New York Billionaires Series

Toby rolls his eyes and turns to me. “About a year ago Exciteur was purchased by a group of venture capitalists, Acture Capital.”

I nod. “I’ve read about this.”

“Right. Well, they put one of their own in charge of the company. I’m not saying the next bit to gossip, by the way. But we’re in Strategy, and that means we interact a lot with upper management.”

“Right.” It was one of the reasons I’d wanted this department.

“Well, the new CEO has… high standards.”

“He’s a demanding asshole,” Quentin adds, finally turning around in his office chair.

Toby looks over his shoulder, but the office landscape is unchanged.

Quentin snorts. “He’s not here. He’s never here.”Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

“That’s not true. I saw him speaking to Eleanor in her office once.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Toby shakes his head. “I don’t know why you don’t believe me about that. He has been here, at least once.”

“I believe you think you saw him speaking to Eleanor in her office once.”

“Why would that be so unthinkable?” I ask. I know the new leadership by name from my research, but I had no idea they were such characters. Clearly I have more to learn.

“He wouldn’t come down here in person,” Quentin tells me. “He’d send one of his minions, and they’d summon us to the thirty-fourth floor.”

“Just so I’m clear, we’re talking about Tristan Conway here?”

Toby glances over his shoulder again and Quentin shakes his head at the paranoia. “The very one, in all his venture capitalist glory. Since they bought Exciteur, he’s been slashing unprofitable departments and promoting others. There’s been a lot of personnel turnover.”

I nod, leaning back in my chair. “And we meet him in meetings a lot?”

“No,” Quentin says.

“We don’t meet Tristan Conway,” Toby continues, his arms moving as he gesticulates. “We get orders by Tristan Conway and the COO or the department head.”

“We don’t talk to him, we don’t look at him, we don’t exist to him,” Quentin continues.

I can’t help smiling. “Is this a hazing thing? Are you exacerbating this for shock value? Because you can consider me shocked.”

Toby chuckles. “I like your attitude, Freddie, but we’re not.”

“Dead serious,” Quentin adds.

“All right, noted. I’ll stay well clear of him.” Silently, I vow never to not look at him, though. That sounds like more respect than a CEO should be awarded. He’s not royalty.

Toby turns to Quentin. “Did you see the Thanksgiving email they sent out?”

The other man snorts. “Yes. Pathetic.”

“What email?”

“Management is planning a Thanksgiving lunch for the company next month.”

“The entire company?”

“New York office,” he clarifies. “Headquarters. Anyway, apparently management itself will be the ones to serve the food, as a gesture of thanks for all of our hard work.”

Quentin snorts. “I can’t wait to see Clive Wheeler or Tristan Conway serving mashed potatoes to two hundred and fifty people.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” I agree, opening the email software on my computer. There’s a pre-registered email address waiting for me.

f. bilson@exciteur. com.

The words make me smile. My name, next to Exciteur, the company that’s cutting-edge right now. I’d fought with over ten of my old classmates from Wharton to get this spot, not to mention all the other applicants.

I play around with it for a bit, changing the pre-written sign-off phrase that gets added to the bottom of every email. Frederica Bilson, Junior Professional Trainee, Strategy Department.

Smiling, I change Frederica to Freddie. No one in this world calls me Frederica, with the exception of my grandparents, but to the best of my knowledge neither one of them works at Exciteur.

Over the coming hours, Toby shows me the ropes, and even Quentin helps out. They introduce me to the projects we’re working on and it doesn’t take me long to learn that the two of them work great together, despite their banter. Or perhaps because of it?

I’m sure I’ll find out.

Eleanor shows me around and briefs me on the first of several projects I’m to assist on. When I fall back into my office chair that afternoon, my inbox is filled to the brim with emails.

Most of them are automated and company-wide. Others are from Quentin, Toby or Eleanor, all with “Good to know” or “Information for you to read through” in the subject line.

That’s my evening reading sorted for tonight.

My gaze snags on a corporate send-out, an email titled “A Thank You to the Troops.” It’s sent from t. conway@exciteur. com, the devil CEO himself, apparently.

My smile widens as I read through the letter. It’s classic corporate fluff, probably not even something he wrote himself, thanking all employees for their hard work. Under my leadership, the company has doubled its profits. A humble brag there, Mr. Conway.

Grinning, I scan through to the last paragraph. Don’t forget to pencil in the Thanksgiving lunch next month, the company’s treat for all the hard work and long hours you’ve put in. I know you won’t want to miss it.

I see my chance to get in with Toby and Quentin’s banter. There’s nothing like a well-timed jab at upper management to become one with co-workers, the lot of you in the trenches together.

So I hit forward and write a snarky comment.

Do you think management genuinely believes everyone has marked a giant, excited X on their calendar for the Thanksgiving lunch? Perhaps he should serve a side of humility with the mash…

A few minutes later, I peer around my desk to Toby’s, but he’s focused on his work and not responding. I can wait. An hour later, Quentin rises from his desk and announces he’s going home. Eleanor soon does the same, telling me to leave.

Toby gives me a yawn. “Come on, Freddie. Everything will still be here tomorrow.”

There’s no acknowledgment of my snarky email. Ice-cold dread punches me in the stomach. “Just give me a minute, and we can walk out together.”