The numbers on the screen swim before my eyes, a dizzying array of figures representing the financial health of half a dozen companies. Revenue projections, profit margins, balance sheets... I pore over them, my mind buzzing with caffeine. I rub a hand over my face, trying to will the slight headache away.
It's been a long week, a long
month
, actually. Ever since we landed the Peterson account, it's been a non-stop grind.
Jeff, my head analyst, is pacing in front of my desk, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Their due diligence requests are insane, Mike," he mutters, shaking his head. "They want every goddamn expense report from the last five years. It's like they're trying to find a reason to back out."
I lean back in my leather chair. "They're just being thorough, Jeff. It's a big deal for them - a bigger deal for us. We knew it wouldn't be easy."
Landing the Peterson Corporation was a coup, a game changer for my firm. The kind of win that justified all the sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled work binges I'd pulled since starting this company right out of college.
But it wasn't just about the money, though, God knows, there was plenty of that now. It was about proving something, about building something from the ground up, about showing everyone who'd ever doubted me that I could make it.
And I have.
A discreet knock on the door breaks my train of thought. "Come in," I call out, already anticipating the interruption.
Sheila, my ever-efficient secretary, peeks her head in. "Mr. Carter on line two. Says it's urgent."
I sigh, glancing at the stack of reports still waiting for my attention. "Take a message, Sheila. Tell him I'll call him back tomorrow."
"He said it can't wait," she says, her brow furrowed. "Something about a potential snag with the merger documentation."
"Fine, put him through."
I pick up the phone, plastering on a smile as I greet Mr. Carter, ready to smooth over whatever wrinkle has emerged. The Peterson deal might be a pain in the ass, but I wasn't going to let anything jeopardize it. Not now. Not when we were this close.
As Carter drones on about legal clauses and regulatory hurdles, my eyes drift back to the financial reports on my desk. The numbers start swimming again, blurring into a kaleidoscope of figures and projections.
"Don't worry, John, we'll get it sorted," I say into the receiver, my voice calm and reassuring.
Carter's a good lawyer, meticulous and thorough, but prone to panicking over the smallest detail. It takes me the better part of twenty minutes to soothe his worries and assure him that the supposed "snag" is nothing more than a minor procedural hiccup.
Finally, I hang up, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over me. I glance at the clock on my desk—it's just past five. Time to dive back into the numbers.
Some people hated working with financial reports, found them dry and tedious, but I'd always found a strange comfort in them. Numbers were orderly and logical. They always made sense. They behaved the way they were supposed to.
Unlike people. Unlike... other
things
.
I shake my head, pushing those thoughts aside as I grab the topmost report from the stack.
"Jeff, can you pull up the Q3 expense reports for their subsidiary in Singapore?" I call out, my eyes scanning the balance sheet.
He appears in the doorway a moment later, his tablet in hand. "Already on it, boss."
I buzz my secretary, "And Sheila, hold my calls for the next hour?"
"Got it, boss," she replies through the intercom.
With everything in place, I settle back into my chair, letting the world of numbers engulf me. I lose myself in the spreadsheets, the figures and projections becoming a comforting rhythm, a way to silence the restless thoughts that have been plaguing me for weeks.
My pen glides across the final page of the, putting the finishing touches on a month of grueling work. It's been a relentless push, navigating the complexities of their financials, scrutinizing every detail, but I've never been one to shy away from a challenge.
I close the file folder, a sense of satisfaction settling in my chest as I survey the stack of completed reports lining my desk.
Done.
I look out my doorway. The office is nearly deserted, the only sounds are faint hum of the air conditioner and the distant clicking of a keyboard from accounting.
It's Friday night, and the rest of the team has already headed out for our weekly celebratory dinner. We made it a tradition to unwind together after each major project, a way to decompress and recharge before the next wave of deadlines crashes over us.
I glance at the clock. A little after six. They're probably already at Antonio's, halfway through their first bottle of wine. I should be there. But the thought of forced smiles and casual conversation... it feels like an impossible task. But being a leader offers no privileges like that.
I push back from my desk, stretching my stiff shoulders.
Time to join the party.
I grab my jacket, enjoying the quiet hum of the empty office as I make my way out.
* * *
The murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses fills the air as I savor a mouthful of perfectly cooked pasta. Antonio's never disappoints - the food is exquisite, the wine flows freely, and the atmosphere is just the right blend of upscale and relaxed.
It's the perfect place to unwind after a long week.
"To Mike!" Victor booms, raising his glass. "Another successful deal, another victory for us!"
