Page 178 of Dial F for Finance
Before I can overthink my posture any further, the heavy frosted-glass doors at the end of the corridor swing open. I brace myself, plastering on my most professional, Jenna-approved smile, prepared to meet the titan of venture capital. But the man striding toward me isn’t the formidable Thomas Canning.
It’s Xavier Field.
My shoulders drop a fraction of an inch in relief. I did all three of my rigorous interview rounds with Xavier. He’s the “Field” in Canfield, the firm’s other founding partner—intelligent, difficult to read, and currently wearing a tight smile that instantly has me worrying his statuesque face will crack. Xavier Field is beautiful in the way a Renaissance sculpture is beautiful—perfectly proportioned, cold to the touch, and designed to make you feel slightly inadequate just by standing next to it.
“Hailey. Welcome aboard,” Xavier says, extending a hand and giving mine a brisk shake before immediately letting go. “Thomas is still tied up on a call. So you’ve drawn the short straw and I’m the one showing you around.”
He gestures for me to follow him past the granite desk and into the inner sanctum of the Canfield Group.
“I wouldn’t consider it a short straw,” I reply, managing a polite, professional smile as I follow him down the expansive, art-lined hallway.
Xavier doesn’t laugh, though the corner of his mouth twitches. He walks me through the layout. “Kitchen is on the left. Cold brew on tap, though Thomas prefers pour-over. Boardroom A is for external pitches, Boardroom B is internal strategy only. And your desk is here.”
He gestures to a sleek, curved workstation positioned directly outside a massive frosted-glass corner office. The desk is immaculate, equipped with dual monitors, a multi-line phone system, and a sprawling view of the bay that makes my stomach do a nervous flip.
“It’s perfect,” I say, dropping my leather tote into the bottom drawer.
“It’s functional,” Xavier corrects, tapping his phone screen. “All right. Thomas’s line just freed up. Let’s get the introductions out of the way so you can start the onboarding materials.”
My heart lodges firmly in my throat. This is it. Jenna’s voice echoes in my head: Posture, Hailey. Shoulders back. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and follow Xavier as he pushes open the heavy glass door to the corner office.
“Thomas,” Xavier says, stepping inside. “Your new EA is here. Hailey Pemberton.”
The office is massive, bathed in the soft, foggy morning light. Behind a sprawling oak desk stands a man pouring a cup of coffee from a silver carafe. He’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit that screams stealth wealth, his blond, silver-flecked hair perfectly styled. He turns around, the polite, measured smile of a billionaire founder already forming on his handsome face.
And then I stop dead.
My sensible flats skid to a halt on the hardwood floor. All the air violently vacuums out of my lungs.
The coffee carafe knocks sharply against the porcelain mug. His polite boardroom smile vanishes. He stares at my face, drops his gaze to the swipe card hanging around my neck, then looks straight back into my eyes.
“Lucy?” he breathes.
The name drops into the quiet office like a live grenade. Xavier frowns, looking back and forth between us. “Lucy? Thomas, this is Hailey.”
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. And I’m super pissed at myself for refusing to google this guy before I walked into his office.
Lucy. The fake name I gave to the devastatingly handsome older stranger I met in the hotel bar after the James Foundation Gala. The man who bought me three martinis and listened to me concoct a story about a woman who runs an online library for underprivileged children and occasionally presents at international conferences.
The same stranger whose hotel room I ended up in, who spent five hours showing me exactly why experienced men with quiet confidence were infinitely better than guys my own age.
The stranger I ghosted with nothing more than Stay mysterious written on the hotel stationery.
Because I was never supposed to see him again.
And now he’s my boss.
Fuck.
THOMAS
For six weeks, I have practically dismantled the James Foundation’s donor list trying to find the woman currently standing frozen on my imported rug.
Xavier is staring at me, his perfectly sculpted brow furrowing in a way that suggests I have approximately two seconds to recover my composure before he realizes my entire reality has just tilted on its axis.
“Apologies,” I say, my voice dropping back into the smooth, frictionless baritone that has closed millions of dollars in deals. I set the silver carafe down on my desk before I drop the damn thing. “You bear a striking resemblance to a . . . former associate. The trick of the morning fog caught me off guard.”
Hailey—Lucy—swallows hard. The pulse at her throat is hammering a frantic, visible rhythm against her collarbone. She looks terrified, beautiful, and completely trapped.
