It’s Just Business

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my apartment, I carefully check my reflection as I get ready for the meeting at Lionfish. My skin is flawless, my eyes faintly lined, and my lashes are curled and coated with dark mascara. Most importantly, my lipstick is lined with my favorite shade of red, the one that gives me an immediate confidence boost. I’m going to need it. Polished, but not overdone, is exactly what I was going for, and I’ve achieved it.

I glance at the clock. There are still two hours left to tick away before the meeting at the upscale restaurant, which gives me enough time to finish getting ready, have a moment of panic, reset myself and my armor of practiced poise, and then take the subway to the restaurant. Perfect.

It’s ‘just’ a lunch meeting, but the truth is, it could change my life. Which is why, with each passing second, I have to work harder to pretend I’m not growing more and more nervous.

The morning sunlight streams through the window, casting a soft glow over my tiny bedroom. Well, it technically doesn’t qualify as a bedroom, but it’s where I sleep in the too-small apartment I share with my roommate and bestie, Maggie. We’ve done what we can, but it’s nothing special—too bland due to the clauses in our rental contract, and too expensive to do anything about it, anyway.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves by staring into my eyes in the mirror instead of focusing on the paint on my bedroom walls because that isn’t going to help. What is going to help is nailing this meeting, because if it works out, I’ll be able to afford a place that can’t be mistaken for a closet.

I can’t be anything short of perfect at this business lunch.This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

I head to the closet I share with Maggie, staring at the array of clothes hanging before me. If there’s one area that I don’t need to splurge on, it’s clothes. My closet goes all the way back to my high school days. I’d gotten a summer job as a receptionist, and with my first paycheck, I bought myself a layered silk blouse that made me feel unstoppable. Back then, it’d taken so little for me to stand tall and proud, but that naivete has been tested through the years. Still, the blouse makes me smile wistfully.

I run my fingers over the different fabrics and colors, each piece holding a memory or an emotion. There’s the jade green minidress, a clingy little number I got online that I wore for my twenty-first birthday celebration, and again on my twenty-fifth. Both good memories. Absolutely not appropriate.

There’s the black and white skirt and suit combo that I wore for my grandmother’s funeral. A tough memory that I don’t know I’ll ever be able to let go of. Gramma was a sweet lady who might not have had much, but she always had a lot of love and an infinite amount of patience with her rambunctious granddaughter. I still miss her, and I promised her that I’d wear this suit when I ‘make it’.

But that’s not today… yet.

My eyes land on a sleek black knee-length dress, its silhouette simple yet elegant. It was a gift from Evan, my boyfriend, a few months ago. At the time, things between the two of us had started to get a bit rocky because I’d been busy and stressed about landing a job after my internship. He’d bought the dress, saying it was a show of faith in my skills. I’d read it as a show of faith in our future too.

It’s all going to work out, sooner rather than later, and starting with today. First, and most importantly, get the job. Second, get the guy. Third, happily ever after.

I snag the dress off the hanger, feeling like it’ll bring me good luck, and hold it against my body. It’s perfect against my curves. It really is one of the finest dresses I’ve ever seen, let alone owned, and when I’m in it, I feel invincible. Evan has wealth I can only imagine, so of course, the most expensive dresses in here are from him.

As I stare in the mirror, considering my reflection, all I can think is that even though the dress is expensive, it isn’t memorable. And today requires making a statement.

Reluctantly, I put it back. Indecision doesn’t typically follow me around every corner. I know who I am, what I’m capable of, and have perfected the art of putting on an armor to disguise my ho-hum upbringing, lack of an Ivy League education, and barely established upper-crust contacts. But today will make or break me. This is the opportunity of my lifetime, and I’ve never felt as much pressure as I do in this moment.

The hangers slip across the metal rod as I search through every single dress I have and then scope out Maggie’s clothes, too. Thankfully, she doesn’t mind sharing, and we’re not too far off size-wise, but her style is significantly more fashion-forward than my conservative wear.

Maggie and I met freshman year of college when we were assigned roommates. Despite our differences—who’d think a fashion marketing major and an economics major would be friends?—we became thick as thieves. We later chose to remain roommates, even after graduation, when she generously invited me to continue our arrangement. I pay a pro-rated amount that’s significantly less than what she and her supportive parents pay, but she still helps clean the bathroom every week, the same way I do.

Finally, I spot the perfect ensemble—a deep emerald-green blouse, paired with a tailored black pencil skirt. Not mine, unfortunately, but Maggie won’t mind sharing.

The green and black go perfectly with my long, black hair, giving me a professional and eye-catching look that’s entirely badass future executive.

I’ll look like not only do I belong there, but my presence is what’s been missing.

I quickly change into the outfit, feeling a surge of confidence as I smooth out the fabric over my thighs.

Checking out my backside, I smile. This is the one. I can feel it. “Next time we go out,” I tell my reflection, “remind me that Maggie’s drinks are on us.”

