"You got your feelings hurt this morning, and now, you're throwing a tantrum."
"Right. Yeah, totally. Of course that's what this is to you."
"What else would you call it?"
"Self-preservation." There's this thing in her voice, this rawness that's like glimpsing someone's emotional skeleton showing through their skin, something so nakedly
vulnerable that every instinct I've cultivated over the past decade of corporate warfare is screaming at me to step closer and see what in fact makes Erica Jones tick.
Which is, of course, completely ridiculous on multiple levels, not least of which is that Erica Jones is an employee—a valuable employee, granted, the kind whose brain works in ways that occasionally surprise even me— but still fundamentally just a cog in the vast machinery of my business.
So why, then, does the bone-deep exhaustion pooled in her eyes make my chest constrict in this weirdly specific way?
"Self-preservation from what?" I ask. "A demanding boss? Welcome to corporate America, sweetheart."
"Yes, from you. You and whatever sick satisfaction you get from making people feel small."
"I don't make people feel small. I make people better."
"By humiliating them in front of their colleagues?"
"By holding them accountable." I push off from the desk, taking a step toward her. "You want to know what humiliation looks like, Jones? It's losing a three-billion-dollar deal because someone thought they were above
the rules."
She doesn't back down, which I have to admit I find intriguing. Most people would be halfway to the elevator by now, but Erica plants her feet and lifts her chin like she's preparing for battle.
"What you call 'holding them accountable,' I would call 'having a power trip like an angry little baby. Because God forbid people actually enjoy their jobs." She throws her hands up in exasperation. "God forbid they feel appreciated or valued or—heaven have mercy!—that they might be, for even one fleeting fucking second, actually happy while they're working seventy-hour weeks to make you even richer." She starts to march toward the door, then spins back around.
"You want to know what's really pathetic
about all this?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."
"I actually used to respect you." The confession seems to surprise her as
much as it surprises me. "Six years ago, when I was just some nobody receptionist from the South Side with holes in her shoes and a community college degree that wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, I thought
Andrew Simon was someone worth working for. A genius who built something meaningful."
"I did build something meaningful."
"You built a machine," she corrects in a flat rasp. "A cold, soulless machine that chews people up and spits them out—and you've convinced yourself that was the same thing as success."
I meant what I told her earlier: I've been called worse things by better people. But there's something about the disappointment in Erica's voice, the genuine hurt, that goes a layer deeper.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She steps closer, and her perfume overwhelms me. "When's the last time you did something just because it was kind, Andrew? When's the last time you made someone smile just because you could?"
"I'm not in the business of making people smile."
"Believe me, I know. That's exactly the problem."
We're standing too close now. Close enough that I can see the green flecks in her hazel eyes. Her perfume is like a strawberry pressed to my nose and it makes me want to do strange, unspeakable, unjustifiable things.
"You have no idea what it takes to run a company like this," I growl instead.
"You're right. I don't." She backs away from me, and I tell myself the relief I feel is because we're back to an appropriate distance. "And I hope I never find out."
I close my eyes for a moment as something Carl told me last week runs through my head.
'You know, Andy, you could try being nice to people occasionally. Honey catches more flies than vinegar, right?'
Who the hell taught you that? I asked him.
You did. You said Mom used to always quote that at you.
My throat closed up in that instant, same as it always does whenever our mother gets mentioned. I despised that tightness, that momentary sense of nausea. And I despised myself for what I said to him immediately afterward:
Well, now, she's dead. So honey didn't do her a bit of good, did it?
I open my eyes again and see Erica still standing in front of me, quivering with rage and sorrow and fuck knows what else.
"What if I made it worth your while?" I ask her.
"We've gone from blackmail to bribery?"
"I'll pay you a million dollars to stay for ninety days."
Her jaw hits her knees. But I don't stop now, no matter how stupid this impulsive, reckless decision may be, last time you made someone smile just because you could?
"Ninety days," I continue. "Stay for ninety days to see Project Olympus through launch, and I'll write you a check for 'fuck you' money, and just like that, my recommendation or lack thereof won't matter to you anymore."
She's staring at me like I've just spoken in tongues. "Ninety days."
"Ninety days," I confirm.
"Why ninety days specifically?"
I shrug. "That's when the project launches. After that, you can disappear forever with my blessing."
I could swear she shudders for a second, like a chill passing through her. But then it's gone and I'm not sure if it was ever even there in the first place. She's quiet for another long moment, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.
Whatever's going on with her—whatever's driving thissudden need to escape—it's bigger than a bruised ego over pastries.
"This is crazy," she finally says.
"This is business."
"This is blackmail."
"This is an offer." I look down at her. "A good one. A better one than you'll get from anyone else. All you have to do is keep doing the job you've been doing for six years."