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Georgia is wide-eyed.
“And he gave it to you?”
“No! No, no, no. Hedespisedme. He was so condescending. He gave one to a guy who had some tech idea, of course. This,”—I snatch the golden ticket—“is an accident. I wasn’t supposed to get this. He must’ve forgotten it was in his pocket.”
“But you did get it! Oh my goddess, call the number. Call the number!” She pushes my phone across the table with so much force, it flies right off, onto the floor, and under the stove.
I sit across from my overexcited sister and grasp her arms to stop her from waving them in my face like a psycho Muppet.
“Yes. I know. I will. But I need a plan. I can’t just waltz in and say, ‘Hey, I accidentally got one of Mr. Power’s golden tickets’ and expect them to give me anything other than a personal escort out of the building. Right?”
Georgia scowls.
“Right?” I repeat.
She snatches the card from my fingers. “If you’re not going to call, I will. I could use some thousand-dollar-an-hour coaching formybusiness.”
I pluck it back and stuff it into my bra. “Chill, Venus Fly Trap. I will call. But can we take a breather here? Also … phone … under stove … gross … you can dig it out for me.”
Over the next two months, I water the seed of an idea about how I’ll finagle my way into the Power Broker Program. I know it’s a long shot, but as Georgia keeps reminding me, since I’ve already been publicly humiliated by Will Power, I have nothing to lose. Comparatively, how embarrassing will it be to be turned away at the door in front of a security guard?
Georgia, of course, helps me prepare. She uses the fabric of Mr. Power’s jacket to make a Power suit-like dress for me with the same collar style, the same pockets, the same everything—with two key differences. The first—it fits me like I hired a high-end London tailor to make it. The other difference—instead of lining my Power dress with the original dull gray fabric of Will Power’s suit, Georgia uses a silk with the exact pattern as the dress I wore the day of the Come Into Power seminar.
It’s our littlescrewyouto the boring world of conservative billionaires. It helps me feel like me, even if I am the only one who knows the secrets my dress holds.
And to top it off, my brilliant sister has made the dress reversible so I’ll be able to wear it to more than just the intake interview I’ve scheduled with a man named Mr. Liu—the coach who will either help me double my business income or kick my green ass to the curb.
I cover my frizzy hair with product to smooth it and pull it into a tight knot. I have Georgia do my makeup, since she’s way better at the whole “dressing for success” thing, which includes masking my freckles. I’m not a country bumpkin, but the circles I work in care more about soil moisture than skin moisturizer. At least that’s what I’ve always told myself.
I hail a cab—because that’s what successful people who don’t own cars do when going to important meetings—and arrive fifteen minutes early. It’s a warm May day, so I don’t need a jacket over my dress, a relief, given my limited business-friendly options. I enter the high-rise in downtown Vancouver and pause a few steps into the massive lobby with the giant nest hanging overhead. It’s supposed to be some nod at showing that the company is female-business friendly. I scoff out loud, then pretend to cough when two people turn to look at me.
A visitor slash security desk sits to my right, but I’m not ready to get my badge yet.
Poster-sized photographs line the wall across from the desk, from black-and-white to crisp digital images. It’s the succession of the Power leadership.
Of course, I’ve read everything I could find online about the company to prepare for this meeting. But I haven’t seen these pictures or their associated captions.
Will Power is the fourth of his name, and each of his predecessors was also a motivational speaker who captivated audiences and grew the Power empire to its multibillion-dollar valuation. But the current Mr. Power is the first to refer to himself as Will. His father was William; his grandfather went by Bill. And according to the info card under the photo taken in 1933, the OG Mr. Power was known as Stretch, due to his height—six foot four at a time when a man was considered tall if he was anything over five eight.
You can see the progression of arrogance from one generation to the next in the way they’ve branded the company. The current motivational guru was bold enough to legally change the name from William Power and Sons to Will Power & Bros. I used to think that the “Bros.” was the standard corporate abbreviation for “Brothers” since there are four of them. But now I know the truth—it really means that fratty, masculinity of bro culture. I discreetly stick my tongue out at his smug and admittedly drop-your-panties gorgeous face.
As I turn to sign in and get my badge, a woman smiles and points at my dress.
“Stunning. Absolutely gorgeous. Brand?”
“Um, it’s not?”
“Don’t be coy. It won’t look the same on me as it does on you. Where did you buy it?” She sniffs the air close to my shoulder, as if she can smell the store I bought it from.
“I didn’t. My sister is a seamstress. She made it for me.”
“Card.” She shoves her hand three inches from my nose.
I step back. “I don’t have one.”
She reaches down and grabs the hem of my dress. Runs her fingers along it. Flips it up to catch a glimpse of the green lining. “Exquisite work. Reversible?”
“Yeah. She’s very good.” I smile, trying to walk away.
