I gather myself as I knock on my supervisor’s door. Bill Radcliffe’s been my boss for the past two years, and though I might feel nervous coming up here for any other boss, Bill’s been a great one.

Best I’ve worked for, going all the way back to my part-time college gigs. And this week’s update meeting should be a slam-dunk considering I’d completed his rush job with time to spare.

But I’m still awkward and uncomfortable up here in the land of the automaton office zombies, feeling like people are glaring at me.

“Hi, Bill,” I greet him, adjusting my jeans. It’s Friday, which means denim is more than fine, and I like being as casual as I can. Although I might be pushing it with the Ahsoka Tano T-shirt today. “Uhm, you said you had something you wanted to talk with me about?”

“Yeah, come on in and close the door,” Bill says, leaning back.

I sit down, a little nervous. This seems odd. Usually, Bill’s to the point, but I can see him gathering his thoughts.

“Uhm, is this about my BTS T-shirt last week? Or that mix I played earlier this week? I promise you, I didn’t realize the lyrics at the time until I was halfway into it.”

“The wha . . . never mind, no, there’s no problem at all,” Bill says, chuckling. “If I had a problem with your music, Mia, I’d have said something two years ago when I first walked into your office and you were screaming Nine Inch Nails at me.”

I blush, nodding. It had been a ‘rough time’, as Izzy likes to say, and so my music had been a little rougher too. Still, your new boss walking into your office while you scream I want to fuck you like an animal is not the impression you want to make.

“Yeah . . . so, what’s up?”

Bill takes a big breath and turns his laptop around. “You’ve been called upstairs. It seems that someone has recognized what I’ve seen for the past two years, and those Sherlock skills of yours are going to be put to the test.”

I read the document he has up, a standard company email, and gulp. “I’ll be reporting to Mr. Goldstone? Starting Monday?”

“Not quite,” Bill says. “You’re still with my group, but this assignment is for a short-term project team, something The Ruthless Bastard likes to do a lot. Ad hoc teams.”

The Ruthless Bastard. I’ve heard more than one person call Thomas Goldstone that, though no one ever says why. Mr. Goldstone must actually like being called that because I can’t imagine Bill saying it to me otherwise.

“So, what can I expect?”

“The team will be some of the best talent in Goldstone,” Bill says, “and the rewards for a good performance can be substantial. You might even earn a ticket out of the basement, if you want, although I think you might actually enjoy being on your own.”

“I could use a window,” I joke. “I get pretty pale come summertime. But yes, I do enjoy it.”

Bill rubs at his cheek. “Listen, Mia, if it were anyone else on the team, I’d send them up there without much more than a ‘watch your ass’ comment, but you . . . well, I happen to like you. You do damn good work, and despite your quirks, you make my life a lot easier. With you on the team, I don’t feel so bad about taking the demotion I asked for years ago. Those bonus checks you help us get come in handy.”

“Why did you ask for a demotion, Bill?” I ask, curious and glad for the opening to pry. I’d heard rumors but had never had the chance to ask him before.

“Six years ago, I was one of those folks who was burning up the corporate ladder. I’d come to Goldstone from Silicon Valley because I wanted in on the ground floor of an upstart again and saw potential almost as soon as Thomas Goldstone launched the company.”

“You’re an OG?” I ask, surprised. “I didn’t know.”

Bill chuckles. “Yeah, well . . . in my first three years here, I’d worked myself up. Literally, because when this building opened, I had a nice office on the twentieth floor. But I learned the same thing a lot of people have. This company’s great to work for. The pay is good, the bennies are great . . . but the closer you get to Thomas Goldstone, the more you need them to tip the scale in your favor. Goldstone truly demands perfection, and the expectations and stress levels go up exponentially with every floor.”

“‘High achievement always takes place in the framework of high expectations.’ Charles Kettering,” I quote, but Bill shakes his head.

“Mia, before I joined the corporate world, I did four years in the Army, including a tour in Afghanistan. I did Ranger school, even if I don’t look it now. A year being shot at in the mountains of Kandahar, a year of Ranger school . . . and Thomas Goldstone broke my ass in one project team. Nope, I’m happy here on three.”

I nod, thinking. I never knew that about Bill, but I’m not really surprised. He strikes me as that sort of easygoing leader who still gets his people to perform and sort of makes do with what he has available.

“Okay . . . and what if I were to turn down the assignment?”

“It’ll be reassigned to someone else but noted upstairs that you turned down the opportunity, which isn’t a great look for you,” Bill says. “This company has plenty of data analysts. You’re just the best . . . in my opinion.”

His compliment means a lot to me, and I sit back, thinking. “I’ll do it. I mean, a window in my basement cave would be sweet.” I wink because we both know that’ll never happen. “And, well . . . I want to prove what you said. That I’m the best. Challenge accepted.”

