Page 6 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
“You know, I saw a notification come across my inbox earlier today.” Anthea pushed off her desk and circled to drop into her chair. Not a single piece of silky black hair moved as she leaned back in her office chair. “I didn’t realize that you were interested in our food critic position.”
“Wait—hold on,” I said, frowning, confusion clouding my thoughts. “I thought we were talking about a dating column. What does this have to do with the food critic position?”
Anthea didn’t even flinch. She simply leaned back in her chair, her posture smooth and commanding, the faintest hint of a smile playing on her lips. “You’re right to be confused. I wasn’t planning on explaining it just yet.” Her eyes narrowed, piercing through me. “But I’ll make it clear. If you can pull this off, write a series that resonates and brings in even more traffic than your last piece, I’ll consider you for the food critic role. It’s yours for the taking. But first, you must prove you can write a story that captivates.”
If I had been speechless before, my brain had simply forgotten the function of speech at this point.
I blinked at her, trying to wrap my head around her proposition. A dating column for a chance at my dream job?
“You’d let me go from writing about finance bros tocovering Michelin-star restaurants?” I asked incredulously. Even I thought that was a bit of a stretch, despite my own delusions in hoping for the position.
Anthea didn’t seem phased by my surprise. She simply leveled me with her piercing gaze. “You have talent, Hallie Woods. Even if it may be raw and could use some refinement. AndSophisticatedidn’t get to where it is without putting talented people in positions to succeed. If you feel you’d succeed the most in our restaurant critic spot, then I might just put you there. But first you must prove it.” Anthea lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow at me.
The compliment, however backhanded, nearly made me miss the rest of what Anthea had offered. I had always dreamed of working with Anthea and would have done almost anything for a compliment from her, as would anyone else here, but could I dothis?
Was I going to take the offer? Or was I going to walk away?
My mind raced through the possibilities.
Pros: This could be my chance to prove myself, to elevate my career to something bigger than the “Overheard” column. Anthea herself had said she’d consider me for the food critic role if I succeeded.
Cons: I’d be using my own life as content. Could I really put my personal dating life on display for thousands of readers? It felt … exploitative. And what if my dates actually turned out to be not half bad? How was I supposed to throw them into the fishbowl too?
I tried to picture it, sitting across from some Wall Street bro in a posh bar, pretending to enjoy his stories about IPOs and mergers while inside I was cringing. I couldalready feel the mockery of it. And even worse the judgment from my peers.
Would they think I wasselling out?
I glanced back at Anthea, whose green eyes were locked onto me, expectantly waiting for a response. She had probably seen the wheels turning in my head.
“Are you still with me, Hallie?” she asked, her voice colder now, a slight edge creeping in.
I hesitated for just a second longer, my mind running in circles, filled with uncertainty, but I couldn’t deny the thrill that pulsed through me. This was my chance to step up and prove that I belonged here. That I wasn’t just some girl who wrote about nonsense but someone with real potential. Someone who could write about the most delicious food this city had to offer.
“Okay,” I finally said. “I’ll do it. But just so we’re clear—what exactly are you expecting here? Dates with actual Wall Street guys?” I couldn’t help but add the last part with a bit of sarcasm.
Anthea’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Exactly. One a week. But the key, Hallie? You need to make it compelling. We’re not looking for adating column, we’re looking for astory—your story, your journey into the world of finance guys. We want details. Make them feel real.”
A mix of excitement and dread surged through me, but I nodded.
“Alright, I’ll write the first one. But—” I hesitated again. “What if they’re all … not great? What if it’s a disaster?”
Anthea leaned forward, her smile tightening. “That’s not an option.”
I felt a flutter of unease. Would it be worth it? What was I willing to sacrifice for success? I was about to find out.
“When do you want the first article by?”
Anthea’s eyes glinted as she checked her watch. “Two weeks. Don’t disappoint me.”
As I turned to leave, the weight of her words hit me again. The pressure, the challenge. My stomach was a storm of nerves, but the truth was, I had never felt more alive. This could make or break me. And I was choosing to make it.
2
James
Whiskey Locker provided the best Friday happy hour in all of New York City. Everyone from Wall Street would migrate from the southern tip of Manhattan up toward Central Park to loosen their ties, leaving behind the high-rise offices full of people dealing with the cash flow of the wealthiest people around the world.
This bar drew nearly every crowd in New York—models within the fashion industry, Wall Street mongers, celebrities, musicians, influencers—you name it. They lounged around the dimly lit velvet booths that provided privacy for its patrons. But a crowd like that always drew in curious onlookers, those that wanted to breathe the same air as those with the power to influence industries. Men and women leaned against the bar, hoping for someone sitting in those booths to pluck them out of anonymity and deem them worthy of their time and energy.
