by Robin Hale
“What is it?” I asked, swallowing painfully around the spring roll. “What happened?”
I glanced at my own phone lying neglected and unneeded on the arm of the couch, but the lock screen only had updates about the engagement on our live blogging thread, nothing else. Maybe it was work?
The muscle in her jaw worked for a moment before Iris actually made a sound. “I’d expected a couple of articles in the next day or two. Profiles.”
That sounded…not distressing in the least. How would a bog-standard profile cause Iris to make that face?
“My entire VIP contact list just messaged me to ask if I’d seen them.”
Well, shit. That didn’t bode well.
I hesitated, paused mid-reach toward my phone when it occurred to me that Iris might not actually want me to read them. At least, not right then. It was probably better to wait until I’d gone home for the night.
“Go ahead.” It was rough, a grunt rather than normal speech, and Iris discarded her Thai food on the coffee table as she pushed to her feet. She scooped her wine glass and the open bottle into her hand and stalked from the room toward the kitchen.
My heart gave a stutter step while I watched the blonde CEO leave. Her face was shuttered, her eyes devoid of emotion. Nothing remained of the relaxed, liquid woman who’d poured herself against my side and spent half a film playing with my phone and posing with me.
On the bright side, it didn’t take long to find the article that Iris’s contacts must have mentioned. Only minutes old, it sat at the top of Google’s news results when I searched for her name.
My heart clenched and plummeted into my stomach as I read the headline: ‘Tech CEO Iris’s Ex-Spark Recalls Mixed Signals, Boardroom Drama’.
Apart from being possibly the worst headline I’d read in the past year, it was effective clickbait for something that threatened to be entirely tabloid journalism. I clicked it anyway. The primary photo accompanying the piece was the rare shot of Iris in something other than her trademark sweater and jeans — she wore a slim-cut suit with a silk shell beneath the jacket. It hung on her frame in a way that made any rational observer long to tear it off of her. Or maybe that was just me. Me, and the other woman in the photo, judging by the expression on the redhead’s face. She was of a height with Iris, dressed in a long, gold gown, hair tumbling down her back in careful waves, looking at Iris like she knew exactly what was under that suit of hers and she fully intended to see it again before the night was over.
Ugh, she was gorgeous. Painfully gorgeous. Perfect makeup, tasteful jewelry — not remotely resembling the oversized ear bobs that Iris had frowned at on me — and such a little slip of a thing that Iris would’ve been perfectly able to have her arm around the redhead’s shoulders any time she wanted. No logistical difficulties there.
That was Iris’s ex?
And she’d somehow thought anyone would buy that she was now blissfully happy with me? I’d never felt so much like a kid trying on her mom’s high heels.
In a way, I shouldn’t have been surprised. It wasn’t like I’d really thought that Iris was interested in me, after all. Not for anything more than what my social media reach could do for her. I just hadn’t expected to have it confirmed quite so firmly, quite so soon.
The article itself was…not as bad as I was expecting, honestly. It was mostly about Iris, including interview quotes and the usual rundown of her various and prolific accomplishments. It indulged in speculation on what the tech industry might be able to expect from her in the future. The part about her ex — evidently prompted by the redhead appearing with a member of the SparkSignal board at a minor awards ceremony — was less than a third of the total word count and sounded…different. A different voice.
None of the other news results for Iris’s name were from that day.
Iris hadn’t returned. I indulged in a minute of waffling before snagging my own wine glass and following her into the kitchen. I found her staring out the window at the city lights and she didn’t react to the sound of my footsteps.
“Want me to fake a sudden stomach bug?” I asked. “We should probably tell the internet something if you don’t want them to think we ran into a couple of homicidal maiden aunts.”
“I’ll defer to your expertise,” Iris said. Her eyes were trained on something in the distance and it was clear she had no intention of saying anything else.
I posted a quick excuse — because it really was bad form to bail in the middle of a live blog — and slipped the phone into my pocket.
“I — I don’t think the article is that bad,” I offered after a moment.
A soft snort was the only sign that Iris had heard me.
“I’m serious. It was a pretty flattering piece, on the whole.” I leaned against the island and rubbed my fingers on the base of the wine glass. I had a sneaking feeling that I was lacking some crucial context for the conversation.
“Of course,” Iris said smoothly. “What entrepreneur doesn’t want to be reduced to the idle musings of someone they used to sleep with? Half-remembered complaints about the board controlling their company?”
I grimaced, cringing into myself for having said what I did. It was stupid. I was stupid. But hey, I was already in it. What was that Churchill quote? When you find yourself going through hell, keep going?
“I didn’t see another article when I searched your name.”
A quiet hum seemed for a second like all the response I’d get, and I wondered how quickly I could flag down a cab to get me home.
“You wouldn’t.” A pause. “It was a profile of SparkSignal.” Iris’s grip on the edge of the sink tightened, her knuckles going white while the muscle in her jaw flexed. “They didn’t mention my name once.”
