A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

ceiling was black and studded with gold like the night sky. I stared at it for a second before realizing: it was the night sky, a video of it stretched across the entire ceiling, the stars winking and planets burning bright above our heads. A few desks and long tables were scattered around the open room, along with some couches. What must have been Margot’s office, at the far end of the space, was separated from everything else only by a wall of glass.

Twelve paintings hung along one wall, each one depicting a different zodiac sign. At least, I assumed that’s what they were—I’d never gotten much into astrology myself, beyond some sleepovers when my friends and I would giggle over whether or not Tyson from math class was a “love match” with our signs. I knew I was a Cancer, but the assigned personality traits didn’t describe me at all. I was supposed to be “watery,” ruled by my emotions? Right.

The recent, meteoric rise of this pseudoscience among intelligent women confused me. Margot had built a fortune on giving people detailed astrological reports every day, right at the tips of their fingers. Maybe she believed it all herself. Or maybe she was just an excellent businesswoman.

There were about thirty party guests, drinking from champagne flutes and tumblers with dimpled bases. A bartender poured out various concoctions at a counter in the corner, and a couple of handsome young men handed them around to the guests.

“Intimate gathering, huh?” Raf said to me under his breath, and I snorted.

The guests were about half men and half women, in their twenties and thirties. I scanned the crowd to see if I recognized any of the women, trying to figure out who besides Margot might be a member of Nevertheless, so I could target them with my well-practiced charm offensive.

There, a few feet away from us, speaking so intensely to a group of listeners that it looked like she was delivering a TED Talk, was Caroline Thompson. Bingo. I’d had a hunch she might be here, and had looked her up just in case, reading a Vogue article about her recent wedding extravaganza overlooking a cliff in Positano, where the bride wore Oscar de la Renta and kept her own name. Her husband, whom she’d met the day after she turned thirty, had registered as blandly handsome, running a charitable organization that his wealthy family had started. Caroline put the real power in power couple, thirty-two years old, barely five feet tall, running fast on some internal generator. Her mother’s family had been New York royalty for generations. Her father came from a long line of real estate tycoons. Caroline could have coasted on their money, but she was not the kind of woman to coast. She was the kind of woman to fund-raise her ass off for a worthy political cause, to go to Yale undergrad and Harvard Law School. After the 2016 election, she’d founded Women Who Lead. The article had hinted that she’d probably run for office herself someday. She looked ready at this very moment, in her high-waisted skirt and matching blazer, with her long red hair impeccably sleek.

Women Who Lead had been the first organization to back Nicole Woo-Martin during her mayoral run. They had encouraged her, groomed her, even. Caroline would’ve had a lot of access to Nicole. I squinted. Yes, Caroline had been at the inauguration in the section reserved for VIPs, beaming in the winter chill.

Caroline’s uptightness made a peculiar match with Margot’s free-spirited energy. What did a type A wonk have in common with someone who lived her life by the dictates of the stars? They weren’t the kinds of women who seemed likely to be friends. But, linked by a common ambition and a common status, they were the kinds of women to unite behind closed doors to rule the world.

As I stared at Caroline, Margot appeared in front of us. “Raf, you made it!” she said, more luminous than ever, copper and gold strands glinting in her dark wild mane, her feet bare. Margot had the kind of feet that men on the Internet probably developed fetishes over. She kissed Raf on the cheek, then turned to me. “And, oh . . .”

“Jillian,” I said.

“Of course.” She leaned in and kissed me too, her lips barely brushing my skin. I caught a whiff of her jasmine scent. “Please, make yourselves at home.”

“Thanks,” Raf said.

“We’re glad to be here,” I said. “This office is beautiful.”

“That’s so sweet. I put a lot of thought into it.” As Margot turned away from us to appraise her kingdom, I nestled into Raf. His body was stiff against mine. God, he was so awkward. I poked him in the ribs, and he glared at me, then put his arm around my shoulders right as Margot turned back. She registered our body language but didn’t stop talking for a moment in her steady, hypnotic way. “I really wanted it to have the right kind of energy, you know? Welcoming, but also inspiring and productive.”

“Mission accomplished. Too bad I didn’t bring my laptop. I feel ready to post up on one of these couches and edit my novel,” I said. I looked at Raf, trying to communicate that now would be an excellent time for him to rave about my impending success, but he was nervous himself. Shit. He wasn’t exactly a smooth talker. Maybe I had asked too much of him. A bubble of silence hung in the air, expanding and expanding.

Margot smiled at me serenely and popped the bubble. “What sign are you, Jillian?”

“A Cancer.”

“Oh, good. I thought for a moment that you might be a Gemini, and our energies do not mesh.” She studied me. “Cancer? Interesting. I wouldn’t have guessed. What’s your rising sign?”

“I . . . do not know what that means.”

She widened her eyes as if concerned for me, ready to help lift me out of my ignorance. “For some people, it’s the rising sign that really matters. You