The Merger

Chapter 1

Talia Nassar

The red slope trending downward looks steeper. I tighten the hold on my mouse and squint, eyes strained under the bright light of the monitor.

An advanced skier might rejoice seeing an angle like this. But for me? I close my eyes and gulp, trying to steady my heartbeat.

For me, it's as if I'm tumbling ungracefully, destined to be a pile of mortification and broken bones.

I've done everything I can to get the line to at least a plateau. A plateau would be easy to trek. Yet Madame Economy has other plans in mind. She's grinning widely at the mountaintop, witnessing, as I gasp for breath like a child learning to swim for the first time.

That sadistic bitch!

I'm not her only target, making the reality of the situation slightly easier to swallow. My competitors have to be feeling the impact of rising prices and unprecedented interest rates. Verity Finance? They'll probably smack into a tree on their way down. Monroe Investments? Most likely they'll take out a family.

Yet, this still doesn't discount the fact that it's all happening during my first year as president of McAvoy Investments. My first year on the slopes of leading a financial institution.

My stomach flings my breakfast around, but I try to ignore it. With an alert gaze and set jaw, I hurry over to the main conference room where my senior employees are gathering for our weekly check-in. Today I need to push them even more to get our numbers back up. While everyone has been working hard already, I'll need to report our progress to the CEO and board of directors tomorrow. And keeping my job—a job that literal blood (if you count the nosebleed during last month's forecast review), sweat, and tears have gone into—is a top priority.

Based on how I got the job, it's clear people hold me to a different standard than others in my position. An Arab woman, albeit white-passing, in her mid-thirties does not become president of a financial institution every day. There are people everywhere just watching and waiting for me to drop the ball. And based on how these stats are looking, it's as if I'm dropping more balls than the runt at a high school dodgeball game. Of course Ms. Economy just so happens to be the ref, smiling villainously with one of those black sweatbands and striped shirts to make it official.

Chatter lands in my ears as I push open the glass door to the conference room. However, it instantly dies as soon as I stride over to my seat. "Good morning everyone," I say as I sit down at the head of the gray marble conference table.

Versions of "Good morning" are spoken by the eight employees before me. Some are fidgeting and others are not making direct eye contact. There is no doubt my employees are nowhere near buying foam fingers with "Talia #1" written on them. But I prefer it that way. I haven't made it to where I am through things like team-building activities or after-work ice cream socials. Friendships are reserved for those in my dance group and not for people I manage.

The only exception is my assistant Imani, who outshines all on work ethic, determination, and support. Imani would buy a foam finger with my name on it in a heartbeat, and would even bedazzle it somehow.

A moment of silence makes my headache grow. I clear my throat. "Did your alarm clocks go off yet? Who the hell is giving our crisis report?"

"Oh, um, yes. Sorry, Talia," says Steven, head of client services. The balding man smooths the one hair on his head and crosses his arms in front of himself, as if it'll help provide a barrier of protection. "Ace pulled out this morning. They're going with another firm."

What the fuck?

My fists clench on the marble and I take in a sharp breath through my nostrils. "How the hell did that happen?"