I’m just deciding on what purse to pair it with when my phone goes off. I glance, grinning as I see it’s a pair of group chat texts, one from Maggie and the other from our mutual friend, Ami.

You got this!

Yasssssss! You don’t need luck, you’re that damn good!

It’s both inspirational and eye-rolling, but they serve their purpose in making me smile. At that same moment, I see that Evan hasn’t messaged me yet, but we talked last night, where I wished him good luck before a business dinner of his own. Later, I asked how it went, but he didn’t respond.

He’s probably busy this morning, I tell myself as I take a steadying breath. I make a mental note to check in with him after the interview. He’ll want to know how it goes, and I want to hear about his dinner. I’m sure it went well for him. Failure isn’t something he’s familiar with. After all, he grew up in the Wall Street life.

With my outfit and makeup complete, I give myself one last look in the mirror, taking in the sophisticated image I’ve created. The nervousness still lingers, but I’ve hidden it away so deeply that it’s not visible. I won’t let something as flighty as butterflies hold me back.

Fake it ‘til you make it.

It’s probably not the best piece of cliché advice, but it’s worked in the past so I’m not messing with it.

I left a small town to come to the big city for school, made the most of that opportunity, and have worked damned hard to make a name for myself. I’ve hustled, doing side jobs to keep the bills paid while working an unpaid internship. I joined the right social groups and showed up at all the right events. I’ve outworked every other twenty-seven-year-old from London to Los Angeles and in the space between. I’ve got the education, the work experience, and the instincts to be more than just a paper pusher.

My goal? The stock market.

I’ve built my own portfolio doing day trading, and it’s a badge of honor that I’ve shoved in the face of every trading house that talks to me. I’ve outperformed not just the market, but the flagship funds and managers at all of the big firms for eight quarters straight. I’m ready to handle more. I’m ready to be more.

I’m ready to be the girl on the other end of the line when the head of some big wig association calls saying they need more money on their investments and asks how they can get an extra two percent.

And that’s a high bar to get over. A lot of it is all about who you know. I’ve done my own socializing and networking, making contacts and cultivating relationships, even though I could have short-circuited the process through Evan. He’s the kind of man who was born with not a silver spoon, but a platinum one in his mouth. He could pull strings and get me in front of the right people in a heartbeat.

But I don’t want him to. If I want to be taken seriously, I have to do this on my own… even if I fail. “The first step to success is failure,” I quote aloud. And I have done that. I’ve been on countless interviews already. I need this one to go differently, be better, and start my actual career.

Today’s interview is everything.

I smooth my skirt down one more time. “Failure is not an option. Today, we succeed.”

I nod at myself in the mirror, needlessly practicing the professional, friendly, closed lip smile I’ve perfected. I grab my black leather work tote, the small clutch I’ll hide inside, and my keys before heading to the restaurant. As I get off the subway, surrounded by the hustle of the city, and walk the two blocks I still need to go, I repeat a self-confidence mantra in my mind. I’m strong, I’m capable, and I can handle anything that comes my way.

I’m even starting to believe it as I stop in front of the door to Lionfish, one of those restaurants known by everyone in the Financial District. The owner caters to the most elite clientele in the city, and it’s known for ruthless business being bartered across these elegant tables.

For a woman like me, Lionfish is the place to make my career. As I step into the upscale restaurant, my heart pounds, and though this time it’s with excitement, not nerves, I still don’t let it show on my face. I need to appear calm, cool, and collected, no matter what.

The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the polished wooden floors and elegant, ivory tablecloths. Crystal chandeliers shimmer above, reflecting off the fine glassware that adorns each table. The murmur of hushed conversations and the clinking of silverware on gilt edged china fills the air, creating a symphony of sophistication.

As I follow the maitre d’ through the dining room and take the offered seat at the reserved table, nerves try to bubble up again, but I squash them by glancing around the room, looking for people I may know or want to know.

My peace is shattered when I see Evan, his confident stride drawing my attention as much as his good looks. I do a double-take, not fully believing my eyes at first.

What’s he doing here?

My boyfriend of almost two years should not be here. Not in this restaurant, not now, mere moments before my important interview, and not when he didn’t so much as text me good luck this morning. He approaches the table, and I stand to greet him automatically. “Evan?”

His persuasive charm shines through as he acknowledges me with the smile that once disarmed me completely. ‘Raven, you look beautiful,’ he says, making my heart flutter despite my growing concerns.

I can’t help but smile. He’s being sweet. It’s unexpected, but an appreciated gesture, regardless. One quick kiss, and I expect him to head out.

He looks down at me, his eyes raking me up and down. My heart races as I glance around the room. “Evan, thank you for coming, but…”

I start, trying to politely tell him to shoo, but he interrupts me, clearing his throat a little too loudly. I can feel eyes around the room finding us.

I’ve only got a few minutes before the interview, right here at this table, and Evan’s not supposed to be here. I don’t want to ‘succeed’ because of being seen with him. If that’s what he’s thinking, it’s not at all appropriate or necessary, which we’ve discussed.

