The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(63)

Greta tried not to fidget as she watched the reporter make copious notes.

Sophia looked up. “Some would say it’s incongruous at best and hypocritical at worst for a company created by women and led by women to have a silent partner who’s rumored to have paid women in the past to be silent.”

Greta waited for the question she knew would be coming.

“How does that strike you? Do you care to comment?”

Greta glanced at the recorder. “I can definitely understand that perspective. However, his relationship to this company and its operations are so remote—so distant and hands-off—I never really think about him, and that’s probably why most people aren’t aware. I don’t really know him personally, so I can’t speak for his reputation.”

I’m lying. Why am I lying for this asshole?

The reporter stared back.

Greta chewed her lip and waited for the reporter to say something.

“Ms. Moy…”

“Please, call me Greta.”

The reporter’s phone vibrated and she read the message. Then she made a clicking noise with her tongue as she looked up. “Ms. Moy, I’d like to know how you would feel if Carter Branson decided to cash out his entire position in Syren.”

Greta almost laughed. She tried not to roll her eyes. “Wow. I would say that’s a highly unlikely scenario. He would have no reason…”

“I think he might.” The reporter held up an envelope, then removed a group of black-and-white photos and placed them on the table. The images were from a security camera in the Space Needle’s elevator. It showed Carter and Greta in what appeared to be a romantic moment.

“To be honest, Ms. Moy, I came here because these photos showed up anonymously at my office. I thought the story would be about your inappropriate relationship with your silent partner, about the feminist teaming up with a womanizer,” the reporter said. “But I just learned that Carter Branson has begun selling his shares in Syren. I’m not an expert on investing, but I would guess that he became aware that these photos exist and wanted to jump ship before it affected the stock’s value.”

The reporter looked down at her phone. Then she turned the screen around and showed it to Greta. On it was SYRN’s current stock price. “That kind of sell-off usually drives the share price down, and that’s what appears to be happening right now.”

Greta looked past the reporter. Through the glass walls of her office Greta saw executives and staffers running about frantically, yelling at one another. She saw someone change the channel on a TV monitor that hung from the ceiling. They switched to TMZ and there was the photo of Greta and Carter, with the headline SYREN’S SONGSTRESS LURES NOTORIOUS ANGEL INVESTOR (TO HIS DOOM?).

“I’m going to kill him,” Greta muttered.

“Okay.” The reporter switched off her recorder. “I think I have what I need.”

“No, wait, please. I can explain…”

“Ms. Moy”—the reporter stood up—“someone just scooped me, so right now I have a story to catch up to. But you can definitely expect a follow-up.”

As the reporter left, Greta refreshed her laptop. She checked Syren’s stock price and saw that it was in free fall. She looked up at the staffers, who glared back. She saw Anjalee at someone’s desk, on their phone. Anjalee kept nodding, listening, glancing toward Greta, then nodding some more. She hung up and walked to Greta’s office, grim-faced, as though she were a prison guard on death row.



* * *



Three days later, Greta drove to Sam’s apartment in Ballard. She had his address but had never been there, though he’d planned to make ma po tofu for her that weekend, part of a belated celebration. As Greta pulled into an empty parking space, she caught a glimpse of her office belongings in cardboard boxes, still piled up in the back seat, and wondered if they’d still have dinner. Or coffee. Or… anything.

She turned off the car and rested her head on the steering wheel.

The reporter hadn’t made it to the front desk by the time Anjalee had walked into Greta’s office and said the board of directors had called and demanded Greta’s immediate resignation. They also locked up her stock options, not that they were worth much at the moment, as only a small percentage was vested. “Do not touch your computer,” Anjalee had warned. “I’m going to wait right here until security arrives to escort you out.”

“Oh, come on, you knew I was having dinner with Carter. People saw him come into my office uninvited,” Greta said. “He approached me, not the other way around.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Anjalee said with a straight face.

Greta shook her head as she packed her belongings and turned in her key card.

Leaving the building had been a long, slow, walk of undeserved shame and well-earned regret. A blur of shocked, angry, disappointed faces. Her former coworkers shouted threats—legal and physical—and one creative programmer shook Greta’s hand and said, “Enjoy your thirty pieces of silver. Now go hang yourself.”

Greta couldn’t blame them. The photo of her and Carter had been sent to dozens of news outlets at the same time. That wasn’t an accident or the move of some lurid paparazzi. She suspected that Carter himself had been responsible. He’d groomed Syren, used the company, and then dumped it, just like the company had done to her.