So I explained that if I left before hitting the two-year mark, I’d be labeled a quitter who didn’t have what it takes to hack it. Which in turn would mean that I’d never get hired in finance again. It’s just a thing in this business, and I can’t afford to burn a bridge to an entire sector when I have no clue what the future holds. But the possibility of being labeled somebody who couldn’t stay the course was enough to make my dad fume—“How dare they! You have more grit than any of those elitist East Coast punks!”—and stop complaining about my hours. Instead, he switched to “Nobody out there works as hard as you do” in that sweet, encouraging tone of his that never fails to make me want to do better.
Unfortunately, the damned two-year mark applies at GrantEm, too. Why?
The signing bonus.
GrantEm Capital offered me more than double the signing bonus of other firms. That kind of money comes with a catch: stay for two years or give it back, prorated.
What nobody told me was that that basically gave Emmett Lasker carte blanche to turn my life into hell for his sadistic pleasure. Nearly every Excel model and memo I turn in has to be redone. Almost every evening and weekend plan changed or canceled. And sleep? Ha ha. It is to laugh.
But I grit my teeth and grind along because I refuse to give a single red cent back. Not after all the abuse I’ve suffered.
Eight more weeks. Then I’ll be free of Emmett Lasker and this indentured servitude.
–Me: I hope so.
I pray Emmett doesn’t ask me to stay late and tinker with the Excel model that’s due at two today. He has an uncanny talent for finding something for me to do when I’m getting ready to go home. Not only that, it seems like every task he assigns me that late always takes at least three hours.
Asshole.
The elevator pings; the doors slide apart.
–Me: Gotta go. Love you!
I add lots of kisses and hearts, then put my phone away as I walk into the waiting car. As it goes up, another text lands on my phone. I look down with a smile. Probably Dad thinking of one last thing to say.
My good mood vanishes.
–Emmett: Which is better? Diamonds or pearls?
He’s attached two images. The first is of diamond chandelier earrings that sparkle like stars on a navy velvet background. The second shows pearl drop earrings made with four pearls each. The ones on the very bottom look to be as big as my thumbnails. Holy cow.
Elegant and expensive. His current girlfriend of the month would like both. I’ve seen her photo, not because I was looking for it, but because Dad sent it to me a couple of weeks ago, texting, Is this your boss?
The picture showed Emmett smiling with a pretty redhead at some gala. Dad was impressed that Emmett was on the gossip sites because none of my bosses at Goldman Sachs ever made it to those sites. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Emmett Lasker is seen with different women on his arm all the time. No need to shatter Dad’s illusions.
I try to bring up a more specific image of the woman, but I’m too sleep-deprived. Besides, why does it matter? Diamonds and pearls are both classic.
–Me: Either should work great.
–Emmett: That’s not an answer. I asked which is better.
Yeah, and I told you neither because they’re both equally fine. But he’s not going to stop until I pick one. And if I pick the one he doesn’t like, he’s going to ask me to defend my selection.
Argh. Why doesn’t he bug his assistant instead? Marjorie is one of the best-dressed women in the office, and not utilizing her for something like this is a huge waste of talent. She wouldn’t be annoyed, either, because she loves shopping. According to her, humanity created civilization specifically for shopping.
When Emmett first started texting me for jewelry or fashion advice—within a month of my starting at GrantEm—I subtly asked Marjorie if he did the same with her. Maybe he was using me for a second opinion.
But nope. Marjorie has never been asked. Just me. Aren’t I special, hahaha.
When I requested that he quit asking me, he said he couldn’t. Apparently, I have excellent taste and he wants my input.
This is what happens when a man with terrible fashion judgment is the decider. I wear business casual I buy off clearance racks. My accessories are made with cubic zirconia or cheap semiprecious stones. The whole point of my wardrobe is to be functional and attractive on a budget.
So in the midst of working over a hundred hours a week, I also need to help Emmett pick out gifts.
The next two months can’t go fast enough.
–Me: What’s the occasion?