I catch my reflection in the bank’s large, glossy windows, smooth my flyaways, and check my hair is secure in its bun. I don’t have time to be here, but I have no choice. Nothing says “I’m serious” like a face-to-face meeting, and I plan to take advantage of my surprise visit. It may be my only advantage.

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I hold a steeling breath and push through the shining circular door that spits me into a lobby made of gleaming marble and old money. Not just old money. All money.

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Mine included.

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Or more accurately, the money I owe the bank, which I haven’t been able to pay back.

 

Being in arrears on my loan wasn’t the plan. The plan was to take New York by the balls when I uprooted The Drawing Board from Lansdown to become one of its new shining stars. The plan was to take the modest architectural business my mother started and build it into a national success. The plan was to use my entire life savings to my advantage so I didn’t have to declare bankruptcy. Yet, in a matter of a few short months, my plans are nothing but ash.

But one thing I do understand is hard work. It took long hours and years of constant work to get my business here, and with a little more time and long, hard hours, I’ll turn things around. I know I can.

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I just have to swing the bank manager around to see the same thing.

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I adjust my jacket so it pulls in a clean line over my shoulders and waist, clutch my folder of financial statements, and make my way to the bank teller. My heels click on the floor, a rapid-fire beat keeping time with my racing heart.

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I paste on my best armed smile. My red lipstick is named Pack a Punch, and I need it to do its work. “Good morning.” I greet the teller before she has a chance to ask what I need. Time is what I need, and she isn’t in a position to give it to me. “May I speak with Mike Tatum.” I say it as a statement. Not a question. Never present on the back foot.

 

Her — Louise, going off her name badge — smile falters. “Do you have an appointment, Miss . . . ?”

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I expect this question. “He’ll want to talk to me. It’s about a loan repayment.”

 

Her smile jumps back up, although not to its full-watt setting. “I can help with loans. Personal or business?”

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“Aren’t all loans personal?” I mutter, then, “No. I don’t think you can. I’m happy to wait until he’s available.”

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“Oh, I don’t know . . .” Louise glances to the next teller.

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“I’m sure Mr. Tatum will be happy with my proposal. It will mean a profitable revenue stream for the bank. He’ll thank you for meeting with me,” I say. If the bank thinks there’s more money for them, then I have a chance — however slim that is. If not, I plan to camp out on the floor. There’s a nice spot by the evergreen plant in the corner.

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Her attention swings back to me, less flat but still unsure. I smile, hoping it’s a soothing type of smile and not filled with the hot, desperate need coursing through me. “I’m happy to wait while you call him down.”

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My urgency isn’t hers. She’s doing her job. There’s little to no investment for her in helping me. In fact, I’m putting her out. I don’t expect her to care about my business, nor that I’ll lose it if I can’t beg my way to a loan extension.

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It’s not her fault I put most of my eggs into the basket of the client who recently went under. Oh, I did my due diligence before I made the decision to relocate here. There’s no way I would have entertained the thought otherwise. On paper, Max Bourke was in the black. It was why I negotiated a contract for fifty million, and why I was looking down the barrel of bankruptcy when that money wasn’t forthcoming.

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I’m the next domino to fall in the long line of dominoes he toppled over.

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So, I stamp down the deep burn of disappointment, rage, and horror, and smooth out my features. I’m an expert at locking everything deep inside me, and soon my skin cools and my racing heart is back under control. I turn up the ends of my mouth and tip my head.

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“I’ll . . . just call him. If you would take a seat.” Louise gestures to a cushioned chair along the wall next to the potted plant.

 

I nod my thanks and settle in for the long haul. I don’t expect Mike Tatum to run down here. Not for someone like me. I expect I’ll have to wait until he heads home for the day. I only hope he walks through the foyer and not some side door I don’t know about.

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I become part of the background. Little more than the evergreen plant in the corner as the day rolls on. Louise takes her lunch break and leaves her position behind the glass partition without a glance in my direction. I’m not sure she remembers I’m here.

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I’m here, all right. I’ll wait all day and all night if I have to. I pull out my memories of my mother, the only parent I knew before a car accident took her away from me. It’s her memory that allows me to ignore the numbness in my rear and watch people coming and going.

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I won’t let The Drawing Board fold because of a bad business decision. I rack my brain now that I have a chance to stop and breathe, forced though it may be. I went over Max Bourke’s financials again and again while I agonized over the decision. It was a good decision. I know it was. Nothing in business is a certainty, but the risk was low. So low that I dragged my business away from my hometown — and my aunt and uncle, who took me into their house and raised me as though I was their own — and trekked halfway across the country. So low that when I asked Jenny, my friend and employee, to follow me, she did.

