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My goal? The stock market.
I’ve built my own portfolio doing day trading, and it’s a badge of honor that I’ve shoved in the face of every trading house that talks to me. I’ve outperformed not just the market, but the flagship funds and managers at all of the big firms for eight quarters straight. I’m ready to handle more. I’m ready tobemore.
I’m ready to be the girl on the other end of the line when the head of some big wig association calls saying they need more money on their investments and asks how they can get an extra two percent.
And that’s a high bar to get over. A lot of it is all about who you know. I’ve done my own socializingand networking, making contacts and cultivating relationships, even though I could have short-circuited the process through Evan. He’s the kind of man who was born with not a silver spoon, but a platinum one in his mouth. He could pull strings and get me in front of the right people in a heartbeat.
But I don’t want him to. If I want to be taken seriously, I have to do this on my own… even if I fail. “The first step to success is failure,” I quote aloud. And I have done that. I’ve been on countless interviews already. I need this one to go differently, be better, and start my actual career.
Today’s interview is everything.
I smooth my skirt down one more time. “Failure is not an option. Today, we succeed.”
I nod at myself in the mirror, needlessly practicing the professional, friendly, closed lip smile I’ve perfected. I grab my black leather work tote, the small clutch I’ll hide inside, and my keys before heading to the restaurant. As I get off the subway, surrounded by the hustle of the city, and walk the two blocks I still need to go, I repeat a self-confidence mantra in my mind.I’m strong, I’m capable, and I can handle anything that comes my way.
I’m even starting to believe it as I stop in front of the door to Lionfish, one of those restaurants known by everyone in the Financial District. The owner caters to the most elite clientele in the city, and it's known for ruthless business being bartered across these elegant tables.
For a woman like me, Lionfish is the place to make my career. As I step into the upscale restaurant, my heart pounds, and though this time it’s with excitement, not nerves, I still don’t let it show on my face. I need to appear calm, cool, and collected, no matter what.
The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the polished wooden floors and elegant, ivory tablecloths. Crystal chandeliers shimmer above, reflecting off the fine glassware that adorns each table. The murmur of hushed conversations and the clinking ofsilverware on gilt edged china fills the air, creating a symphony of sophistication.
As I follow the maitre d’ through the dining room and take the offered seat at the reserved table, nerves try to bubble up again, but I squash them by glancing around the room, looking for people I may know or want to know.
My peace is shattered when I see Evan, his confident stride drawing my attention as much as his good looks. I do a double-take, not fully believing my eyes at first.
What’s he doing here?
My boyfriend of almost two years should not be here. Not in this restaurant, not now, mere moments before my important interview, and not when he didn’t so much as text me good luck this morning. He approaches the table, and I stand to greet him automatically. “Evan?”
His persuasive charm shines through as he acknowledges me with the smile that once disarmed me completely. "Raven, you look beautiful," he says, making my heart flutter despite my growing concerns.
I can’t help but smile. He’s being sweet. It’s unexpected, but an appreciated gesture, regardless. One quick kiss, and I expect him to head out.
He looks down at me, his eyes raking me up and down. My heart races as I glance around the room. “Evan, thank you for coming, but…”
I start, trying to politely tell him to shoo, but he interrupts me, clearing his throat a little too loudly. I can feel eyes around the room finding us.
I’ve only got a few minutes before the interview, right here at this table, and Evan’s not supposed to be here. I don’t want to ‘succeed’ because of being seen with him. If that’s what he’s thinking, it’s not at all appropriate or necessary, which we’ve discussed.
“We’re breaking up.”
I blink, sure I must’ve heard his clipped statement wrong. “Excuse me?” I don’t know how any words even escape given how frozen my entire body feels. Instantly, my fingertips go numb and my heart beats a single thud.Breaking up?
“I didn’t want to do this over a text message, and I knew you’d be here, so this seemed efficient. We’re done.” His voice is completely void of any emotion, his face set in stone, though there’s a hungry glint in his eyes that confuses me.
My legs turn to Jell-O as I grip the edge of the table and then slowly take a seat so I don’t collapse. I stare at him in disbelief, feeling the anger and hurt rise within me. Both emotions compete for equal measure.
Is he serious? Breaking up?
“Evan, what do you mean?” I hold my hands together in my lap to hide their trembling. “I know it’s been a little chaotic with…” I attempt to go over the last weeks, maybe a couple of months in my head, as I’ve had to finish off every project for the internship.
“It’s been over for months, Raven. Let’s be honest with one another.”
Anger over takes the pain, and as my throat dries out, I can’t find the words to express what I’m thinking.
Months?Months??? We’ve been fucking and telling each other we love one another for months, so how the hell was it over? I can feel the fury starting to bubble up, looking for an outlet and seeing only one in front of me.
Evan leans forward, not getting closer to me but rather, not letting the tables around us hear him. “Don’t cause a scene, Raven,” he warns.
