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I see my colleagues’ gazes filled with both begrudging admiration, doubt, and a slice of contempt.

The crinkling in their brows indicates the idea of letting someone so young, twenty-eight to be exact, join their lofty ranks, is probably causing some uncomfortable acid reflux in the middle of the night.

But the numbers don’t lie, and I couldn’t care less about their so-called useless feelings.

I’ve increased our investment returns by three times since I was promoted to lead the investments department two years ago, an achievement my predecessors failed to accomplish.

Not having entanglements or clouded emotions like everyone else allows me to see things with piercing clarity.

To analyze every investment, situation, or person with a rational mind.

I’m sure they’ve enjoyed the extra padding in their wallets since my ascension up the ranks.

My emotional brokenness makes me great at my job and that’s the only thing still driving me to get out of bed each morning.

The never-ending need to succeed, to be better, to be more. After all, these are the things a Kingsley should want in life.

My fingers clutch the binder in a death grip. These fuckers are messing with my path to success. I grit my teeth and take in a ragged inhale to stop the anger from boiling over.

Smoothing my face into one of fabricated calmness when I want nothing more than to tear into my team for this piece of crap burning a hole in my hand, I stroll toward the conference room where my analysts and investment managers are waiting for me.

I push open the clear double doors and storm into the spacious room, finding my team of fifteen top performers sitting around the long central table, their excited chatter filling the air .

Heads swivel my way, and Bradley Chance, one of my investment managers, breaks into a big grin. “Mr. Kingsley, good morning! Did you see the analysis we put together for you?”

Letting out a controlled breath, I twist my lips into a serene smile. “This binder here?” I hold up the offending documents in my hand. “I did. Read it cover to cover. Did everyone review this and agree with the assessments?”

Bradley glances around the table, catching the eyes of most people in the room before swiveling back to me and nodding eagerly. “Of course. This is one of our biggest investments this calendar year. Everyone did their due diligence.”

I hum noncommittally. “Based on these documents, perhaps we should wait a few months before upping our stake in Cameron Corp.” The analysis actually suggested an immediate buy on the emerging home goods manufacturing company purported to rival some of the top brands in existence.

A questioning murmur breaks through the silence and Chuck Bright, who I nickname Chuck Dumbass in my mind, chimes in, “Exactly right, Mr. Kingsley. Brilliant assessment.”

Bradley turns his frown into a smile and nods again, making me want to smack the grin off his face. “That’s correct.”

The rest of the room joins the approvals, nodding ridiculously, a bunch of lemmings leaping off the cliff after the leader.

I set the binder down and place my hands on the table, surveying each one of my team, supposedly the cream of the crop. My fingers dig against the glass surface, my muscles clenched tightly to fight the need to throw those documents across the room.

“I guess a different way of looking at the data may result in doubling our purchase of their shares,” I murmur, my vision slowly turning red as I narrow my eyes.

Hayley Richardson, a redhead sitting in the corner seat, interjects, “I think that’s a good assessment as well.”

The lemmings now change their tune and chime in agreement .

Idiots. The whole lot. Fucking kiss-ass, brown-nosing idiots.

At this rate, I’ll never be able to trust anyone with the growing problem at TransAmerica or the new investments management with Scott Enterprises.

The churning in my gut is corrosive, making its way up my throat. My jaw clenches before releasing, my lips contorting into a snarl, no longer able to keep up the fake facade. My hands slam down hard on the table in a loud smack.

The team practically jumps in their chairs.

“Did anyone fucking review this piece of shit before sending it over to me?” I push the offending black binder toward the middle of the table, the sheets fluttering chaotically from the sudden motion.

“If I tell you guys to jump out the window right now, are you guys going to do it? Is there anyone capable of thinking beyond the IQ of a six-year-old in this room today?” I stand up, my fists curling to my sides as the weight on my chest increases, nearly smothering my lungs.

“Can someone tell me what’s wrong with the documents you sent over today?”

The silence is thick and loud in the room as my skin feels heated.

“Did anyone bring their brains to work today? Or are you all more concerned about kissing ass than doing your fucking jobs?” Slamming my hands on the table once more, I wait for a few seconds before straightening up and crossing my arms over my chest, not caring if I’m creasing the delicate, bespoke three-piece suit I’m wearing.

The room is eerily silent. Muted conversations from the outside filter in from the conference room doors. Someone clears their throat.

The idiots look at each other, equal in their flushed complexions and rapid breathing. I see sweat dripping down Chuck Dumbass’s forehead. If it weren’t for his father being one of our largest clients, I would’ve given him the boot ages ago.

Another person clears her throat. A few chairs squeak as several folks shift in their seats .

I swallow the ball in my throat, the heat in my chest mounting into a fire. I guess I have some emotions after all, like the rage coursing through me right now. Just as I’m about to tear into the silent group once again, someone in the back raises her hand.

“They have a huge cash flow problem,” an unfamiliar voice, soft and melodious with a thread of nervousness, slices through the thick silence with the ease of a steak knife to butter.

I scan the room to locate this one brave soul, my eyes finally snagging on an unassuming brunette with a shaggy haircut, dressed in a black business suit several sizes too big. Everyone turns their attention to her, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue.

