by Anna Yen
Dedication
For my family
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Meet Scott.
I hear the chanting from two blocks away. Scott. Scott. Scott. The voices spilling out of San Francisco’s Moscone Center are loud and clear, cheering for the man who was just named Time Man of the Year. Or something like that. The same man who, at the moment, is insisting I divert our route away from where we are supposed to be, despite already being twenty minutes late. My phone is on the verge of exploding. My heart just might join it. Welcome to my world.
“Uh, is he close?” the conference organizer calmly asks in the first of a series of voicemails I would retrieve later, each one sounding more panicked than the last.
I’m not wearing a watch, but I dramatically look at my bony wrist anyway so Scott notices I’m concerned about the time. “Are we there yet? I’m pulling over right now unless you tell me where we’re going,” I say, trying to sound pleasant because every time I yell at my CEO, I have to give him one dollar. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning and I’ve already given him three.
“I’d just like to drive along the water,” he says.
I’d like you to get out of my car.
As we pass the city’s storied Ferry Building, now a lavishly overpriced food and agrarian mecca, my passenger suddenly yells, “Pull over!”
“But the convention—”
“I said here, Sophia.” Scott directs his rimless glasses at me; his eyes warn me to do as he says.
I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut, praying we don’t crash as I yank the steering wheel to the right and cut off three cars. My rear end slides across the Yellow Pages directory that helps me see over the steering wheel of my mom’s midnight-blue Mercedes—the car I had to borrow because it’s been one of those eighty-hour workweeks that left me with no time to fill my own gas tank. Ah, the glamorous life of being one of Scott’s executives.
“What the hell?” shouts an angry taxi driver as I pull up alongside the red-painted curb. While the man hurls a handful of “bad Chinese driver” insults my way, Scott zips up his black raincoat over his mock turtleneck T-shirt and exits the car. He seems to just glide through the pouring rain untouched by the pelting drops. Maybe he secretly invented an invisible force field. Entirely possible.
No, that’s superhero stuff.
Well, he could have.
Focus, Sophia, focus!
I jump out of the car and step directly into a puddle that has formed from the pouring January rain. My feet are soaking now and there’s no doubt my new black Prada pumps—the ones that get me two inches over the five-foot mark—are ruined. Dammit! I’m making the company pay for these.
A young Ferry Building valet runs over from his umbrella stand to tell me I’m parked illegally, but I cut him off with a twenty-dollar bill and ask him to watch the car. “I’ll be right back,” I say. My plan is to wrangle my CEO back inside before the convention center erupts, so the Mercedes needs to be close. Do I still hear chanting from a mile and a half away, or am I going insane? Scott. Scott. Scott.
It’s only seconds before I catch sight of his black raincoat making its way through the sea of camera-toting tourists and foodies who have been standing in line for two hours to get a baguette that, to me, tastes the same as the grocery-store brand. As the black coat weaves through the Ferry Building’s gorgeous central nave, I realize where my target is headed, so I beeline toward him. Not a small feat for a short shopaholic in heels who noticed a pair of cute rain boots for sale a few stores back; I should be rewarded for not stopping to take a closer look.
“Scott—” I huff, slightly out of breath.
“Chocolate chip cookies,” he says, pointing to the glass case in front of us.
I look in the case and all I see are crumbs on the plate with the sign vegan, gluten-free, organic chocolate chip. He knows there are no more cookies, but he demands one in a way that reminds me of my completely irrational mother.
“Uh, hi,” I say to the blissed-out brunette behind the counter wearing a name tag that says dharma. “Listen, Dharma, that’s my boss’s boss over there, and we need one of your vegan chocolate chip cookies.”
“Sure.” She smiles. “Those are my favorite. When do you need it?”
“Well, um . . . now.” Her eyebrows shoot up. She glances over at Scott, who is pacing back and forth barefoot. When did that happen? Mental note: Find his shoes.
“I’m sorry, we can’t make them that fast.”
“When will the next batch be ready?”
The girl bites her lip and shakes her head. “Not today.”
I hear my mother’s voice in my head: “There’s no such thing as no.”
“Are you holding any for another customer?” I cajole. I open my Prada wallet to let her know I have money. “I’ll pay five, ten, or even twenty times the retail price.” Just give me the cookie.
Vegan Chick looks up again at my CEO and I see the recognition light go off in her head. She realizes the barefoot man in her store is him. The tech genius whose technology changed the entire landscape of personal computing. She retreats into the back and returns with a pink box with the name Brennan scrawled on it. Then, like a moth to the light, Dharma walks slowly toward my CEO. There are some benefits to “being Scott.”
“Thank you.” I smile, stepping into her path and exchanging the pink box for a hundred-dollar bill. “Oh, can I have a receipt, please?” I ask. I’ll need it in order to expense the cookies (along with my shoes).
My passenger is now standing in the corner of the bakery with his eyes closed, hopefully focusing on getting ready for his big speech. I take a terrified peek at his feet. Yes! Shoes on. “Okay,” I whisper while ushering him back toward the car.