The wave of nausea was so strong that I was starting to feel responsible for the media coverage, myself. Even though I hadn’t known that any articles were even coming. It was hard not to believe it was my fault when Iris went from relaxed and happy, chuckling against my shoulder and pressing herself against me to walling herself off in front of my eyes. No one else was around, after all.
“Why did you split up?” I snapped my teeth back together but the damage was done. I’d already said the idiotic thing.
Iris turned her head to look back at me, surprise in the angle of her neck. “With Sandra?”
Sandra. If I’d been paying more attention, I would’ve known the name myself.
I didn’t respond, let the silence speak for me. It couldn’t possibly do a worse job than I had.
“Didn’t she say? In the article?” Bitterness. Frustration. I kept myself on the far side of the island from Iris through sheer force of will — and fear. At any moment she’d ask me to leave and I didn’t flatter myself that she’d be asking me back.
“She said you don’t care about people. That’s obviously crap. So what’s the real reason?” I asked, using the entire allotment of bravery I’d ever been given.
Iris peeled a hand off the sink and ran it through her hair, sending it into disarray that her hairdresser must’ve constantly despaired of. “She didn’t like the hours I work.” Another moment, another twitch in her jaw. “Sandy —” I hated hearing the name. “She liked being on my — on Iris Spark’s arm.” She said her own name sarcastically, venom dripping from every syllable. “She didn’t like that I worked to be her.”
There was something else there. Something missing from the explanation, but I’d pushed my luck far enough as it was.
“Then why does it matter?” I asked.
Iris turned away from the window to face me, blue eyes narrowing incredulously. “Why does it matter? Are you serious?”
“You don’t — You don’t seem broken up about the relationship ending. So why does it matter what she says in the press?” I kept my voice, my gaze level while I tapped out a fierce tattoo with the bouncing of my foot against the kitchen floor. “As much as those sweaters are part of your brand, the fact that you don’t care what anyone says abou
t you — that is too. So why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Obviously, it does.”
Iris scowled down at the dark red liquid in her glass and I had a sudden vision of her tossing it in my face, asking me what the hell right I thought I had to pry like that, and informing me that our contract — such as it was — was finished. I was fired.
But her eyes slid closed, her throat went tight, and she answered.
“They’re taking her away from me.” The words hung in the air for a second and the confusion must’ve shown on my face. “SparkSignal. They’re planning to remove me. To replace me with another CEO. Someone the board likes better.” She opened her eyes after a moment, held me still with her cool, blue stare, and shrugged as if none of that mattered. “That’s why we brought you in.”
I nodded, fitting the pieces in among everything else I’d learned since that day in the coffee shop. “Humanizing you,” I murmured. Iris didn’t so much as wince. “You want people to have an emotional reaction to you — and by extension, to SparkSignal.”
Iris raised a single, wry brow and drained the rest of her wine. “That had been the notion. But it doesn’t look like the plan is effective. The profile — that has a PR firm all over it. Paint me as famously difficult. A scandal waiting to happen. Erase me from the company I’ve built.”
I pulled out one of the tall stools tucked against the island and hopped onto it, leaning forward, closer to Iris’s downturned face. “We need to change direction. It isn’t a bad plan — the first post did work the way you wanted! We just need to actively couple your name with your company.”
The expression on the blonde’s face wasn’t hopeful, clearly didn’t expect much. But she also hadn’t shown me to the door, so I was optimistic.
“I have a plan.”
“More wine?”
“Better make it coffee.”
9
IRIS
‘You know, if you don’t respond to messages I’m going to end up thinking you’ve been kidnapped or something’
I rolled my eyes and picked up the phone from the exercise bike’s riding desk.
‘Not kidnapped. Busy.’
‘Too busy for your favorite cousin? I dunno, that sounds like a kidnapping.’
I pushed through the last miles of my ride, letting the burn in my legs and chest blow out the tension I’d woken up with. It was all a mess. The profile about SparkSignal, the article that had been press-ganged into tabloid gossip about an old lover. The update from Carrie that morning, letting me know the board had also made...updates to the corporate website. It was transparent the way they promoted the board of directors, the senior executives — all except the CEO.
It was like being back in high school again, knowing that the popular crowd had decided they were going to get back at me for some imagined slight.
Of course, in high school — with the name I’d grown up with — I’d never been a real target. I huffed a laugh as I slid from the bike’s saddle. Dahlia would’ve eaten them.
‘I’m worried about you’
The message caused a low, dull ache in my chest as I scrubbed a towel over my sweat-drenched face. She was a pain in my ass, but she was also the most loyal friend I’d ever had, and sometimes she had to remind me of that.
‘I’m okay. Tell mom that I’m okay, too.’
‘Your mom messaged you??? Shit’
‘She notices things.’
I let the phone slide from my hand onto the dresser and stepped into the shower. My mind wandered in the easy, efficient routine. Shampoo, conditioner, soap, razor. The exfoliating brush and rinse were halfway through when I heard the unfamiliar ring of my phone. I wrapped a towel around my dripping body and pulled the phone to my ear.
“Iris Spark,” I said as I crossed to the closet.