“We’re breaking up.”

I blink, sure I must’ve heard his clipped statement wrong. “Excuse me?” I don’t know how any words even escape given how frozen my entire body feels. Instantly, my fingertips go numb and my heart beats a single thud. Breaking up?

“I didn’t want to do this over a text message, and I knew you’d be here, so this seemed efficient. We’re done.” His voice is completely void of any emotion, his face set in stone, though there’s a hungry glint in his eyes that confuses me.

My legs turn to Jell-O as I grip the edge of the table and then slowly take a seat so I don’t collapse. I stare at him in disbelief, feeling the anger and hurt rise within me. Both emotions compete for equal measure.

Is he serious? Breaking up?

“Evan, what do you mean?” I hold my hands together in my lap to hide their trembling. “I know it’s been a little chaotic with…” I attempt to go over the last weeks, maybe a couple of months in my head, as I’ve had to finish off every project for the internship.

“It’s been over for months, Raven. Let’s be honest with one another.”

Anger over takes the pain, and as my throat dries out, I can’t find the words to express what I’m thinking.

Months? Months??? We’ve been fucking and telling each other we love one another for months, so how the hell was it over? I can feel the fury starting to bubble up, looking for an outlet and seeing only one in front of me.

Evan leans forward, not getting closer to me but rather, not letting the tables around us hear him. “Don’t cause a scene, Raven,” he warns.

I swallow down the rage and the instant response, realizing he’s right. I’m in the middle of Lionfish, the most important restaurant in the district, and in only seconds, I will have to perform for the most important interview of my life.

A fact Evan knows very fucking well.

It’s a struggle, but I get myself under control, forcing my face to something akin to neutrality and my tone to a harsh whisper. “Of all the times to do this, you choose now? Why would⁠—”

He cuts me off, unapologetic and looking robotic. If anything, he sounds like he’s the one who’s been offended. ‘Don’t be melodramatic. I mean, this lasted longer than we thought it would, didn’t it?’

Evan looks at me expectantly, like he thinks I’m going to agree with him. And when I look into his eyes, that glint is growing. And that’s when I recognize it. It’s excitement, shockingly similar to the look he gets when he’s gotten one over on his opponent at the negotiation table.

Is that what this is to him?

I search his face, looking for some sign that I’m wrong, but find none. He’s not heartbroken over this. In fact, it’s as if he’s done this at the worst possible time for maximum devastation. I never knew he could be so cruel.

Didn’t you?

Okay, but in business is one thing. In matters of the heart, quite another, and I thought Evan and I had something. I thought we were going to be something.

“Excuse me?” It seems to be a mantra now, but it’s all I can think to say without causing a scene. Though I’m wondering if perhaps he does want me to do or say something inappropriate, something that would sabotage my interview.

“We had some fun. You got your foot in the door into this world, and we enjoyed some sport fucking. But we both knew this wasn’t going anywhere. We’re not… compatible.” He actually scrunches his face as though that’s ridiculous.

Damn, that one’s painful. Devastation barely graces the emotions that swarm inside me.

So that’s all he wanted out of this?

He’s the one who said he wanted to think about us moving in together. He’s the one who put a label on us first. What the hell does he even mean? My mind races with every thought and every little moment that convinced me he was the one.

He shifts, and something comes to mind. There were always a few lines I wouldn’t cross, and a few… “It’s Elise, isn’t it?” I guess aloud, and the bastard smirks.

A cold wave washes over me, and the realization hits me like a ton of bricks. His ‘executive assistant’, Elise, is gorgeous and flirty, and I’ve known for a while that she’s had a crush on Evan. He told me I had nothing to worry about and that things were strictly professional with her. But now he’s just demeaned our two-year relationship down to ‘sport fucking’.

His audacity takes my breath away, but I dig deep into my soul, finding the strength to hold it together. I put the pain and confusion into a box, setting it on a high shelf in the back corner of my heart, to deal with it later. I have one priority today… the interview. The rest? It can wait.

It’ll have to wait.

“Fine,” I reply, folding my hands on top of my white cloth napkin and looking him straight in the eye with the most neutral expression I can muster. “We’re done. You delivered your message. Now you can go. I wish you and Elise the best.”

Evan’s eyes widen with surprise, like he expected me to react more than I am. If only he could see me on the inside. “Raven⁠—”

“Get. Out,” I repeat, my voice turning acidic. “Now.”

Evan looks like he wants to protest, but when the lady at the table a few feet away gasps at my words, he dips his chin sharply and turns.

My causing a scene is one thing. Him? Unconscionable.

Instead, he leaves, his handmade Italian wingtips clicking on the tile of the restaurant. I don’t watch him go. I’ve got work to do and not enough time to prepare. I take a long, steadying breath and look at my watch.

Two minutes.

I’ve got two minutes to get my shit together, and I don’t have a second to waste.

I’ll fall apart later.