Soon, I’m sitting on the thick telephone book again, but there’s a knock—a police officer motions for me to roll down my window.
“You know you’re not supposed to park here,” he says, tapping his plastic water bottle on the car hood. Ouch!
“I know, Officer. I’m really sorry. I just had to run in really fast,” I explain, flashing my perfectly straight white teeth, which usually get me out of speeding tickets.
“You people in your Mercedes think the rules don’t apply to you,” he replies, knocking the water bottle against the hood again. The hairs on my arms stand up and I resist yelling at the cop for banging on the car. Okay, no flirty smiles? Let’s try demure instead, and if that doesn’t work, I’ve got plenty of other tactics, Mr. Policeman! Bring it on! I soften my voice, pout slightly, and tilt my chin down toward my left shoulder so my almond-shaped eyes look sad and apologetic. “I know. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have parked here. I’m leaving, though, and I promise I won’t do it again.”
Mr. Cop raises his voice and taps the water bottle ag
ainst Mom’s car to punctuate each of his words: “Read the sign! It says ‘No Parking!’” He is bent over, peering into my window, and I wait for him to recognize the man in my passenger seat. But when there’s nothing but uncomfortable silence, I turn to see Scott looking in the opposite direction, absorbing the serenity of the water, meditating, or doing whatever he does to get Zen.
With his head still turned away, Scott mumbles through his mouthful of chocolate chip cookie, “Let’s go. I’m going to be late.”
Then the policeman barks in my ear, “Are you listening or what?” just as my cell phone rings. I close my eyes, trying to hold it together, but it’s too late now.
“LISTEN!” I shout at the policeman in an I mean business tone. “I SAID I’M SORRY. I DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO SAY. IF YOU WANT TO GIVE ME A FUCKING TICKET, THEN HURRY THE HELL UP. OTHERWISE, GET OUT OF MY WAY! I’VE GOT TO GET SCOTT KRAFT TO MOSCONE! AND I SWEAR IF YOU TAP THAT BOTTLE AGAINST MY CAR ONE MORE TIME, I WILL—”
I stop screaming when I see the surprised look on the silent cop’s face. Then, with a disgusted wave of his hand, he says, “Lady, you need help. Just get out of here.”
Scott turns to me and says, “You owe that man a dollar.”
As we screech back toward the convention center, the Scott, Scott, Scott gets louder. I narrowly miss a few soggy pedestrians before pulling up at the side entrance, where a security team is waiting; one of them opens my door and smiles. The chariot carrying the world’s first cool geek has arrived. He is a tech genius whom people all over the world—even Vegan Chick—worship. I know by the look on his face that it’s happening. Scott is ready. That inner god or genius or whatever the hell it is has emerged. When he gets this look, it doesn’t matter what Scott Kraft says. He will mesmerize you.
Scott. Scott. Scott. They’re still chanting. Sometimes I still can’t believe that I’ve become necessary to this man. Me! The girl who prided herself more on her college nickname (“Party Ball”) than on any academic achievement is now Scott’s investor relations guru (i.e., the evangelizer of his company to Wall Street). And I’m only twenty-six years old. I’m not sure how it happened. Actually, I know exactly how it happened. Unreasonable immigrant parents, a life is short attitude, and a mouth I can’t seem to fully control. I’ve been trained since birth to get what I want; now I use this “skill” to get my bosses whatever they want. I’ve made it into the inner circle.
“Here we go,” I say, grabbing a bottle of Smartwater from my purse and offering it to Scott. He waves it off. I fill my lungs with enough air to get through this last obstacle course, then move directly behind him so I can steer him through the backstage door. His stride slows as we approach the greenroom, which is filled with congratulatory flowers and colorful balloon bouquets. I place my hand lightly on his back to make sure he doesn’t stop to examine a rose and become distracted by its “intricate design of petals perfectly layered to . . .” Oh blah blah blah, just keep moving. The last hurdle is the hallway leading to the stage, which is filled with frantic stagehands and next-up presenters. A gaggle of women rush over to tell Scott how much they love him or to simply wish him good luck, but I stiff-arm each of them until, at last, we reach the wings. I whisper to myself, “Touchdown.” Here’s where I can relax and hang back. These people don’t want me. They want Scott. Scott! Scott! Scott! And that is okay, because this is where I’m most comfortable—behind the scenes. He’s the chief, I’m the warrior.
Scott walks out on the stage and holds up his hands. I can’t see past the footlights at first, but I know there’s a big crowd out there. The cheering is so loud I can feel it pounding in me and pushing adrenaline through my veins. The floor shakes beneath my pumps, and the audience’s energy reverberates off the huge auditorium’s walls.
“Hello, San Francisco, I’m back,” he croons into the microphone with a voice as calm and smooth as an Alpine lake. The crowd hushes instantly, as if he’s flipped a switch. I peer out at the dignitaries in the front row and the blinding flashes coming from photographers’ cameras. Everyone is leaning forward, holding their breath. Some people are smiling so wide that it looks like it hurts. Others dab at their wet eyes, overwhelmed by their hero, their savior.
