I furrow my brow, feeling a tad defensive. “I think it’s clear I work well with others, put them at ease.”
“Being charming is wonderful in a social setting, but it doesn’t mean you’re prepared to motivate your team or make tough leadership decisions. In my experience, those who worry too much about being liked tend to make sacrifices when it comes to efficiency and productivity. Not to mention the safety of the people in their chain of command.”
“And in my experience, people don’t enjoy working for a tyrant,” I say. A voice in the back of my head, though, admits she might have a point. There’s no doubt I’ll be a more accommodating boss than Zan, but will I be a better one?
And it was rather entitled of me not to consider my relative lack of experience without someone prodding me to look in the mirror.
“I’m hardly a tyrant,” she counters. “But the last time I checked, our job wasn’t to create a fun work environment. We take down criminal enterprises and liberate victims of human trafficking. If you wanted office parties and casual Fridays, you should have chosen another field. Wedding planning, perhaps?” Her lips curve in a teasing grin. “You seemed to enjoy helping Lizzy with those stationery samples yesterday.”
I force a smile as playful as hers. “I do love a thick eggshell card stock with a nubby texture, don’t you?”
“I don’t have time for feelings about card stock.”
“Oh, come on. You were married. You must have at least dabbled in card stock feelings.”
“Nope. My ex and I eloped.”
“So I read.” I bite the inside of my lip, willing myself to keep my mouth shut, but the words come blurting out, “And how long were you married? Fourteen months?”
“Sixteen,” she says pleasantly. “But I doubt a lack of forest-destroying invitations and RSVP cards were the cause of our marriage’s demise. Gerg’s dick would have wandered even if we’d had a big wedding with all the trimmings. Wandering appeared to have been his dick’s core feature.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry. That was shitty of him. And shitty of me to pry.”
Her shoulder lifts. “It’s fine. It’s the truth. My marriage failed. I have no issue with admitting failure and making adjustments when needed.” She sniffs and lifts her chin. “Just another reason I would have been a superior regional director.”
“That was listed as one of your strengths, actually.” I resist pointing out she shouldn’t feel obligated to take responsibility for the failure of her marriage.
It wasn’t like her body parts were wandering.
Reminding myself never to think of Zan’s parts—or how lovely they are, no doubt—I clear my throat and continue. “You scored higher than I did on nearly every evaluation metric, in fact…except one.”
She stiffens, and her nostrils flare. “You read my application review? You shouldn’t have access to that. Those files are sealed.”
“Yeah, well, I might have taken a peek while I was helping Blaire clean her office last week.”
“Helping her…” Zan stands up straighter. “Are you sleeping with Blaire? Is that how you got the job?”
“No,” I say, wincing in distaste. “Of course not. I wouldn’t sleep with my boss.”
“Have you ever had a boss?” she challenges. “A real boss? Not a handler who makes contact every few weeks while you’re traipsing all over the world, surfing and lounging by fancy pools and dancing all night with supermodels?”
“Regina wasn’t a supermodel. She was an influencer. And she was cover to help me get closer to the people in her circle. Bad people who I helped put out of business, if you’ll recall.”
Zan rolls her eyes. “What a sacrifice. Someone should give you a medal.”
I frown harder. “I’m not asking for a medal. And I’m not sleeping with Blaire. I didn’t sleep with Regina, either. I just made it look like I was. I made everyone who saw us together believe I was a lovesick fool. Just like I made Stefano believe I’m a fucked-up royal with a drinking problem and a gambling addiction. I do an excellent job of helping people underestimate me, which is where I outscored you. By such a margin that it led to me being offered the position.”
Her jaw drops. “But people underestimate me all the time!” She gestures to her chest and then flutters her hands down toward her toes. “I mean, look at me. I’m about as threatening as a house cat.”
“For about ten seconds.” I point two fingers at my face before rotating my hand to point them toward hers. “Until you take a good look into those serial killer eyes of yours.”
She glares at me with enough heat to make sweat break out in the valley of my spine. “I do not have serial killer eyes.”
“Fine,” I admit. “Sociopath eyes.”
“My eyes are just fine. My eyes have seen me safely through a hundred successful operations in the past decade.”