Bill nods. “My wife’s going to kill me for this. My daughter needs braces and those are expensive as hell, and with your reassignment, my quarterly bonus just poofed into thin air, but you’re right . . . everyone’s entitled to their shot. More than one, if they want to take it. So let me give you some pointers. One, be prepared to work harder than you ever have in your life. I mean, you need to be on point every minute of every day. That means when you’re in a meeting, you need to listen and be able to comment on anything. One of Goldstone’s things is he’ll ask people their feedback on something that doesn’t seem to be in their lane. It’s both a test and a way for him to get fresh insight from different perspectives. Second . . . I hate to say it, but Goldstone’s a bit old-school, and at least for meetings and stuff, you’re going to need to be more . . . traditional.”

He gestures at my attire and my dyed hair. I get the point, but he didn’t need to say that. I wouldn’t show up wearing my usual casual wear.

“Right,” I murmur, nodding. I tug at my hair, which today is totally awesome with a blood-red fringe on the lower two inches, wishing it a silent goodbye. Hello, boring old blonde Mia. “Got it.”

I stand up, but before I can leave, Bill holds up a hand and grins. “Oh, one other thing . . . got any ideas on the news?”

“Which part?” I ask.

“The White Knight,” Bill says. “He struck again.” His gleeful curiosity is apparent, as is his joy at being the one to spread the gossip to me.

Ah, the White Knight. He’s almost a local myth, and any anonymous act of charity in the Portland/Roseboro area is attributed to him. They say he’s even done stuff up in Seattle as well.

“How much was it this time?”

“Half a million,” Bill says with a smile. “That’s going to help a lot of homeless vets.”

Vets this time.

Last time, it was an animal shelter, and before that an orphanage and a drug treatment facility, originally starting off with an at-risk children’s center.

Each time, a white envelope with a cashier’s check or a white paper-wrapped package of cash was delivered totally anonymously.

Rumor has it the local news is stumped because the checks are connected to some shell corporation out of the Bahamas. It’s just . . . urban legendary.

“Honestly?” I reply, shrugging my shoulders. “I think whoever it is wants their privacy, so I figure we should respect that. Whoever it is, they’re doing good. Why mess with that?”

Bill nods. “Yeah, guess so. Still, if you told me I could work for the White Knight instead of The Ruthless Bastard, I’d take that offer in a second.”

“My sweet little girl, you look beautiful,” my father greets me, grabbing me and kissing me noisily on both cheeks. Some things he’ll never give up. “How is my little Anastasia?”

“Papa, how many times must I beg you to stop with that?” I ask. “I’m no princess, and she ended up dead.”

“Bah, that’s just what the Party wanted everyone to believe,” Papa says, waving his hand. “She still lives on in the hearts of all true Russians. Even now, her daughter is somewhere, waiting for her country to need her.”

I shake my head. Papa will always love the Motherland in his heart. Even if we’re meeting in a Thai restaurant for dinner. “Whatever you say. Come, let’s enjoy dinner. I have good news.”

He sits rapt as I tell him about my day, his smile growing as I tell him about the project group. “See? I have always told you, Mia, you have the brains of a genius and the beauty to match. Now you have your opportunity to show the rest of the company the same thing.”

“Papa, they’re looking for my brains, not how I look.”

Papa scoffs, sipping his beer. “Nonsense, sweetheart. You are as beautiful as any of those girls in magazines and on the television. All peasants compared to my Mia!” His voice rises like he’s singing my praises not just to me, but the whole room.

I’m blushing, staring at my appetizers as Papa finishes his declaration, wishing he’d be a little less supportive. “Papa, I’m just brains. God made me smart, not . . . that!”

Papa lowers his voice a little, almost to a whisper. “Oh, but you are a beauty. And one day, you’ll pull your nose out of your numbers, look into a mirror, and finally realize what I’ve known all along.”

I smile. Papa has always spoiled me with compliments, even when money was tight. I’m sometimes amazed I haven’t ended up weirder than I am.

“Anyway, back to the job. I’ve heard that the stress is pretty high on these projects. There’s a real risk of failure, flopping on my butt in front of the boss and the whole team.”

Papa shakes his head, his smile dimming. “That’s not going to happen. You are smart, and you are capable of being anything you want to be. And now you have the opportunity to show your bosses, of grabbing your future with your own two hands.”

He grabs at the air, fisting his hand to emphasize his point. “And in that, I will always be proud of you.”

“Don’t ask for it,” I whisper, and Papa quirks his eyebrow. I shake my head, smiling. “Nothing, Papa. Just something you said reminded me of Eureka Seven, one of my animes. A character says, ‘Don’t ask for it. Go out and win it on your own.’ You just made me think of that.”

“Those Japanese cartoons of yours,” Papa says, tsking. “I suppose it would be too much to ask that you’d just want to enjoy normal television that I know? Watch The Bachelor like an American girl, or the news so we could discuss politics.”

I laugh. Papa has never understood my fascination with nerd culture . . . but he lets me be me. And for that, I love him more than I could ever explain.

“Yeah, well . . . right now, what I want to be is well-fed,” I reply, seeing the waiter approaching. “What’ll it be, Papa? My treat.”

Papa sighs and quickly looks at his menu. “What on here won’t give me heartburn?”