“Well,” Scott says. “Are we ready to make history today?”
Chapter 1
Scott always says that there are no mistakes. Our screwups, he’d lecture me, are intentional moves directed by our inner selves in order to find our true paths. “You are exactly where you are supposed to be, doing exactly what you should be doing.” It would have been nice to have this perspective three years ago, when my inner self was having a nightmare of a time navigating life. My outer self wasn’t doing much better.
When my patent-leather loafers first stepped inside the plush offices of Global Partners, my nerves gave way to excitement. The investment bank’s lobby was furnished with intricately detailed dark-wood tables; low cushioned couches covered in luxurious, rich-hued fabrics; leather chairs; and large arrangements of white orchids tended to by a man in a short-sleeved green polo shirt. The view overlooking San Francisco Bay added to the “top of the world” feeling rushing through me. I’d graduated from Santa Clara University a few weeks earlier, and working here was my silver bullet, the answer to my prayers: a path to the white picket fence, two kids (preferably twins), and the Mrs. Homemaker lifestyle that I’d wanted ever since I could remember. Until I found Prince Charming, I’d spend my time living it up Sex and the City style while working at Global Partners—the place that would lead me to parties, cute banker and stock trader boys, and off-site boondoggles. That was what I couldn’t wait for.
But those things never came. Instead, three months passed, filled with long (not happy) hours, mind-numbing spreadsheets, and backstabbing Ivy League coworkers who seemed more interested in either mansplaining to or one-upping me than actually dating me.
Worst of all was my boss, Jack Wynn—a man often wrong but never in doubt. The forty-year-old, Harvard-educated East Coaster had devilishly alluring green eyes and a physique that showed how seriously he took his hobby (training for triathlons). He was strikingly attractive in a powerful, rich, Brooks Brothers kind of way. Although Jack was smart, it was his boys’ club politics and cunning ability to schmooze that catapulted him into the role of head of technology and media investment banking. In fact, I wouldn’t have gotten the job at Global Partners if Jack hadn’t pulled one of his classic brown-nose moves: hire the kids of Silicon Valley CEOs to ensure Global Partners would win any of their dads’ banking business. The confidence Mr. Wynn exuded made him the perfect investment banker. It also made him a frustrating boss.
My second Tuesday of September had already started out rough after Jack’s assistant approached me with the news that his royal highness “doesn’t approve of white slacks in the office.” But according to Elle, “Only an idiot would give up her white clothes because of some outdated rule.”
The kind assistant then explained, while trying to hide a smile, that our boss found that few women could wear white slacks without “their crotches smiling” and allayed my horror by assuring me that that didn’t apply to me in this case.
“Nonetheless,” she continued, “Jack has an unwritten rule that he wants followed.”
Later that day, the camel-toe expert himself appeared at my desk for what I feared to be further white-pants discussion.
Instead, he said, “This needs to lead with the fact that they’re a dating site,” while handing me a marked-up printout of a PowerPoint slideshow. I wanted to scream because this was the same project that had kept me at the office until the late hours the night before, the one that made me miss drinks with my friends, and the one I’d thought I’d finished weeks ago but that each day came back to me with more changes. It was part of the “window dressing” that needed to be done for our client (an online dating service) before we began our search for a potential buyer.
I looked at Jack’s edit and took it upon myself to voice my opi
nion. “But Jack, most of the target buyers already have their own dating properties. The only thing they’re going to care about is our client’s huge member base—they want more eyeballs on their properties.”
“Wow. You certainly go against the stereotype of meek Asian girls, don’t you?” Jack said, laughing and nudging me as though I should have found humor in his joke.
“Anyway, you’re wrong,” I said. “We should lead with our fifty million members, because that’s the only reason they’d want to buy us.”
Jack turned his back to me. “Just make the change, Sophia. Why do you have to make everything so hard?”
“Why do you always have to insist you’re right?” I replied, defiant. It irritated me to no end that Jack never made the slightest attempt to consider my perspective, that I might actually be adding some value.
Jack said sternly before walking away, “Do it now.”
Defeated and angry, I turned around and hissed “Asshole” louder than I’d meant. My heart dropped for a moment, but when Jack didn’t react, I returned to my frustrated state. I made the edit he asked for and emailed the new slide to Jack, fully expecting other changes to come back to me within minutes.
It was five thirty the next morning and I was barely awake, having just finished work four hours earlier. While standing at the earth-toned granite counter of my parents’ kitchen, I robotically spread butter on a piece of toast and stared out the window that overlooked the landscaped garden. To my chagrin, at age twenty-two, I was living with my parents in the upscale hills of Woodside, California. It was what my traditional Taiwanese parents expected me to do until I married, just as my older sister, Audrey, had done. The difference was that Audrey had actually wanted to move home—she was a penny-pincher and did anything to save money. When I argued this and asked my parents to help fund a new apartment in San Francisco—“the city”—they bombarded me with the names of their friends’ daughters who “obeyed their parents and lived at home after college.”
