Chapter Eleven
The town car smelled like leather and expensive cologne courtesy of Michael, who remained quiet as he skimmed through the Ty Winstock dossier Olivia had delivered last week. Other than the rustle of paper as he turned a new page, the company car taking them from the office to Avenue Steakhouse was silent.
Olivia stared out the window, counting to ten in her head to keep her mind off the nerves buffeting her stomach.
Tonight was her chance to make a big impression on her boss. Even though she planned to move back to New York after she got her MBA, Michael was a managing director and a trusted voice. His recommendation would move her that much closer to the vice-presidency she craved.
“What do you think of the San Francisco office?” Michael’s deep voice rumbled through the quiet and startled Olivia out of her fantasies of the future—striding into the boardroom suited up in badass Armani, kicking Wall Street ass during the day and coming home at night to a beautiful home and gorgeous husband with whom she’d have all the explosive, kinky sex she liked. Somewhere down the line, there’d be children. Even further down the line, she’d be a CEO, gracing the covers ofForbesandFortuneand carving a legacy for herself as one of the few women who rose to the top of the finance food chain through sheer grit, intellect, and perseverance.
She had it all planned out.
But first, she had to survive this dinner.
“It’s different from New York,” Olivia said carefully. “That’s to be expected. There are inherent cultural differences between the East and West Coast, but I’m grateful for the opportunity to work here this summer. It’s a great way to connect with other branches of the firm and meet new colleagues.”
Whether shelikedsaid colleagues was another matter.
The key to evasion: provide a parallel answer that sounded like what the questioner wanted to know without actually answering anything.
“True,” Michael agreed. “What about the people? How are you getting along with the team?”
The men are pigs, and the only other woman seems to be allergic to conversation. They suck and I hate them.
“They’re brilliant,” Olivia said smoothly. “I learn something new every day.”
When it came to their jobs, every employee at PHC was smart as hell, and shedidlearn something new every day. For example, a few weeks ago, she learned Logan was a cheating bastard. The other day, she learned Cassidy could stare right through you like you weren’t even there. It was pretty impressive.
“That’s good. I’ve heard great things about you from Kevin.” Michael continued paging through the dossier. “Perform well this summer and you have a bright future ahead of you in the company.”
Olivia’s heart kicked against her chest. Kevin was a partner, her boss’s boss’s boss. She hadn’t interacted much with him in New York, and she hadn’t been sure he knew who she was beyond the basic fact she worked at the firm. She certainly hadn’t expected him to say great things about her. He wasn’t involved in her day-to-day work, and she’d never presented before him. What could he possibly have said? She was dying to know.
But since she couldn’t ask Michael, she settled for a demure “Thank you. I won’t let you down,” while secretly doing cartwheels in her head.
Vice-presidency, here I come!
The town car pulled up to the Avenue Steakhouse, a grand building whose sleek lines and understated colors reflected its customers: wealthy, powerful, discreet. Avenue had played host to many a power meeting since its inception twenty-five years ago.
Olivia glimpsed herself in the dark glass windows as they entered the hushed venue. She wore her favorite gray tweed Theory sheath cinched at the waist with a narrow black belt, a tailored black blazer, black Wolford stockings, and black Prada pumps. Her hair fell in a sleek, smooth waterfall past her shoulders, and tiny pearl studs graced her ears. She looked every inch the professional.
Olivia had internalized the fashion rules for women in finance—some official, others unspoken—and used it to her advantage.
Do’s: sheath dresses, nice silk blouses, classic heels or flats, stockings, bags large enough to hold pitch books.
Don’ts: cardigans (unless it was casual Friday, which was an increasingly common perk), classic button-down shirts (the buttons almost always gape), open-toed shoes and sandals, anything flashy with logos.
Outside of work, Olivia dressed however she wanted, but she’d drawn a line between her personal and professional lives, and ne’er the twain shall they meet.
The host showed them to their table, and Ty Winstock arrived soon after.
She gave him a quick, discreet once-over, eager to soak in anything she could about the elusive Mosaic co-founder. There were almost no public photos of him from recent years and even fewer interviews. The man was an enigma.
Winstock—it seemed wrong to think of him by his first name—resembled a modern hippie more than a billionaire. Tall and lean, he’d gathered his brown hair into a short ponytail, and a neatly trimmed beard covered his razor-sharp jawline. Bright, inquisitive blue eyes peered out from beneath thick dark brows. Beneath the scruff, he was handsome in that quiet, intellectual way you didn’t notice unless you really looked. Instead of a suit or a dress shirt and pants, he wore a white V-neck T-shirt under a black hoodie with Mosaic’s logo emblazoned on the back, black jeans, and designer sneakers. Standard tech mogul wear.
The outfit was a blatant violation of Avenue’s dress code, but none of the staff seemed keen on kicking Silicon Valley’s latest golden boy out.
“Ty! Good to see you.” Michael grasped the other man’s hand in a firm handshake. “How was Nevada?”
“Hot.” Winstock’s bland tone revealed not an ounce of emotion. His eyes flicked to Olivia, and he stepped around Michael to hold out his now-free hand. “Ty.”