Page 21 of Not Safe for Work

Someone is speaking into a microphone, anyway.

An elegant woman stands at the front of the room wearing a crisp green sheath dress. Her blond hair is stylishly cut above her shoulders, and she wears a thick gold necklace that oozes money. Diane Hart. She’s tough as nails, a total legend, and the author of The Glass Ceiling, a bestselling book about climbing the corporate ladder as a woman in a male-dominated field.

She became my beacon of hope when I joined WMC, and I’ve read her book at least four times.

My dormant sense of ambition stirs in my chest. Her presence reminds me of the person I wanted to be before first Leo and then WMC squished all sense of hope under their heels.

She stands with the six other heads of WMC Purcell—all white men wearing various hues of beige and cream, including Rafe’s father, David Gallagher. With her classically beautiful features, Diane is a sparkling emerald nestled among colorless rocks.

She holds the mic and pauses with her focused attention sweeping over the room. Slowly, everyone silences under the weight of the queen’s stare.

“Welcome to WMC Purcell’s first annual Rising Stars Leadership Retreat,” she says in a voice that is both cool and commanding. “We’re thrilled to have you here and hope this will be a chance for you to get to know your peers from across the country while learning some new skills and tactics to help inspire greatness in those around you. We’re honored to welcome you as our inaugural class, and I’m sure the time you spend here will see you all on your way to the brightest of futures at WMC.

“Of course, this will also be an opportunity for our executive team to get to know you all and identify the best of WMC. At the end of our time together, we’ll select five people to join our one-year executive training program at our New York office. All expenses paid, including your Manhattan apartment, spending allowance, gym membership, and the best training and mentorship money can buy.”

A collective murmur circles around the room at Diane’s announcement, reminding everyone of why these places are so coveted. Sure, the retreat is a nice perk, but securing a spot will set the recipients on a diamond-encrusted merry-go-round for life.

Lan crosses her arms and cocks a hip. “I’m winning one of those, so help me,” she says, laser-focused on Diane like she’s trying to send her brain signals from across the room.

“How many times have you read The Glass Ceiling?” I ask.

“At least six,” she replies, and I grin as we share a conspiring look.

Bruce Woodward, the CEO of WMC, steps forward. Diane hands him the mic with a glare, her lips pursed in distaste. Part of me wonders if they made her conduct the intro as the only woman on the executive team.

As Bruce speaks, I study the faces in this room. A small, anxious part of me wonders if I stand even the barest chance of securing one of those spots.

My gaze drifts to the beach, where Rafe is still sitting alone, facing out to the water. When I turn back, I see David notice his son, and the depth of his dark glare makes Rafe’s look like child’s play.

I remember Rafe’s body language when he refused my suggestion to stay with his dad. It must say something about their relationship if Rafe chose me as a roommate over David.

Each member of the executive team then graces us with their piece about upholding company values and the importance of our presence. The presentation ends, and we disperse into small groups to speculate about the internship and discuss the upcoming events. Tomorrow, the first workshops begin and so, too, will the real test.

The reality of the training program sparks a fire I haven’t felt in years, stirring up a competitive spirit that has never really died—it just took a break. This is the kind of thing I used to excel at. The kind of thing I would stop at nothing to win.

Rafe has abandoned his solitary position and is now moving through the room, smiling and shaking hands. He’s a lion finding his pride—a natural-born leader. My stomach twists as he bestows his bright smile on a group of people, who all turn his way. Why do I care that he’s that person for everyone else?

Then he finds me in the crowd, his gaze burning into me. I hold my ground as our eyes lock across the room, his pupils dilating into bottomless pits. He’s the King of Hearts, demanding my head. My stomach drops, and my skin breaks out in a sheen of sweat that has nothing to do with the humidity.

“Who’s that?” Lan asks, sucking on the end of her straw. “Does he belong here? He’s gorgeous.”

A low growl rumbles in my throat. “That would be the aforementioned son of David Gallagher and my mortal enemy.”

Lan’s eyebrows rise as she hits the bottom of her drink, making a loud noise with her straw that feels like a slurp of judgment.

“What?” I ask.

With her fingers still pinching her straw, she looks up with an innocent expression. “Enemy?”

I run my hand down my face and adjust my neckline as Rafe turns away, displaying the broad expanse of his back. “We’ve been working together for years, and let’s just say we don’t really get along.”

Lan digs through her ice cubes, searching out the last dregs of her cocktail, avoiding my gaze like she knows something.

“What? Why do you keep making that face?” I ask.

She looks up with a devilish gleam in her eyes. “I mean, I know I’ve just met you, but I’ve never seen someone make such intense fuck me eyes from clear across the room. But okay, you are enemies.” She adds one-handed air quotes around the last word, and I narrow my gaze.

“Stop that. He is not. We can’t stand each other.”