Wicked AF

Chapter 1

Lorde

I could’ve grown the beans myself, given the time the coffee I asked for has taken. I stifle my swelling impatience, knowing I’m too busy to get into it when the door opens and Justina finally steps in. Honestly, it seems like the staff gets younger by the day. She looks like she belongs in high school.

“Sorry, Mr. Lorde. I had some trouble with the machine,” she says, laying the cup down on my desk. I notice the slight tremble in her hands.

Why are new staff always like this?

“Don’t worry about it,” I huff. Now that it’s here and the smell is saturating my office, I’m just relieved the wait is over. “Just make sure I have everything for the daily reports by twelve sharp,” I say.

“Of course,” she says reverently before backing away, and instantly I feel guilt buzzing around me like a fly I need to swat away.

“And here’s the newspapers you’ve asked for. I’ve marked the pages with your mentions,” she says almost timidly before turning and making for the door. Seems like she can’t get out of here quickly enough.

“And Justina? Thank you,” I say, looking up momentarily from the material I’ve been poring over for the last hour. “I know we’ve been busy and you’ve only just started, but you’re doing okay. Tell Max I said you could leave early today and to hold two tickets for you for the game next week. Keep it up.”

She smiles, only a small gesture but I can tell this has impacted her positively. It’s not like I want to be an asshole to the new secretary but, as usual, I’ve got a lot on my plate. Namely stock reports, deals, and market trends right now if I’m going to get this client.

I take a much-needed slug of my coffee, and the relief is instant. There are plenty of things I could do without, but coffee isn’t one of them.

At least she’s used the right beans. I can always tell. I need the best stuff to be at the top of my game. None of that toxic shit you get at the coffee chains.

Before I get back to it, I quickly flick through the papers she gave to me, opening them to where they’ve been marked to see fairly generous splashes about our recent charity gala. I sip at my coffee, looking at my face staring back at me, as well as that of my father, the person who owns this place, even if it feels like I do most of the work.

Franco and Alton Lorde of Lorde Capital Raise the Roof and Ten Million Dollars at Charity Gala.

I wince at my name, a habit that never seems to die off. I exclusively use Lorde, because what the hell kind of name is Alton? Thanks, Dad! But when it comes to things like this, they insist on using that monstrosity.

Apart from that, I’m happy with the coverage, the usual standard stuff that shows we’re an important player in the finance industry and that we’re not just rich assholes, we also help charitable causes.

In truth, there’s plenty of it to go around. Dad got rich by managing the money of the very rich – investments, stock trades, that sort of thing. We’re uber successful, thanks to diligence when it comes to our research and the recommendations we make. It’s because of this that anyone who’s anyone wants to work with us.

“This is good,” I say to myself, throwing the papers to one side and getting back to what I was doing. I tap my foot as I work, an old habit that helps me focus. I need to get this right. If I’m to be as successful as my father, then I need to bag this client.

He’s a local bigshot, one that I know from Inferno, and I want him bad. But I don’t want to look desperate. I need to try and play it cool. That’s why I make sure that my work does all the talking. And this guy is a long-established older member of the club – it needs to be right.

I already know I’m going to need more coffee because of the night’s sleep I lost last night worrying about this deal. My foot still taps as I figure out my strategy. I know what I’m talking about, but the tight grip of fear is still wrapped around my heart.

“C’mon,” I whisper, trying to urge myself on. I can play the game, and even appear confident, but that’s usually far from how I feel on the inside. Sure, I’ve made plenty of money for this company and its clients, but unlike my father who has always been so sure of himself, I’ve been plagued with doubts about myself and my abilities.

It’s certainly not something I’d ever let anyone in on, but this imposter syndrome has firmly taken root inside me. There are times when I almost expect to be escorted off the premises for being a fraud.

Do I even have any idea what I’m doing?

I call through to the front desk for my assistant. “Max, can you come in here?” Within what seems like seconds he’s in front of me. “Can you get me some info on Salter, Inc.?” I ask.

He looks down at me, an eyebrow raised in query. “You sure about that?” he asks.

I don’t question him contradicting me. He may be an employee, but he’s also a friend, and we can talk freely. If I’m going to listen to anyone, it’s him.

“My advice – take a break, go get an early lunch or something, and think on it,” he says.

I frown, knowing that I should listen to Max. He’s never usually wrong in these situations and good at keeping some of my impulses in check, even if that can be annoying at times.

Sighing, I give a reluctant nod and then get up. “I’m going out,” I say. “I need more coffee.”

The good stuff, of course.