Page 2 of The False Flat

He gestured to the maroon leather chairs opposite his shiny executive desk—complete with a gold-embossed lion’s head on the front—and crossed his Italian loafers on said desk. This was why finance people got a bad rap, but I focused on Houston’s more charming qualities, namely his “Good news” comment.

“My clients signed,” I affirmed, ignoring how my throat wanted to close at the concentrated cologne in this room. How did he function in here? He needed to open a window. He needed a good scrub with unscented soap. I needed to stop. This wasn’t about his cologne or how near to passing out I was because of it. My clients had signed.

Six months earlier, I’d decided to go from financial analyst to financial planner. CFA to CFP, a move from behind the scenes to in front of them. Some saw the transition as a step down. I saw it as conditioning. Because, while I exceled in business, I did not excel in personal relationships. It’s not that I wanted to be cold, but at twelve, I’d lost my brother, my best friend, the one person who understood me and my (our) biracial struggles. And when the people I should’ve been able to turn to weren’t there, I built up a shell and latched on to what I was good at, my distraction. Yep, my numbers.

So why the recent job change? Aurora Auberge (my mother) had turned her (well-meaning) attention on me because my dad had died, and she needed someone else’s life to hyperfocus on. I quickly saw that I needed other people in my life, real social engagements, a.k.a. excuses. So it made good sense to me that if I wanted to start making those personal relationships, and chipping away at that twenty-year-old shell, then I should interact with people in an arena in which I was most comfortable.

When I was talking estate planning or finance, I was completely at ease. Apparently, I was pretty good at interacting with finicky, opinionated people, as long as my precious numbers were there as a buffer. Which was why I was standing in this migraine-inducing office. I’d schmoozed a whopper of a client. Not only were the Fletchers a high net worth catch, but they promised generational wealth. If I played my cards right, I’d not only add the Fletchers to my book, but I’d manage the massive wealth that came with their extended family. Mrs. Fletcher was a fashionista, and, much to her delighted surprise, I’d worn shoes by her favorite designer to a multiclient dinner meeting, which had instantly connected us. Though, secrets revealed, I’d known this tidbit of information thanks to Chad, my observant lawyer boyfriend, who’d dined at the Fletchers’ home several days before and had witnessed the shoe delivery.

Life was all about connections. It’s who you know.

“Yes,” Houston replied. “You did a good job.”

I beamed. Actual light was probably coming out of my ears.

I opened my mouth to reply, but he wasn’t finished. “A great job indeed, but I’m putting the Fletchers on Tyler’s book. You two worked together on this, and he needs the victory more than you do.” His condescending gaze slid down my face and back up, making me wonder if this was a race thing or a gender thing. But I didn’t think Houston even realized I was biracial because he’d made a comment about a Black client that bordered on racist several months back in front of me. He might’ve been arrogant, but he wasn’t the type to make that kind of mistake.

I blinked.

I coughed.

I asked him to repeat himself.

He repeated the same words. The same words.

He was giving my client to the new guy I’d been training for the past month?

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Was this happening . . . again? I looked around the room, but for what? A pair of scissors to cut off the tie that must’ve been restricting the blood flow to his brain?

Weeks ago, I’d worked hard to win a modestly funded client, the Herberts, and when they’d signed, I was informed that Dougan—I know, ridiculous, but that was his name—would be adding the client to his book. I was frustrated then, but Houston had assured me it would only be this once and that Dougan had initiated the relationship with the Herberts, so the clients were rightfully his. It didn’t seem fair, but I’d let it slide.

The Fletchers had been initiated by me, through Chad, who’d made the introduction when he’d heard they were looking to invest their funds.

The Fletchers were mine.

“No.” My whole body shook.

He smiled, like the word was a fly, irritating but easily eradicated.

“I’m sorry. Decision’s been made. You’re good at this. Your next one will be worth even more.”

“And who will you give that one to, Houston? The janitor?”

“Come on. You know these things are complicated. It has nothing to do with you personally.” There it was again, that sweep, almost imperceptible this time, that assured me that it most certainly was personal. And he was trying to sweet-talk me. I struggled to control my breathing. My fingernails dug into my palms.

“Pen, Pen, Pen, don’t get worked up. You know you’re my gal.”

His gal? His. So it was a gender thing then, confirmed by his unconcealed eye drop to my chest.

I buttoned my blouse all the way up to the collar. It felt ridiculous, but I didn’t care; I was proving a point. Then, I splayed my hands on his desk and leaned in, coming close to touching the eggplant posing as a nose in the center of his bulbous face.

“The Fletchers are my clients. Tyler was on the sidelines for this. I was lead. I’m not going to let you do this. Do they know? Did you tell them you’re handing them off to an inexperienced new guy?”

“Tyler’s not inexperienced. He’s been a planner for nearly as long as you have.”

Choked disgust flew out of my mouth in a sound that was half scoff and half growl. “I’ve been an analyst for years. He was an adviser.”

“Then you agree: he’s got more people experience.”