“Yeah, I know.” Dahlia’s voice was full of fond exasperation. “You weren’t responding.”
“Shower,” I said. “Some of us bathe.”
“I bathe,” Dahlia protested.
“Does it count if it’s with other people?” I let my attention wander from the conversation and back toward the rest of my morning routine. Whatever it was that was so important Dahlia had to call me, she wasn’t in a hurry to get to it.
“Water conservation is always important,” Dahlia said breezily. “California is drought-prone.”
I snorted a soft laugh and started pulling on clothes.
There was a tense silence on the other end of the line and it pulled me away from tying the laces on my brogues. “Dahl?” The childhood nickname was out of my mouth before I’d consciously thought of it, and Dahlia swallowed audibly over the line.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a long moment.
“What? Why?” I straightened. That was ridiculous. But Dahlia wasn’t known for bothering me with idle apologies for things that didn’t matter.
“Maureen — Maureen Cortez. The writer, the one who published that profile of you and Sandy,” Dahlia said, her voice tight. “I didn’t think she would take her problem with me out on you. Hell, I didn’t think she even knew we were related. So, I’m sorry. For…springing her on you.”
“You didn’t.” My voice was firm and I waited for an acknowledgment that didn’t come. “Dahlia, it isn’t your fault. There are...changes. Happening with the board.” Understatement but not the time for that conversation. “I should have expected those articles just the way they were printed.” I let a wry lilt come into my voice. “I won’t stand in your way, however, if you’re determined to learn to think twice about who you pick for your one night stands.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Of course not.”
* * *
“MS. SPARK, I AM SO SORRY.” Carrie’s hushed, hurried apology broke through the pipeline redesign I was constructing in my head, driven by the recent report from the performance team.
I cocked an eyebrow at her, then scowled. “Have you been talking to Dahlia?”
Carrie blinked. “No? I just…I should have been more careful about the Cortez piece. And the SparkSignal profile, I — I can’t believe that I missed the site updates going through. The corporate site team has been updated on protocol.” Her shoulders were rigid where I could tell she wanted to fold in on herself.
It would’ve been endearing if it weren’t so irritating.
“You know how I feel about trivial apologies.” I met my assistant’s eyes over the rim of my insulated cup, trying to hold a steady expression through the deluge of pond sludge.
To Carrie’s credit, she managed the fight with herself over whether or not to apologize again in record time. She’d been with me long enough to know what the end of a subject sounded like, at least.
“Of course.” Carrie nodded, then turned to the morning schedule with barely a purse of her lips. “I rescheduled the afternoon status meeting for the Asian markets to this morning, per your request. They should be ready for you in conference room three in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
HALF THE REASON I’d arranged a driver when SparkSignal had started to take off — had graduated from something that I built in my apartment on my own, to something that required teams of people to maintain its development — was that it meant I could live wherever I pleased and still be able to use commute-time to work. Since then, I’d taken to using any spare moment to get work done. Checking emails, reviewing code changes — it was always worth the wide-eyed look of shock on an intern’s face to see their proposed merge come back with ‘LGTM - ispark’ — and calling into meetings that I didn’t think required my direct attendance.
At first, Sandra had considered it part of the price of admission for our time together. Soon she resented the way it divided my attention.
I scowled down at the email on my phone’s screen. It was an invitation from a startup incubator to come in and work with new CEOs to help them launch their companies. Paid, although not particularly well by Sili
con Valley startup standards, but with no ownership of anything that came out of the incubator.
The grinding of my teeth reminded me to relax my jaw if I didn’t want another trip to the dental surgeon, but the frustration didn’t go away as easily. I hadn’t gotten an offer like that one since SparkSignal was in its first round of angel investing. An offer that said anything I might have made on my own was less important than the work I could do for someone else’s project. An offer that said I was support, not a leader. Not at the top of anything, let alone my own company.
Word had gotten out, then.
Rumors were already spreading through the upper ranks of Silicon Valley. Everyone knew what the board was planning to pull. Those articles had only confirmed it.
Fuck.
The driver pulled up outside Amber’s charmingly eccentric building — rent-controlled, split into multiple units, her own apartment shared with at least two other people — and I stared out the window at the front door. What the hell was I doing there? The board was continuing on with their plans to remove me, setting the stage for it as I sat there and no amount of pretending to be charming would turn them back.
Which only made it more pathetic that I was aching to go upstairs and join Amber in her entirely fruitless, entirely earnest endeavors to help me keep my company. I knew — even if Amber didn’t — that there wasn’t any point to what we were doing. Which meant I was only doing it because I wanted to. Because it was fun. It was the kind of useless, selfish pleasure I’d eschewed when setting up SparkSignal.
It was the sort of useless, selfish pleasure that would lead to losing it.
My jaw tightened. I should’ve leaned forward, told Stevens to take me back to the office. Or back home if I were truly giving up.
But I wouldn’t.
“Ms. Spark?” Stevens asked quietly, surprise in his carefully polite voice.
“Lost in thought.” I opened the door, one foot out of the car as I turned back. “I’ll make my own way home.”