A chorus of cheers erupts around the table, glasses clinking as everyone joins in the toast. I offer a smile, feeling a warmth spread through me despite the lingering fatigue.
The conversation flows easily, a comfortable mix of shop talk and personal anecdotes. Jokes are cracked, stories are shared, and the tension of the past few weeks slowly melts away under the influence of good food and good company.
Victor, seated across me, catches my eye and offers a knowing grin. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"You don't look so fresh yourself, Vic."
He laughs, "Comes with the territory I guess."
Victor had been one of my first hires when I'd started the firm, a seasoned veteran of the financial world who'd initially seemed skeptical about working under someone half his age. But he'd surprised me - his experience and steady hand had been invaluable in those early, uncertain days.
As the night wears on, the table gradually empties. People start heading home to families and weekend plans, leaving a scattering of empty chairs and half-finished glasses in their wake. Eventually, it's just Victor and me, nursing our drinks as the restaurant staff begins to clear the surrounding tables.
"You know, Mike," Victor says, swirling the last of his scotch, "that move you pulled with the offshore accounts, brilliant. Saved Peterson a fortune in taxes, and made us look like geniuses."
"It was nothing, really," I say, waving it off. "Just... connecting the dots."
"Nonsense," he scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. "I've been in this business long enough to know a good idea when I see one. You've got a real knack for this, that's for sure."
"Luck, mostly."
Our waitress, a friendly woman with a warm smile and a name tag that reads "Gina," reappears at our table. "How are we doing, gentlemen? Can I tempt you with another round?"
"Bring us another round of that Glen Moray."
"Actually, I'm good for now," I say, pushing my half-full glass away.
"Already?" He raises an eyebrow. "Giving up early tonight?"
"Got plans with Emma."
"Ah, say no more." He winks, his gaze turning knowing. "Just one for me then, Gina." He turns back to me, leaning forward. "So, how are things at home, Mike? Everything good?"
"Yeah, everything's... good."
"You two should come over for dinner sometime," he says. "It's been a while. Syd keeps asking about you. She would love to see you both."
He's right. It has been a while since Emma and I have joined Victor and his wife, Sydney, for dinner. It used to be a regular occurrence— Sunday night roasts, impromptu barbecues, holidays spent crowded around their big, noisy dinner table. But lately, things have been... different.
"Yeah, definitely. Let's make it happen one of these days."
Victor takes a sip of his wine, his gaze thoughtful. "How's Emma doing, anyway? That new job treating her well?"
"She's loving it," I reply. "She's really found her calling working with those kids. You should see her face light up when she talks about them."
"Yeah, well," Victor mutters, taking another swig of his drink. "I still think she's wasting her talent. That girl's got a mind for finance, you know. She could've been running her own division by now."
"Don't start again, Vic," I chuckle, already knowing where this conversation is headed. Victor has never quite understood Emma's decision to leave the firm and become an elementary school teacher.
"What? You know I'm right! She was damn good at what she did. Could've made partner in a couple of years."
"She was good, no doubt," I concede. "But it wasn't her passion, Vic. She's happy
now
. She
loves
what she's doing. And that's... that's what matters, isn't it?"
"Fine, fine," he raises his hands in mock surrender. "You win. Just... don't tell me I didn't warn you when you're struggling to pay the bills on a teacher's salary. Just saying...."
I laugh, shaking my head. He might never understand. But that's Victor— always looking out for the bottom line, always calculating, always a few steps ahead. And as frustrating as it can be sometimes, I know it comes from a place of caring. He wants the best for us.
Gina returns with Victor's refill, her smile still warm and professional. "Anything else I can get for you gentlemen?"
"No, we're good for now. Thanks." Victor watches her as she turns to leave, his gaze lingering a beat too long on her retreating figure. Then, leaning towards me, he murmurs under his breath, "Man, that woman could make a saint sin."
"Okay, I think you've officially had one too many, Vic," I chuckle.
"What?" He feigns innocence. "Just appreciating the scenery. Don't tell me you never look at other women, Mike. I don't believe it for a second."
"Of course I look, Victor. I'm not dead."
He grins. "So, come on, admit it— she is pretty hot, right?
"She is, Vic. But she's also our waitress. And she's probably half your age."
"Details, details." He waves a dismissive hand. "So, you think I've got a shot with her?
"Nope, not a chance," I say, stifling a laugh.
"Why not? I'm a charming guy, successful..." He puffs out his chest playfully, a hint of his old bravado surfacing through the wine haze. "I've still got it, Mike. I could sweep her off her feet."
"I don't think Sydney would appreciate that very much,"
