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Reading between the lines, he means don’t get your hopes too high.
“True, but the commercial market’s seen better days,” I point out. “A sharp person with the right connections could possibly look at rezoning and turning commercial space into residential space.” My return volley lets him know that I’m all too aware that he has the funds to pay so don’t lowball me.
“With the right connections,” Michael agrees, glancing down at my resume again and then looking back at me as if searching my expression for something. “Such as Dylan Sharpe?”
I tilt my head, acting as if this is an innocent question even though I hear the change in his tone loud and clear. “From what I know of Mr. Sharpe’s firm, he’s not deeply involved in that particular industry. Actually, many of his investments are located outside the city. What about this firm, though? The opportunity could be lucrative.”
“Opportunities are like fresh fruit, though,” Michael says. “Jump in too early, and you’ve got something sour that you’ve got to wait on. But you buy too late, and you’ve got a sticky, spoiled mess on your hands.”
“It’s a good thing this opportunity is being presented at the perfect time, then. Neither sour, nor a mess,” I say firmly. “Simply good, money-making investments.”
I’m doing my best to keep this meeting on track, without ruining my chances, but I’m getting the feeling Michael is meetingwith me, not to hire me, but rather so he can garner favor with Dylan. Like this is a ‘favor’ he’s doing for him.
“You did make quite the impression at the Faulkner event,” he surmises.
His eyes skate down my upper body to my hands resting on the table before returning to my face. It happens so fast that if I’d have blinked, I would’ve missed it. But I didn’t. And I know exactly what he’s referring to. Bronson Faulkner seeing Dylan and me at the elevator. It has to be.
“Excuse me?”
This is worse than I feared. I’m not here as a ‘favor’. I think I’m here so Michael can get a firsthand look at the car crash that’s drawn Dylan’s attention.
Michael clears his throat. “One’s reputation could reflect back on the firm, you understand?”
It’s only the sheer force of my determination that keeps me sitting here because I do need this job.
“Reputations are subjective. I prefer to deal in facts. And the facts are, I produce results.” I straighten my shoulders and harden my voice. “Look at my resume, and if you want, I’ll pull up my accounts so you can see my margins are accurate. I’m not looking to have my name on the door, Michael. Not yet. I’m looking for a desk, a computer, and maybe a cubicle. That doesn’t reflect on anyone.”
Michael frowns, the deep parentheses lines around his mouth highlighting the downturn of his thin lips. “I see. Well, I’ll need to have a few conversations. We’ll be in touch.”
I keep my smile steady and nod even though turmoil rolls in the pit of my stomach.
We’ll be in touch. I’ve heard those same words too many times this week, delivered in the same way, to not know the meaning. Don’t call us, because we’re not calling you.
I‘ve blown it. Again.
With the last shred of my self-control, Istand up as he does, shaking his hand politely. But he doesn’t look me in the eyes, and his handshake is nowhere near as firm as it was in the beginning. And instead of handing me off to an assistant, he walks me out himself. As we do, I can see the assistants and secretaries glancing at me. A few of them have little smirks, and twice, I see someone bend down to whisper into someone else’s ear.
Are they all talking about me?
Have they heard about the fundraising event?
Am I now branded a harlot in the Financial District?
Did I make a mistake the other night?
And maybe most importantly, am I still making a mistake with Dylan?
Michael walks me to the elevator, waiting for the doors to open before saying anything. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Hill. Word of advice? When you’re investing everything you have against those merely playing quarter slots, you will always lose. Be careful, Miss Hill.” He offers me a tight-lipped smile, seeming significantly less predatory and maybe more… fatherly for a moment.
The doors close, and I can feel the eyes of the other two people on the elevator looking at me. I face directly forward, seeing the warped reflection of my face in the slightly shiny steel doors.
All the while, my heart hammers and my palms turn clammy. I hate everything about all of this. I’ve never felt so inferior and helpless.
I thought that event was going to be the beginning of something amazing. Connections, contacts, and opportunities, all right in the palm of my hand.
But now, walking out of the building and onto the street, I feel like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. The skyscrapers around me, once staid, solid monuments to the industry that I want to get into, now tower over me like domineering, judgmental figures.
You’re not good enough.
