Page 7 of Not Safe for Work

I turn to Molly. “Get me a piece, will you? I need to do something first.”

Without waiting for a response, I toss a glare to Rafe and then hop off the stage, heading towards Charles’s office.

“Tris! Where are you going?” Molly calls.

“I just need to talk to them,” I shout back as I exit the atrium and beeline for Charles’s office.

Belinda’s desk sits empty outside the wide double doors. She’s probably in the cake line. One door sits slightly ajar, and I hear David and Charles talking. I don’t bother to knock as I burst into the room.

Both men turn at my entrance, their eyebrows raised. David Gallagher, in his flawless suit, is so damn intimidating that I clutch my stomach and regret my decision to come storming in. But I gather the shreds of my courage and straighten my shoulders.

“What is it, Miss Malik?” David asks with a chilly gaze.

Miss Malik. Women in this office are always referred to as miss like we’re all in a regency period drama. Only the men are granted the dignity of their first names. I plant my fists on my hips and adopt my most put-upon look.

“Why was I selected for the leadership retreat?”

A brief pause hangs in the room before David answers. “As one of the company’s bright young minds, we felt you earned the opportunity to represent the Chicago branch.”

His face is so straight you could hang a fireplace mantel by it.

“Bullshit.” The word erupts from my mouth—nearly five years of disappointment launched at him in two acidic syllables. “I’ve been passed over for every opportunity I’ve ever applied for at this company. I’ve barely advanced in the almost five years I’ve worked here.”

At first, I’m unsure if I imagine the guilt crossing David’s face.

The two men exchange an uncomfortable look I can’t parse.

“We’d like to give this opportunity to someone who represents the future of this company,” David says, leaning against Charles’s desk as he folds his arms and crosses one ankle over the other. “You are correct that we’ve been remiss in recognizing your talents and those of many others. WMC is taking the necessary steps to correct that.”

The skin on the back of my scalp burns hot. “Excuse me?”

“We understand that WMC is lacking in certain areas, Miss Malik. And we’d like to do something about that, starting by offering you a spot at the retreat.”

I blink, unsure about how to feel about this. He isn’t wrong. WMC should be doing more to encourage a more diversified workforce, and something like the leadership retreat is a perfect way to do that. Attending will open doors left and right.

But something about this conversation feels off.

“Is this for me or to make you look good?” I ask.

David levels me with a confident look, his eyes the same fathomless brown as Rafe’s. The color of deep dark holes drilled into the center of the earth.

“We’re sending you because we see a lot of potential in you, Miss Malik.”

“So, you admit I should have been awarded at least one of those promotions?”

His expression gives away nothing, and I make a mental note never to agree to a game of poker.

I already know he’s the kind of man who votes left every four years because he likes the idea of a world built on equality, but he’s also never had to consider what that really means beyond his limited worldview.

There’s doing the right thing, and there’s doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.

“Do you want to go or not?” he asks, clearly deflecting my question.

“Of course I want to go.”

I do want to go. I do want this chance, but I can’t help but feel like this is also some sort of trap.

“Then what is the problem here?”