Forty-eight hours later, Catalina sat in a small, modest coffee shop near her apartment, staring blankly at a spreadsheet of her dwindling finances. Her phone buzzed on the table. It was an unknown number. “Hello?” she answered wearily. “Catalina Morgan, this is Penelope Hayes.” Catalina nearly dropped the phone. “Ms. Hayes? How did you get my number?” “I make it my business to know things,” Penelope said, her tone much warmer than it had been in the boardroom. “I heard what Alvinson Carmichael did to your employment at Le Cirque. I also happen to know that his company’s stock plummeted twenty percent this morning after Hayes and Vanguard publicly withdrew from our acquisition.” Catalina blinked, stunned. “You pulled the deal?”
“I did. But that is not why I am calling,” Penelope continued. “My team did a bit of research on you, Catalina. Your work at Columbia on syntactic ergativity is fascinating. More importantly, Hayes and Vanguard is currently laying the groundwork for a massive infrastructure investment in the Basque Country and northern Spain. We need a cultural liaison, a chief researcher, and someone who can navigate the linguistic complexities of local government contracts.” Catalina’s breath hitched in her throat. “Are you offering me a job?” “I am offering you an escape route,” Penelope corrected gently. “The starting salary is $250,000 a year, with a signing bonus sufficient to clear the medical debts holding you back. In exchange, I expect the same level of flawless competence and steel-spined grace you showed Alvinson Carmichael. Can you do that, Catalina?”
Tears finally spilled over Catalina’s eyelashes, but this time they were tears of profound, overwhelming relief. The crushing weight that had sat on her chest for a year and a half suddenly dissolved. “Yes, Miss Hayes,” Catalina whispered, her voice trembling with gratitude and renewed strength. “I absolutely can.” “Excellent. My assistant will email you the contracts. Oh, and Catalina?” “Yes?” “When you return to Columbia to finish your doctorate, send me a copy of your dissertation. I find I have a sudden, deep appreciation for the Basque language.” The line clicked dead.
Catalina sat in the coffee shop, the afternoon sun streaming through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. She closed her laptop, leaving the terrifying spreadsheet behind. She had faced down a predator in his own playground, armed with nothing but the language of her ancestors, and she had won.