Blossom in Winter (Blossom in Winter #1)(35)

Seconds later, I’m greeted by a female secretary, looking fantastic in an expensive dark suit.

“Hi, I’m Petra Williams, one of the new interns.”

She quickly checks the name on her iPad.

“Certainly, Ms. Williams. Andrew has already started the meeting. Kindly follow me.”

We walk down a long hallway. I’ve never felt this anxious; my heart keeps pounding faster with every step. She opens a door and invites me into a large conference room with a big screen, a stage, and a desk at one end. There are at least sixty people seated theater-style, facing the stage. Everyone stares at me as I step inside. I swallow nervously.

The secretary walks ahead of me and whispers to the man standing up by the stage. He looks to be in his thirties; has short brown hair; and sports a dark denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, white pants, and camel shoes. Quite casual. His beige blazer is hanging on the back of his chair. He looks at me and heads in my direction.

“So, Petra Williams, you’re on the investment team, right?”

“Right,” I smile timidly as he reads from his file.

“Very well. You are late,” he rebukes, closing his dossier before checking me out from top to bottom.

How am I late? It’s 9:04! I’m about to protest, but he’s already moved back to where he was standing before. Damn, such a snob! I decide to have a seat at the very back of the room. Far from where he can see me. I notice how everyone is wearing suits with ties—even the women are wearing suits. Crap. I should have worn pants instead of jeans.

“Alright, everyone. As I was saying, I’m Andrew Sullivan, your supervising manager. I’ll be overseeing this internship stream, for all the teams. We have thirty folks on the investment floor, ten in compliance, ten in operations, and ten in marketing. Investment interns, you’ll be assigned to portfolio managers—each of them will supervise five of you. And since I myself am a portfolio manager, five of you will have the great privilege of joining my team.”

The crowd laughs at his dry joke.

Andrew looks down at the file, probably to read the names of his team. “Mr. Joseph Hampkins?” A young man raises his hand from the audience. “Welcome to the team, Joe.” They all clap, cheering for him. “Mr. Robert Lewis?” Another hand in the air. “Welcome, Rob.” Another quick cheer for Rob. “Ms. Rachel Philips?” The woman raises her hand. I notice she’s sitting just two rows from me. “Welcome, Rach.” Another wave of applause this time, even stronger. Does she already have friends in the room? “Mr. Johnny Ward?” Johnny is right in front. “Welcome, John.” And as expected, he also gets his fair share of noisy cheering. Suddenly, Andrew lifts his eyebrows. “Ms. Petra Williams?” Oh God, why me? I raise my hand like my colleagues, but to silence. He doesn’t seem very welcoming or enthusiastic either. He nods. “Welcome, Williams.”

I sigh. What a nightmare.

“Well, enough from me. Now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s with the greatest pleasure and honor I introduce you to Mr. Van Gatt, our dearest founder and chairman.” What? He’s here?

Everyone stands up, instantly clapping, whistling, and cheering, while Dad gets up from his front-row seat.

He shakes Andrew’s hand, thanks him for his warm introduction, takes the microphone, and waits for the crowd to sit again. Pfff, I bet I’ll hear about my arriving late when I get home.





Williams. This is how Andrew will treat me from now on. Everyone has received friendly nicknames but me. There’s Joe for Joseph, Rob for Robert, Rach for Rachel, John for Johnny, but I got Williams. This is not the start I expected, to say the least.

“What are you working on?” Andrew asks, stopping by my desk.

His tone is sharp as a knife and irritating, but I decide to answer politely. “I’m gathering data on emerging artists in contemporary art and comparing their performance to similar ones.”

“Artists?” He frowns. “Right… Not sure if you know, Williams, but you’re on my team. And my team is researching oil, not artists. So you better stop what you’re doing and get focused on energy markets.”

“I’m sorry? I thought it was written somewhere that I’d be covering emerging artists.”

“Williams, you are so funny.” He snickers. “We don’t have any fund that covers emerging artists. But that’s a great idea. I’ll suggest it to the management. Until then, oil.”

I’m confused. I can’t figure out why Alex or Dad didn’t warn Andrew that I’ve got a fund to invest on my own. I decide to text my godfather discreetly. Hi, Andrew’s asking me to spend time on oil research… You didn’t tell him I got my own fund?

I wait a bit.

Finally, I see Alex typing. I smile. No, Andrew doesn’t know who you are. You must convince him you want to have a fund.

But my smile vanishes just as fast. What? Since he doesn’t know who I am, he’ll never support me!

Tell him you want to invest in emerging artists, get him on your side, and then tell him you’d like to pitch your idea to the management, he instantly replies.

And what if he doesn’t let me talk to the management?

You wanted to play by the rules, right? Then play by them. Good luck.

I cringe. Andrew’s a douchebag. I can feel it. With no sensibility or appreciation whatsoever for art, I’ll have to convince him with numbers and potential returns.