my office, I dipped into the bottle of emergency vodka I kept in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. Not too much, just a shot—enough to burn. Enough to take the edge off. Then I opened my laptop, created a new Word document, and typed FUCK YOU all in caps in size 72 font.

For about a minute, I fixated on that document. My eyes traced every curve and line in those seven letters and I contemplated two options.

One: I could compose myself and call Marcus to deliver a concise and mature apology.

Or two: I could save this motherfucker as a PDF, attach it to an email, and send it to him with the subject line: Follow-Up from Today's Meeting .

My cursor was hovering over the "Save as PDF" dropdown when someone knocked on the door to my office. Not long after, Corinne Tyler herself opened the door and stuck her head in.

"Are you busy or can I come in and chat for a few minutes?" But she didn't wait for a response. She simply strolled in and closed the door behind her, giving no shits about whether I had time for her or not. It was badass as hell, actually. It was something only the head bitch in charge could pull off. She knew she just made the trip all the way down from the eighty-eighth floor wearing a deadly looking pair of Louboutins, and there was no way in any version of hell I was going to turn her away.

Corinne took a seat in the chair on the other side of my desk and then crossed one leg over the other. It was seamless. A power move. For years, I had tried to emulate that move and always felt like it was apparent I was doing an impression. Corinne, on the other hand, moved naturally—like she was born to take names in a sheath dress.

"How are you today?" I asked, switching my tone to the corporate-approved voice I always used at work. I smiled at her, bright and beautiful (and hopefully not obviously buzzed from the shot I just took).

"Cassandra, what is going on?" Corinne asked. When she posed this question, she leaned forward and kept her eyes focused on mine. She was stunningly attractive, to the point where I even had trouble looking at her.

I paused, finally resolving to take in her expression. I admired Corinne, but I was wary of her. In my mind, anyone should be wary of a person who had achieved as much as Corinne had at only thirty years old. But when I looked at her face, I didn't see anything hidden behind her expression. I'd had enough practice with rich egomaniacs to pick up on their ticks. Their hidden smirks or those self-satisfied grins—I could always spot them.

After all, I used to be one of them.

"Nothing."

Her expression remained neutral, even though she knew better than to believe me. "Are you sure? Because ‘nothing' is an inadequate way of describing the irate seller I just spoke to on the phone."

That asshole told on me.

Silence made herself known at that precise moment. Silence busted her way in, threw elbows, and helped herself to a front row seat. Silence knocked me down with a swift blow to my ankle and forced me to bend over while she used my back as a footrest.

"I personally requested you to lead due diligence for this deal because it's one of my biggest and most important deals to date," Corinne continued, watching me closely with deep green eyes. "Everyone who has worked with you told me you're the epitome of perfection. Rave reviews across the board. Thus, I was incredibly surprised to get a call from Marcus Fitz this morning, not only requesting that I replace you as his analyst, but also asking if I would strongly consider firing you."

Immediately, a lump rose in my throat. That rat bastard. That smug, hypocritical, bastard. Immediately, my corporate career started to flash before my eyes. I saw those late nights I spent slinging drinks, working catering jobs on the weekends, and sending out dozens of résumés only to receive rejections. I saw those early mornings when I cracked open a GMAT practice book, on the verge of sleep as I worked through math problems until sunrise—all to get an MBA I never wanted, but knew I needed to make some real money. I saw all those hours I spent at Davenport-Ridgeway, scrambling for a paycheck I never used for myself. I saw all of that piled at the bottom of a massive pyre and igniting into flames—while Marcus fucking Fitz simpered at me with a torch in his hand.

"Corinne, I am so sorry," I said hastily, loathing the way my voice started to shake. "I don't know what came over me."

"Relax. I'm not firing you," she cut in, her eyes narrowed.

"Oh thank god. I've put a lot into this job over the years. It would kill me to lose all that work and commitment."

That was a bald-faced lie, for the record. My job was soul-sucking. I was there for a paycheck and nothing more.

Corinne clicked her tongue before she ticked both eyebrows upwards. "Well, to start, I actually can't fire you. I'm not your manager. Although, I chatted with Mahendra and told him I don't think this is worth a dismissal, so rest easy." She tipped back in her seat and draped her long brown hair over her shoulder. "But I'm not here to fuck around, so tell me what's going on so I can help you get your head on straight."

It took me a few seconds to realize Corinne truly just said what I thought she did—and a few seconds after that to realize I was staring at her with my jaw lowered by about half an inch.

"What?" she inquired as she studied my baffled expression. "You're telling me you're surprised to hear me swear? Please. I can tell you swear, Cassandra. I can also tell you took a shot of…I want to say…vodka before I showed up here." Corinne grinned. "Just because I have a fancy title doesn't make me inhuman. I don't think we're so different."

"I don't think most people know much about me," I found myself saying.

She nodded, and it was a gesture flowing with the kind of confident resolve some women were born with. "Okay, look," she began, "I don't know what's going on with you, but it sounds like you and Marcus Fitz have a complicated history I don't fully understand. However, I do know from experience that it's only going to get worse if you don't address it head on. So, I'm going to ask that you go to Libra tomorrow—as planned and as you're paid to—and you talk to Marcus. If you two really can't find a way to work together, I will request another analyst. Does that work for you?"

"It'll work," I resolved, knowing a failed due diligence period would mar my reputation for years. "I'll suck it up. I'll make it work."

Because that's what I did—what I had always done. I sucked it up. I made it work.

"Good," she answered. "And if you ever want to talk to me about what's going on, feel free to find me." Corinne rose from her seat. "I'm only a couple of years older than you, I know, but I've been in your shoes."

