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Frank Langdon has a bigger appetite for risk than most investment bankers.
We’re running a gamble here, Langdon, way out of your return threshold. From the corner of her eye, Mel watches him swat away Robby’s concerns. He hovers over her, shielding her from the rest with one arm on her desk and another on the back of her chair. “Naysayers don’t matter right now, sweetheart, just watch the ticker.”
Same ticker that’s dropping by the nanosecond. Mel anxiously wrings her hands, looking up at her triple-screen display. “Maybe we should’ve gone with the market. Their margins were consistent all year, we had no reason to bet against them at the last minute.”
“Where’d your spine go, sweetheart? You took one look at their statements and told me they’d tank in a year. It’s been a year, so watch ‘em tank.”
Betting against PTMC’s superstar client was a dangerous call to make, but Mel made it and Langdon executed. Now, she has to watch it play out.
It’s exhilarating in all the wrong ways. A bet like this can dip into her commission or tank the bank’s reputation. Every possible scenario leads lower and lower and lower—just like the ticker. Fuck.
The stress alone might kill her before her holiday bonus hits. A shame since she put a hold on matching bracelets for her and Becca. Now, she’s kissing that 20k gold and her finance career goodbye.
There is news blasting somewhere, some anchor’s words and constant phone rings are blurring in the background. Mel can’t hear any of it with her heartbeat in her ear.
Eye on the ticker, sweetheart. If you're right about this, you'll be riding my face on a bed of crisp hundreds tonight.
It dips below the zero line before it shoots up. Something of a celebration erupts in the back, but all Mel feels are his arms around her and adrenaline shooting through her. Nothing excites her more than this, nothing electrifies her heart back to life like chasing her killer instinct, and nothing satiates her hunger quite like victory.