Talia Nassar

The red slope trending downward looks steeper. I tighten the hold on my mouse and squint, eyes strained under the bright light of the monitor.

An advanced skier might rejoice seeing an angle like this. But for me? I close my eyes and gulp, trying to steady my heartbeat.

For me, it's as if I'm tumbling ungracefully, destined to be a pile of mortification and broken bones.

I've done everything I can to get the line to at least a plateau. A plateau would be easy to trek. Yet Madame Economy has other plans in mind. She's grinning widely at the mountaintop, witnessing, as I gasp for breath like a child learning to swim for the first time.

That sadistic bitch!

I'm not her only target, making the reality of the situation slightly easier to swallow. My competitors have to be feeling the impact of rising prices and unprecedented interest rates. Verity Finance? They'll probably smack into a tree on their way down. Monroe Investments? Most likely they'll take out a family.

Yet, this still doesn't discount the fact that it's all happening during my first year as president of McAvoy Investments. My first year on the slopes of leading a financial institution.

My stomach flings my breakfast around, but I try to ignore it. With an alert gaze and set jaw, I hurry over to the main conference room where my senior employees are gathering for our weekly check-in. Today I need to push them even more to get our numbers back up. While everyone has been working hard already, I'll need to report our progress to the CEO and board of directors tomorrow. And keeping my job—a job that literal blood (if you count the nosebleed during last month's forecast review), sweat, and tears have gone into—is a top priority.

Based on how I got the job, it's clear people hold me to a different standard than others in my position. An Arab woman, albeit white-passing, in her mid-thirties does not become president of a financial institution every day. There are people everywhere just watching and waiting for me to drop the ball. And based on how these stats are looking, it's as if I'm dropping more balls than the runt at a high school dodgeball game. Of course Ms. Economy just so happens to be the ref, smiling villainously with one of those black sweatbands and striped shirts to make it official.

Chatter lands in my ears as I push open the glass door to the conference room. However, it instantly dies as soon as I stride over to my seat. "Good morning everyone," I say as I sit down at the head of the gray marble conference table.

Versions of "Good morning" are spoken by the eight employees before me. Some are fidgeting and others are not making direct eye contact. There is no doubt my employees are nowhere near buying foam fingers with "Talia #1" written on them. But I prefer it that way. I haven't made it to where I am through things like team-building activities or after-work ice cream socials. Friendships are reserved for those in my dance group and not for people I manage.

The only exception is my assistant Imani, who outshines all on work ethic, determination, and support. Imani would buy a foam finger with my name on it in a heartbeat, and would even bedazzle it somehow.

A moment of silence makes my headache grow. I clear my throat. "Did your alarm clocks go off yet? Who the hell is giving our crisis report?"

"Oh, um, yes. Sorry, Talia," says Steven, head of client services. The balding man smooths the one hair on his head and crosses his arms in front of himself, as if it'll help provide a barrier of protection. "Ace pulled out this morning. They're going with another firm."

What the fuck?

My fists clench on the marble and I take in a sharp breath through my nostrils. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Colin said he'd found better interest rates elsewhere."

"And so he just dropped us without giving us time to match?" I scoff. "Alright everyone, this is a code red. You need to call your clients and make sure no one else jumps ship. We literally cannot afford to have anyone else pull out. I'll focus on Colin to make sure we get him back. Let's cancel this meeting for now and reconvene at the end of the day to discuss."

My chair screeches against the marble floor as I stand up. Fucking hell, how could my third biggest client all of a sudden drop? It doesn't make any sense. I briskly leave the conference room and give my assistant instructions as I pass by her desk outside my office, "Imani, please get me Colin on the phone."

"I'm on it!" Imani responds and immediately begins pulling up the number and dialing.

I continue into my office and take a seat on my desk chair, sighing and placing my face in my hands. I lean back as I wait for the call to go through.

The corner office is the nicest office I've ever worked in. The spacious room has large windows overlooking the Boston skyline and a seating area with white suede couches. Perhaps this week will be the last time I get to enjoy the space. My heart dips. All these years of hard work...all these years of proving that I deserve to be here...hangs precariously in the balance, ready to sink down the drain.

My thoughts move to my dad and brothers. What would they think about all this?

Then, I think about Gary. While I haven't seen him in over twelve years—an amount of time that should deem someone forgotten—he somehow crawls to mind whenever I'm faced with the possibility of failure. What would he say? Before my thoughts can spiral any further, they're interrupted by my phone ringing.

I quickly place the receiver against my ear and Imani's voice streams through. "Colin's on line one."

"Put him through." After a beep signals the start of the call, I clear my throat. "Hi, Colin. This is Talia from McAvoy Investments. How are you doing today?"

"Listen, like I told your assistant I don't really have time to talk. I'm about to head into the club to play a round of golf," Colin says in a reedy voice.

My eyes roll. If men in my line of work could procreate with their golf clubs, they would.

"Well I appreciate your time, but I heard the most startling news this morning that you're no longer with us. I assumed it was just a misunderstanding so I wanted to call and clear everything up."

