Page 1 of Worth Fighting For

CHAPTER ONE

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman working in finance must work twice as hard, worry twice as much, and get approximately 50% less sleep than her male coworkers. But if you met me, you’d never know it. I doubt even my male coworkers do.

I look at Josh, who’s been talking without catching a single breath for the last five minutes, oblivious to the fact that I might want to respond. As one of the latest hires, Josh is the firm’s most junior of analysts, and yet the way he talks to me is so patronizing that if anyone glanced at us, they’d assume he’s my boss. Josh is the epitome of the finance bro. He’s just so…there are no other words for it—finance bro-y.

I place my cup carefully on the table and take a deep breath, making sure my voice comes out evenly when I finally speak. When I first started working here five years ago, I made the mistake of raising my voice at one of the analysts, and it took me years to shed the reputation of being “hysterical.” Never mind the fact that every male employee here has, at one point or another, straight-out yelled at people without any repercussions. I clear my throat, hoping it will be enough of a signal to Josh to stop talking. It isn’t.

“Very good,” I say, finally. It isn’t good, actually. It’s the most opposite of good that ever opposited. But that’s the thing about this job, isn’t it? It requires me to wear so many masks, layer upon layer of them: Fun finance bro who can let loose. Supportive supervisor who challenges the newer recruits to do better. Diligent, brilliant analyst who doesn’t make a single mistake.

Josh leans back, a smug smile spreading across his face, and places his right ankle over his left knee. He looks ready to receive a lot of praise.

Over the years, the firm has only managed to hire two female analysts, and Lisa moved to the East Coast last year, leaving us with Hayley, who has just gone on maternity leave. I try not to dwell on the stress of losing both our female analysts in such a short period of time, but it’s so hard not to. With Lisa and Hayley, I could just shoot straight to the point. But with the likes of Josh, I have to appeal to his male ego and give my critique with the same amount of gentleness that a mother would reserve for her newborn baby.

“Great analysis, Josh,” I say.

Josh’s smile brightens, and I wonder for the hundredth time how it is possible that he has a degree in finance from UCLA. The cash-free debt-free leveraged buyout model that he has created is technically sound, but also wildly optimistic. If it had been Hayley or Lisa presenting these projections, the other analysts would have laughed them out of the office. Eyes would roll and comments would be made about how women live in fantasy worlds where dreams come true and numbers magically add up.

“I do wonder,” I continue in what I hope is a neutral tone, “if the management team’s projections are perhaps a tad optimistic.” Sometimes, my nightmares are narrated by this neutral voice of mine. I hate the voice, hate that I have to use it so often around here.

The corners of Josh’s mouth pull down and he straightens up. “Oh, not at all. Maybe you didn’t understand the financial forecast—hang on, let me pull up slide seven—here we are. This is what we call multiple linear regression.”

I grit my teeth and try my best to ignore the condescension in Josh’s voice. “Oh, I understood it perfectly. Except you seem to have missed the steep increase in production costs that would cut into the company’s profit margin.”

“Ah,” Josh says in what he probably thinks is a cunning voice, “I did catch that. I had a talk with the management team and they said they’re already in talks about opening up a factory somewhere in Southeast Asia to cut down on production costs, maybe in Indonesia.”

I sigh. “That just opens up a whole host of other issues, like making sure that their factory is run ethically, not to mention that every country has different efficacy. Have you looked into how efficient factories in Indonesia are compared to factories run here? They might be cheaper to run, but if they’re going to be sixty percent less efficient, then that also needs to be taken into account.”

Josh opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to keep arguing, but I hold up a hand. “Look, Josh, I’m not saying that your quantitative analysis isn’t good—in fact, it is very good—”God, how many times do I need to reassure him?“But it must always be guided by a sound understanding of the underlying business. I think you could make it even better by coming up with more scenarios. Ones that are less optimistic. Just to make your analysis more complete.”

“With all due respect—”

I bite back an inward sigh. Whenever finance bros sayWith all due respect,I know that what they really mean is:You stupid little girl, let me tell you every way in which you are wrong.Time for an intervention. I glance over Josh’s shoulder. My office has glass walls, which means I can look out, straight into Mushu’s wide eyes. Good old Mushu. I can always count on her to help end otherwise endless meetings with finance analysts who think it’s their god-given duty to explain all the basics of finance to me, as if I hadn’t graduated summa cum laude from Princeton with a degree in finance. Now I scratch the tip of my eyebrow: a signal for Mushu to come in with some made-up reason.

It’s a challenge not to grin when Mushu leaps out of her seat with her usual exaggerated movement and bursts into my office, out of breath. “Mulan!” she cries. “You have to come quick. There’s an emergency.”

Josh whirls around, his mouth falling open. “Excuse me, but we’re in an important meeting?”

“Yeah, okay, calm down, you’re presenting a small LBO model for review. I’d hardly call that important,” Mushu snaps.

I choke on my latte. Coughing, I say, “Sorr—” I manage to stop myself from completing the apology, and switch instead to “Josh, thank you for your understanding. Please come up with more scenarios like we agreed on and I’ll review it at my earliest convenience.” I stand before Josh has time to formulate a response.

Visibly confused and annoyed, Josh picks up his laptop and strides out of the office, giving Mushu a dirty look as he brushes past. As soon as the door swings shut behind him, Mushu walks to me, holding out her fist. “Good job, cuz, you managed to not apologize to that jackass.”

“Mushu, for the last time, we are a professional private equity firm, we do not bump fists in the office.”

Mushu holds her arms up. “My bad. Butt bump?” She sticks her butt out.

I can’t help laughing. “Stop that, everyone can see you.”

“Uh, yeah, they’d better! You know how hard I’ve been working on these glutes? Plus, what’s the point of working for my uncle’s company if I can’t behave badly?”

I sigh. “Easy for you to say,” I mutter. If anything, I’ve found that working for my father’s company has thrown even more roadblocks my way. For the first two years I was here, no one took me seriously, not even Hayley or Lisa. They all just assumed I was hired out of pure nepotism, and even I started to doubt myself. It has taken years of me dedicating everything I have to the business to prove myself to my colleagues, years of seventy-hour workweeks, of making sure I’m always the first one in and last one out. Years of self-sacrifice, of making sure I’m prepped for every possibility, of pounding the pavement to look for potential investments. There is a reason I haven’t been in a serious relationship since—well, since Princeton, actually.

Mushu, on the other hand, would be the first to tell everyone that she is, in fact, a nepotism hire. She doesn’t ever try to hide it; in fact, she owns the label completely and unapologetically, and somehow, it works for her. Everybody has accepted her presence and she gets away with…not quite breaking the rules, but doing things her way. Like barging into meetings with made-up emergencies and dressing like she works in the fashion industry instead of the finance industry. While my wardrobe is made up of pantsuits in various shades of navy and gray, there is truly no telling what Mushu is going to show up at the office wearing. One time, she wore an honest-to-god feather boa, and no one batted an eyelid, not until she accidentally flicked the feather boa into Kenny the analyst’s eye.

But the key difference is, Mushu is here as the office assistant, whereas I’m here on a partnership track. Mushu has nothing to prove, whereas I have everything to prove—and to lose.

“For the millionth time,” Mushu says, “I would like to point out that Work Mulan is no fun at all.”

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