Somehow, I suppressed a laugh. Corinne was engaged to a gorgeous specimen of a man, the son of the CEO, who she met when she was in kindergarten . I, on the other hand, was living paycheck to paycheck with a different guy in my bed every weekend and my career teetering on the brink of extinction.

"Sounds good," I responded, telling her what she wanted to hear. "I'll definitely do that."

***

After work, I got on the subway, rode back to my neighborhood, walked into my kitchen, and immediately made myself a dark and stormy with double rum. Bethany didn't ask questions. She simply raised an eyebrow, stole a sip of my drink, and then vacated the living room so I could commandeer the television.

Bethany and I had lived together for a year, ever since I moved back to the city after finishing my MBA. We found each other on Craigslist when she responded to my ad that said: Former trust fund brat going through a tragic breakup and just trying to find a roommate who won't judge me for not separating my laundry by color and for still not knowing how to cook anything. Recent MBA grad with high earning potential and zero ambitions. Non-smoker (except when drunk) and not-annoying (except when drunk).

Bethany had emailed me and said: You're hilarious. You also sound like a horrible person to live with, but I'm an aspiring lawyer so I obviously have a high capacity for misery. Want to grab coffee?

The rest was history. I settled in on our rundown IKEA couch and I put on The Texas Chainsaw Massacre , my go-to for days when I was too pissed off to function. Bethany knew this about me—and I strongly suspected she actually kept a spreadsheet that tracked what movies I watched when I was in a particular mood. One time, she walked in on me watching I Know What You Did Last Summer , and commented, "Someone's in a good mood!" And she wasn't wrong—I had just had a one-night stand with a guy who made me come so hard that my eyes watered.

A couple hours later, Bethany emerged from her bedroom when she heard the end credits playing and took a seat on the couch. "Feeling better?"

"Sort of." I groaned and slid down on the couch, far enough that the thin cushion dug into my lower back. "Today was a fiasco."

"What's up? Mom and dad stuff? Work stuff?"

"Both, but mostly work stuff." I rotated to face her and pulled one of our old pillows onto my lap. "Have you ever worked with someone who just wants to watch you fall hard on your face? Like someone who really just wants to watch you eat shit?"

Emphatically, she shook her head. "No. But I work at a nonprofit. People there are actually good and not complete psychopaths like the people you work with."

"Fair point," I noted. "But whatever. I can handle it."

"You're sure? I'm happy to talk."

To be honest, the only thing worse than having Marcus Fitz sabotage my very existence was the idea of talking about Marcus Fitz sabotaging my very existence. I shook my head. "What's going on with you? How was your day?"

Bethany gave me an exaggerated grin. "I have a question about the LSAT."

Of course she did. There were almost no downsides to living with Bethany aside from two things: One, she had really small boobs, so none of her tops fit me. Two, I once let it slip that I briefly attended Columbia Law School, so she always had questions for me about the LSAT (the Law School Admissions Test), which I took when I was a senior in college. I loved her though. And as much as I hated the LSAT, I would forever owe Bethany for taking me in when nobody else wanted anything to do with me. "Go for it," I said, nodding my head.

"You're the best," she declared as she opened her spiral notebook and pulled her pen out of her wavy brown hair. "Did you ever find any good strategies for the logical reasoning section? For some reason I keep running out of time."

"Just on that section?"

She nodded as she released a sigh. "It's like I have a mental block. I keep getting hung up on the questions and rereading things."

"That's common," I told her. "A few of the people at school who were also taking the test at the same time as me would always say they just got stuck on those questions."

"Any tips?"

"Sorry. I didn't really have that problem. To be honest, I didn't study very much," I admitted. As soon as I said that, I saw Bethany's brow furrow.

"Okay, well how much did you study?" She extended her long legs onto our crooked coffee table. "Because I've been at this for six months and I'm still not getting better."

"Like…a week."

Her dark eyes widened and they stayed that way. After a moment, her stare made me shift. Immediately, I wished I had lied to her. It had been a while since anyone had given me that look—that look of disbelief, almost like I wasn't human or something. "Sorry, what ?" she demanded. "You're telling me you got a perfect score on the freaking LSAT after studying for only a week?"

"I'm a good test taker," I responded, raising a shoulder to appear nonchalant. It failed miserably though. Bethany flicked up an eyebrow and surveyed me up and down.

"I wish I could be you. You're a prodigy."

I flinched when I heard that word, almost like it was an expletive. It was something I couldn't help. For years and years, that title was bestowed upon me carelessly by the adults around me—a designation that ultimately did more harm than good. My chest tightened, making the act of breathing feel suddenly laborious. "Can I asked you something?" I said, trying my best to change the subject.

To my relief, Bethany nodded. "Always."

"Why do you want to go to law school?"

She furrowed her brow when she heard my question. "Well, I want to be a lawyer," she stated. "Obviously. Why else does someone take the LSAT?"

"Oh, there are a ton of reasons why. In my case, I went because I could. I went because I knew it would be easy for me—because my parents knew it would be easy for me. They knew everyone there would just have to stand back and watch me crush them." I paused. "I was so unhappy there though."

Bethany was quiet, watching me almost cautiously. She reached over and put her notebook on the table before she faced me again with her arms folded over her chest.

"Beth, I know you probably wish you were more like me because these things come so easily to me. But I would give anything to just care about something," I told her. I shook my head after a few seconds. "I would happily struggle and work my ass off if it felt important to me. I've just…I don't know. Nothing has ever really seemed worthwhile."

Knowingly, she reached over and squeezed my hand. "Cass."

"Yeah?" When I looked up at her, I realized there was this lump in the back of my throat—and no matter how many times I tried to swallow, it still felt tight.

"I don't have to study anymore tonight. Do you want to watch Scream ?"

Faintly, I smiled. Scream was my movie for when I was struck with ennui.

"Start it," I agreed. "I'll make drinks."