"No, it wasn't a misunderstanding. I found better rates elsewhere. That's it. It's nothing personal."

"I just need five minutes of your time, Colin. I can convince you why our rates are the best in the long term."

"I'm sorry, I don't have time. I need to go."

No, no, no!

My heart pumps faster and I grip the phone tighter. "Wait! Let me meet you at the golf course. Which club are you at? Give me five minutes of your time to tell you why you're losing money without us. I promise you won't be disappointed!"

Silence is all that can be heard. Did Colin hang up on me? Then, the breath I'm holding releases when Colin says, "Terrace Club on Lincoln. Five minutes. Over lunch. That's all I have."

"Great! I'll see you soon," I say before slamming the phone back in its station on my desk. I grab my purse and sprint out of the office, on a mission to save my job.

It takes a bit of effort but I somehow manage to convince Colin to stay with my firm. I ended up chatting with him for over thirty minutes over lunch at this club's upscale restaurant before he left me to finish up his game.

While this part of the job is draining—the putting on a fake smile, the schmoozing, the stroking of egos—it's necessary. If I somehow manage to make it through this rough patch Miss Economy has kindly set out for me, my sole focus will be on getting to CEO. While being president is a dream come true, it's just the last step before I make my way to the position that so few women in the finance world have touched.

If I were CEO, there wouldn't be any running around, managing the day-to-day. I'd be able to create the vision for the company's future and prove that women can reach the top.

With warmth radiating through my body, I turn in my seat to the beautiful views behind me. The bright, sunlit room is surrounded by tall windows that showcase fields of green dotted by golfers, caddies, and carts.

I'm about to call the server to get the bill, but a tall, broad-shouldered figure in my peripherals forces me to turn abruptly. My smile instantly falters and my headache returns, overriding the Advil I took on the way here.

Lucas Handler.

I'd recognize that broad frame anywhere. He walks in like he owns the place and is laughing at something a person in his group is saying. My jaw clenches involuntarily as my gaze rakes over him. It's as if he's begging to be scouted by Lacoste marketing with a form-fitting navy blue polo shirt clinging to his torso.

And how much gel does a guy really need? While his brown, combed-back hair isn't shiny, normal hair couldn't possibly stay back like that on its own.

The last time I had a run-in with Lucas Handler about a month ago, security escorted us out. Apparently yelling at each other during a children's charity gala wasn't allowed. I frantically turn to try to find the server for the bill before Lucas spots me. I had such a nice, successful lunch, and talking to him would only ruin the moment and potentially cause regurgitation.

Yet as if he hears me say the thoughts aloud, his head turns and his ocean-blue eyes lock with mine. His smile instantly vanishes and he squints, seeming to check if I'm really on the other side of the room.

Oh, lovely. Just lovely. Yes, it's me, you dickwad.

I squint back and give Lucas a forced smile that I'm hoping is communicating, "Go away, idiot." Yet, just like Lucas to always want to get under my skin, he says something to his group before turning and making his way over.

My eyes roll and my arms cross as he approaches. "Talia," he starts in a deep voice before gesturing to the chair across from me, "May I?"

"No, you may not," I say curtly and raise my brows.

"Great, thanks," he says and takes the seat anyway, forcing a huff out of me. "So, are you here to try to steal my clients or are you taking up golf? If it's the latter, there's a mini golf course I can recommend that might be better suited for you." He leans back with a smirk—so smug, so arrogant, so Lucas!

"As a matter of fact, I just kept a client that you almost stole from me. Colin is back with McAvoy, so you can kiss my ass," I say in nearly a whisper so that the surrounding tables won't hear me.

Lucas' jaw clenches. He's pissed off and likely in the same boat as me, struggling to keep his business afloat. "You're lying."

I smile. This time it's genuine. I can't help it when I'm a step ahead of him. "Go ask him yourself. He's out playing a round." I shrug nonchalantly before adding, "And while you're at it, you can submit your caddy boy job application to the front desk. I saw a sign that they were hiring."

Amusement graces his sharp features. "You know I love a challenge. I think I will go talk to him after lunch."

My eyes widen for a fraction of a second before I muster up the most DGAF shrug I can possibly allow my shoulders. "Fine. All fine. It's fine."

"But say fine one more time. I think it might actually stick on the next one." He beams back at me while I scowl. Before I can respond, he stands up. "Well, always a pleasure Talia. And while I don't genuinely mean that, I do hope you have a wonderfully fine afternoon."

I don't say a word as he turns and saunters back toward his group that's seated on the other side of the restaurant. I continue scowling as I study him. He seems relaxed and captures the attention of everyone at his table. They gape at him as if he's saying the most intelligent things in the world. In a way, I get it. He is annoyingly intelligent. Plus, he has the face and body that can charm anyone who doesn't already know what he's like—what he's really like. But I know the truth. I witnessed firsthand the selfishness and narcissism that almost cost me my career.

I jump slightly when my server approaches and pulls me from my thoughts. After settling the bill, I strut out of the restaurant in my six-inch heels, ignoring his head turning toward me and hoping that I'll never have to cross paths with Lucas Handler ever again.