17. JAKE

I went to the printer to pick up a quote. Underneath my sheet of paper is a stack of names, plus some illustrations. Patel's name is assigned to the print job. This is her work.

A few minutes ago, she was complaining to Leo about some date. That means she's not worried about the bonus. It means she thinks she is going to win it, anyway.

How?

The scoreboard is at twenty-three point nine million, me. Twenty-two point four million, her.

Without hesitation, I grab her pile of printed papers and bring them to my desk. Hiding it all between a folder, I get to work looking up her names.

A heading on the next page tells me it's her sister's wedding guest list. Why does she care about that? Why is she printing the names out? Even though Mr.Davies refuses to allow any overtime, I already figured Patel would find a way to sneak in work during her vacation. Does this list have something to do with it?

An hour later, I got my answer.

Tarun Singh is attending the wedding festivities.

His business translates to twenty-five million. He's a fucking whale. The biggest I've ever come across. He's perfect not only because he's worth that much, but because his business is very suited to the niche consulting services we offer.

I stare down at his name. Has she already started on him? Are they negotiating? Or is Patel so unworried because she's already got him on the hook as a client?

If that's the case, she's going to win. Even with all my unentered clients, the bonus goes to her.

That can't happen.

I gather the stolen papers and stalk over to her desk. She looks at me and gives me the biggest shit-eating grin. Her face is flushed, and, for a moment, I'm struck by how gorgeous happiness is on her. Her dark brown hair is lush and falls away in every direction. If she were lying on a pillow and I was above her, it would spread out exactly like that.

"Guess what?" she says.

"What?" My voice is terse, and I'm shaking my head. What am I thinking about? It's bloody Patel.

"Guess who I signed?" She points to the scoreboard. It's been updated.

Patel - twenty-two point nine million.

"Who?" I demand.

"Moby Dick."

"Impossible. He's never going to sign with us."

She slowly turns her screen enough that I can see. In black and white is a contract from BLERB Industries, signed and submitted.

She cackles. Both her palms press against her cheeks and she sighs as if having finished a never-ending marathon. Her eyes turn into rainbows.

See, it's not about Moby Dick's net worth, which isn't a lot. It's that literally no one else, Mr.Davies included, has ever been able to sign him.

Patel, in her element, is an impressive thing to witness. She's confident, clever, and makes everyone in her portfolio believe no one will work harder for them than us. Even the most resistant and sharp-tongued clients are tamed by her reassurances and conviction.

Fuck, I respect that. If we weren't on opposite ends of this battle, I'd openly admire it. How she doesn't pretend that winning doesn't matter. And that she's not afraid of putting everything into whatever she wants to achieve. It's magnificent.

Not that my feelings mean anything. Right now, if I let myself be distracted by anything, she's going to take the bonus away from me. Then buying my mother's house is going to be that much harder.

"What's wrong?" she asks, leaning back in her chair. "You seem upset."

I don't answer her. Instead, I drop the printed paperwork onto her desk, watching closely. Purposely, I put the page with Tarun Singh's name on top.

Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush harder. "Oh. That. Thanks."

She seems embarrassed all of a sudden, but there isn't a flicker of recognition.

"My sister made me do it," she explains quickly. "It won't happen again."

I keep looking. Nothing in her expression reveals any fear or anxiety that I've seen Tarun's name. Does she know it's on there? Isn't that her plan?

"Why does your sister need you to do this?" I ask.

Patel pulls apart the papers, picking out all the illustrations. The rest of the guest-list is chucked into the recycling bin by her feet.

"I don't even know," she admits. "It's not like she doesn't have access to a printer."

More confused than ever, I walk away.