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I came here to make my mother’s memory proud, and I’m damned if I’ll be the one to send it under. It’s the only tangible thing I have of her.

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Memories drift on the wings of black smoke that leaks from the lid of the chest I keep them locked in. I didn’t want to remember my mother solely on that day. I would remember her laughing and alive.

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Not that I was responsible for her death.

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I clench my eyes, willing the memories away. I shove them down, stuffing them deep, where they don’t have a hope of returning. I can’t stay waiting here for Mike anymore. Success wasn’t built without sacrifice.

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The thing about being made to sit all day is that there’s time to take in the surroundings. Like the elevator where employees filter in and out, and the directory next to it indicating where middle management exists. So I know exactly which floor Mike Tatum has been hiding on all day.

 

I wait for the next lot of people to gather in front of the doors to the elevator before I quickly stand among them. The doors open and people filter out. I step into the middle of the crowd and we all push inside.

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I press the floor I want and go to the back of the elevator. The teller left on duty glances up from her task and frowns at my empty seat as the doors close. I drop my gaze to the floor so that no one notices me, and I only have to push past a few people when I exit.

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I’m amazed I haven’t been noticed, but I’m used to that. A professional wallflower. I’ve been honed by a lifetime of hard work and determination. It’s as easy as putting on a well-worn glove.

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I make my way to Mike’s office, striding past the maze of dividers and staff crouching over desks. I see his name etched on a metal slider on his door. He’s in there, slouching in his chair, probably watching Netflix on his computer. I knock. He looks up, brows knitted as I open the door.

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“Mr. Tatum. I’m your next appointment,” I say.

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His mouth swings open and closed a couple of times before he says, “I’m not expecting you.”

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I stop short and send him a severe look. “We had an appointment scheduled. To go over The Drawing Board’s account.” I look at the clock, which reads four thirty. “It was for four. Sorry I’m a little late.”

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I take the seat opposite his desk, clutch my folder, and hope he doesn’t see my white knuckles. He doesn’t even glance. Instead, he rises and hunches over his desk, lording his middle-management power over me.

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“The Drawing Board . . . You’re that woman waiting for me downstairs, aren’t you?”

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A hole opens where my stomach used to be and begins to fill with rocks. I understand the look on his red face. The one that screams, “I don’t give a fuck.”

“I’m here to talk about my business, yes.”

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“How did you even get up here?” He picks up his phone without waiting for my answer.

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“If I could just have a word?” I say.

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His eyes pierce me, steady with their discrimination. “I get twenty people like you wanting to talk to me every day. If you don’t make your payments, the bank will file against you for bankruptcy and reclaim what expenses—” His eyes drop as the line connects. “Send security up here, please.”

 

I scramble out of the seat. And his office. Getting thrown out will add insult to injury and if I have nothing else, I at least retain some semblance of pride. “I know the way.”

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I disappear down the hallway before he can follow. I glance over my shoulder to see Mike’s red face pop out of his office. I spy the fire exit and push through the door. My feet pulse in my shoes at the thought of running down nine floors.

 

My heartbeat hammers in my ears and my breath saws in and out of my lungs. I can’t lose my business like this. Mom’s business like this. It’s her legacy to me. The only piece of her that’s alive.

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Given Mike already called security, they’re probably waiting for me — and they’re probably waiting for me downstairs. They won’t expect me to go higher. They won’t expect that I haven’t given up, either. Instead of heading down, my feet take me up. Three flights, to be exact.

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To my absolute surprise, the fire door opens. I can smell the luxury as soon as I step onto thick woolen carpet. The kind that will go out of fashion before it wears down. I absolutely know I’m doing the wrong thing, but I have nothing to lose. Literally.

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I peer around the corner and see an expansive reception desk with a beautiful blonde sitting behind it. I keep the door ajar. And I wait.

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I wait until the blonde leaves the desk empty before I dart past and into the hallowed hallways of the people who make the real decisions about people like me. The people who have forgotten or have never known what it’s like to struggle or who don’t understand how hard work is the only definition of getting ahead.

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There are four offices in this dead-quiet part of the building. There are no easily replaced plaques on these doors, only gold lettering that reeks of permanency etched into the polished oak. I find the name I’m looking for, take a steeling breath, and push through.

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New York City is spread on display to my left via floor-to-ceiling windows. A modern painting that’s probably an original takes center stage on the wall to my right.

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In front of me, the chair swings around and I’m face to face with Tristan Booker, known playboy, richer than God and from a family name as powerful as the devil. The man who has my future cupped in the palm of his hand.

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READ MY FORBIDDEN BILLIONAIRE

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