At my silence, the brunette slowly meets my stare, her startling eyes, a color I can’t discern from this distance, brighten.

She straightens up, squares her shoulders, and continues, “The face of the financials…the balance sheet and income statements spin a beautiful story of exponential growth and income, but it’s in the cash flow and the footnotes where the ugliness lies.”

The burn in my throat briefly recedes, and I arch my eyebrow, daring her to continue. She bites her lip, her voice stronger than before.

“For a company with such large profits and not much reinvestment in their business, you’d expect their cash or external investment positions to increase rapidly as well. But that isn’t the case. Their cash flow, while positive, is abysmal.”

She swallows, a hint of nervousness still shining through her expression, and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. The brunette pauses and looks at me, as if waiting for my permission to continue.

“Come on, intern, you think we didn’t consider that in our assessment?” Hayley interjects, her voice shrill and grating, her eyes glancing at me before shooting daggers into the intern’s face.

The intern—she’s a fucking intern, so this is her first day—shrinks at the admonition before her forehead crinkles. I bite my cheek to not reveal my thoughts, and cock my head, wanting to see what this little mouse will do in the presence of the hellcat that is Hayley Richardson .

After taking a breath, the intern sits up straighter and leans forward.

She brushes the errant strands of hair which have fallen over her face and replies, “I’m just sharing my thoughts.

I reviewed the documents this morning and am here to learn.

If I’m incorrect, please explain it to me. I want to be an asset to the team.”

Glancing down, I find my fingers no longer trying to dig a hole into the glass surface of the table, the knuckles no longer stark white. A slither of amusement snakes inside me at this rendition of David versus Goliath.

“I’ll educate you later, Greta. This is not the time or place for it,” Hayley seethes, her voice coming out in a hiss as she darts furtive glances at me. “You can come to my office—”

“It’s Grace, not Greta.”

I snort, unable to hide my amusement. Few would stand up against Hayley, the reigning mean girl on the floor. She’s cutthroat and merciless and usually rakes in good numbers. Part of the reason she’s on my team.

“Continue…Grace,” I murmur, lifting my eyes to stare at the intern, my gaze cascading over her features, taking in the brilliant irises of mysterious hues, the smooth complexion without an ounce of makeup, a petite frame hidden in the black atrocity that looks like it was salvaged from the depths of her grandmother’s closet.

She looks young and fragile, small and breakable, but something about the way she carries herself tells me she is anything but.

She’s a warrior masquerading as a weakling.

Grace swallows then wets her lips, my eyes involuntarily snagging on the movement and marveling at how her upper lip is perfectly symmetrical, shaped in a cupid’s bow and other shit I don’t usually notice. She clears her throat again.

“As I said earlier, their impressive performance is not translating over to hard cash, and that’s usually a red flag.

If we were to dig deeper into the financials and footnotes for the last few quarters, we’d see their inventory balances decreasing in line with the peaks in their cash flows, which may indicate sales of their inventory, normally a positive sign.

But if you look at the subsequent periods, the inventory balances will then increase dramatically, and the cash flow would drastically decrease. ”

Grace’s voice is assured, and she glances around the room, capturing the attention of everyone as she spins the story she’s seeing in her analysis of the same documents I saw this morning.

Bradley’s brows furrow as he stares at her pensively, and Chuck taps his fountain pen on the table in a nervous rhythm.

Grace’s eyes find mine again and my lips tip up in the smallest of smiles, encouraging her to go on with her analysis.

Her eyes widen at my expression and a grin tugs at her lips, an impish glint flashing in her eyes. The thread of amusement winding inside me burrows deeper into my chest, and I give her a terse nod.

“This is all conjecture, but from my untrained eye, it seemed odd that they would have large cash flow with low inventory, followed by a drastic drop in cash flow with increased inventory, all the while showing immense profits on their income statement. It almost seems like there’s some massive sale of their inventory at period end, followed by… large returns?”

Grace looks at me, her brows wrinkling, and my fingers twitch, wanting to smooth it off her otherwise unblemished face. It’s just my fucking borderline OCD at work.

The conference room is silent as the lemmings slouch in their seats, no doubt wondering how they were all showed up by a fucking intern on her first day of work. The squeaking of chairs fills the room as folks twiddle their thumbs and turn their heads my way, probably gauging my reaction.

My lips curve into a genuine smile at the only person who dared to speak her mind today.

Grace’s lips part in an audible gasp, and I slowly bring my hands up and clap in acknowledgement.

The room slowly joins in the applause. Grace’s pale skin flushes pink and she gnaws on her bottom lip with a savagery it doesn’t deserve.

Hayley opens her mouth to speak, and I hold up my hand for silence before turning to the rest of the room .

“I don’t want this to repeat itself. Bring your brains to work and don’t fucking kiss my ass. If you can’t do that, don’t bother coming in,” I command, my voice deep and laced with threats. I stride toward the double doors but pause before I step out of the room.

Turning around, I give the intern one last glance and find her staring down at her lap, her face still pink, a curtain of hair falling over her face.

Curious. Very fucking curious.

Pinning a glare at the three stooges, Hayley, Bradley, and Chuck, I growl, “Fix the damn analysis and have it on my desk within the hour.”