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But the notes and pie charts I cobbled together after finally listening to Jack’s frantic voice mails last night aren’t impressive.
As I pull the copies from my briefcase, my hands are trembling. Around two this morning, when it became clear I was going to need every second I could get to pull my presentation together, I emailed Jack, giving him permission to start the meeting before my arrival. I was hoping he would soften them up with the signature Holt charm, and then I’d win them over by explaining why my investigation was so important and dispensing evidence of my solid research skills.
But as I stare at the sea of angry, confused faces, my confidence in my plan crumbles faster than the stale muffin I forced down on my way to the train.
“Before we start looking over the numbers and statistics,” I say, my voice thin in the too-silent room, “I want to assure all of you that I never intended to make anyone feel foolish. I truly had, andstillhave, the best of intentions.”
“I don’t care about your intentions.” Rictor’s bark breaks the seal on the room, inspiring a chorus of angry grumbles from where the brokers are gathered. “I want to know if your undercover stunt is going to sink the company we’ve busted our asses to build.”
“It’s not fair,” Frame pipes up, dark eyes wide in his pale face. “A lot of us have families, people depending on us. Making S and H look bad in the media isn’t going to make the world a better place for women. It’s going to take food off the table for our wives and kids. And do you have any idea how much diapers cost?”
“And childcare,” Barb from accounting pipes up.
“I understand where you’re coming from.” My gaze shifts between Frame and Barb, willing them to see that my heart is in the right place. “This isn’t about throwing S and H—or any of you—to the wolves. Through my investigation—”
“Through your deception, you mean.” This from Lulu’s supervisor, Will Pool, who isn’t even trying to wipe the smear of smug satisfaction from his face.
Plowing on, I say, “I’d hoped to get an insider’s perspective and a clearer picture of where a typical financial institution is failing to provide equal opportunity and compensation, and by bringing that to light, start a conversation that might lead to change. Not just here, but—”
“Mightis the operative word, Ms. Seyfried.” Penelope, one of the most senior members of the executive support staff, is clearly unimpressed. “I’ve been in this game a long time, and change, when it comes, comes slowly. Half the time the people who blow the whistle are tossed out or paid off, the unpleasant things they’ve exposed are swept under the rug, and the only result is ruined reputations, lost money, and energy, which should be spent getting work done, wasted cleaning up a pointless mess.”
“Not all the time. Sometimes policies change and things get better,” Wallace says, surprising me. He was kind to Eric, but I wouldn’t have pegged him as an ally. “I just hate knowing I was part of an experiment without my knowledge.” He blows out a breath, cutting his gaze to Jack. “And I can’t believe the execs went along with it.”
“That’s why I’m here to assure you all that we’re going to make this right.” Jack steps forward to stand beside me. “Ellie’s research was unconventional, yes, but it was also invaluable in pinpointing places where S and H can improve best practices. In the coming weeks, Ryan and I will be reviewing all of Ellie’s findings, meeting with any employees who wish to discuss issues and ideas, and implementing positive changes based on your direct input. I’m sorry I misled you, but I will do everything in my power to earn back your trust, if you’ll let me.”
Wallace nods, and most of the others in the room follow suit. How could they not? Jack is a force. He’s not afraid to apologize or admit when he’s wrong, and no matter how shaken they were by the news that he’s been involved in my research, he’s always had their backs.
I just wish he had mine, too.
I lower my eyes, blinking back tears as Jack continues to rally the troops with his detailed plans for making S&H a truly great place to work.
“To that end,” he continues, “we’re starting immediately with some modifications to our sexual harassment policy and protocols.” Jack motions toward the door, where Hannah is seated in her usual chair against the wall, taking notes. “Hannah, if you’ll hand out the materials, please? I want to be sure everyone knows the proper channels for lodging a complaint and how that complaint will be evaluated and addressed. We’ll walk through the new procedures, then open the floor up for any questions. Sound good?” At everyone’s murmurs of agreement, Jack turns to me with a smile that feels forced and thin. “Thanks for coming in today, Miss Seyfried.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed.
Jack doesn’t tell me to leave, but it’s clear that I’m no longer needed—or wanted—here.
Tucking my untouched handouts back into my briefcase, I take a step toward the door, but Jack appears in front of me, blocking the exit.
“Don’t go,” he says, his voice low. “Stay. See what Ryan and I came up with last night. I think you’ll be proud of the changes we’re making—all because of you.”
Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. “They don’t want me here.”
“They’re just surprised—they need some time to process. Besides,Iwant you here, and I’m the boss.”
The cautious smile curving his lips and the hope in his eyes offer the opportunity to salvage at least one beautiful thing from the wreckage of my failed experiment. Jack still wants me. I could stay, suffer through the rest of this uncomfortable meeting, and then go to lunch with my boyfriend.
But as much as a part of me wants that—to be Jack’s girl, to be in Jack’s arms and his good graces and his bed—the sting of his rejection hurts too damned much.
He didn’t reject Ellie the woman he’s sleeping with, but his insistence on exposing our plans before I could finish my work set off a bomb in the middle of Ellie the reporter’s life.
Ellie the sister isn’t faring too well, either.
The message Ryan left on my cell last night was the angriest I’ve heard my brother since I played bomber pilot with his model airplanes when we were kids, gleefully sailing each wooden masterpiece off the roof to crash onto the driveway below, my five-year-old brain not realizing how impossible it would be to put them back together.
And now Jack and I are the same.
Shattered. Broken.
